CHAPTER 233: CHAPTER 220: VORPAL VS PIEDMONT (10)

The Spartans set up first, their bench leaning forward like they could will the comeback into existence.

Darius Coleman dribbled up with his usual calm, chest puffed, eyes scanning. He called a set with two fingers in the air a horns action.

Tank Wilson muscled his way up from the block to set a high screen.

Flash Johnson darted baseline, curling off Skywalker Brooks’s pin-down, hunting daylight.

Ethan crouched low, eyes sharp, but didn’t jump the screen this time. (Let’s see how they try to punch first.)

Coleman turned the corner, Tank sealing Ethan with his hip like a wall of granite. Coleman zipped it out to Flash, who caught it in stride.

Flash rose in one motion, pulling from deep clean mechanics, fearless.

Clank! Back rim.

But Tank bulldozed inside, bodying Brandon Young out of the way to tip the rebound back in. The Spartans’ bench howled, voices cracking with hope.

"YEAH, BIG TANK!" one sub shouted, slapping the scorer’s table.

"That’s how we eat! Keep pushing!" another barked, fists pumping.

Score: 70–59.

Ethan took the inbound calmly, patting the ball once as if to remind himself he was in control. The crowd quieted a little Vorpal’s possession meant something deliberate was coming.

(Hoh... well, I won’t use all my best. I’ll make this practice an opportunity to assess my teammates.)

He glanced at his comrades, their faces glistening with sweat, but their eyes burning steady.

(After all... we’re going to win the championship together.)

"Stack!" Ethan barked, his voice slicing through the gym.

Brandon Young rumbled to the elbow, setting the first screen.

Josh Turner and Aiden White stacked on the weak side, Lucas tucked behind them like a coiled spring.

Vorpal’s bench leapt halfway from their seats, already sensing what was coming.

"Run it clean, guys!" Evan Cooper clapped.

"Let Lucas cook!" another added.

Ethan dribbled right, eyes still straight but his mind ticking ahead three moves. Suddenly, he whipped a bounce pass to Josh on the wing.

Josh didn’t hesitate swung it immediately. Aiden peeled out of the stack, screening Lucas’s man.

And there it was. Lucas burst free, catching at the top. Rhythm dribble. Pull-up three.

Splaash. Net barely moved. 73–59.

Vorpal’s bench exploded.

"BANG" Josh hollered, fists raised.

"Deadeye! He’s locked in!" Brandon shouted on the run back.

Vorpal by fourteen.

Lucas backpedaled, expression unreadable, chest rising and falling as though he was holding something in check. His teammates surged a little — Josh Turner pumped a fist, Aiden White clapped once in rhythm, Brandon Young gave a grunt that was equal parts approval and relief.

But Ethan Albarado? He didn’t flinch. No grin, no celebration, not even a glance toward Lucas. Instead, he lifted his arm and pointed back on defense, his voice cutting through the gym like steel:

"Set! Get back! Don’t let them run!"

His jaw was locked tight, muscles flexing as though grinding down the edge of his own adrenaline. He hadn’t been going full throttle yet not even close. But every thread of that possession had his fingerprints pressed into it. He’d slowed the tempo against Piedmont’s pressure, orchestrated the screen angle, baited the switch, then delivered the pass to Lucas at precisely the right moment. It was Ethan’s possession, disguised as Lucas’ shot.

Across the court, Darius "Steady D" Coleman wiped sweat from his chin with the back of his hand, eyes narrowing. His chest rose and fell heavier now, but his gaze stayed sharp — fixed on the kid in the yellow headband who was dictating everything.

He muttered under his breath, almost too quiet for anyone to hear:

"...Even if this is practice, I still want to win."

The words weren’t just a thought. They were part vow, part warning.

To the casual observer, Piedmont wasn’t supposed to care this much. This was a scrimmage. A tune-up. Nothing more than a sparring match before the real battles. The bleachers were nearly empty, save for a handful of curious players and a few relatives like Charlotte Graves. The air lacked the suffocating tension of a tournament crowd.

But for Darius, pride wasn’t negotiable. He’d built his reputation on steadiness composure under pressure, the captain who never unraveled. Losing was one thing; getting out-executed by a so-called rookie floor general was another.

He turned his head slightly, catching Malik’s frustrated glare. The shooting guard was already shaking his head, muttering curses about the defensive miscue. Tyler "Skywalker" Brooks was chewing on his mouthguard, shifting from foot to foot like a caged animal itching to dunk his frustration away. Cody "Tank" Wilson slapped his palms together, each smack echoing like thunderclaps, barking:

"Next one’s mine! Feed me inside!"

Brandon "Brick" Thompson, silent as ever, simply adjusted his stance near the baseline, but his eyes glinted ready to hammer whoever challenged him.

Darius clapped his hands once, sharp.

"Hey. Heads up. It’s still us. Lock in."

There it was the captain’s tone. Calm, but firm, anchoring.

Still, as he jogged the ball up the court, his mind buzzed faster than his steps. Ethan had been orchestrating everything with surgical precision. He didn’t rush. He didn’t force. He just controlled.

A fourteen-point lead in a scrimmage could be brushed off, but Darius felt the edge of something sharper: Vorpal wasn’t just scrapping. They were testing Piedmont’s core. And right now, Vorpal’s rookie guard was winning that test.

On the other end, Ethan crouched low on defense, reading Darius’ posture like a book. The tilt of his shoulders. The rhythm of his dribble. (Steady D, huh? Then show me what "steady" looks like under pressure.)

Lucas mirrored him on the wing, eyes locked on Malik. Both Graves siblings carried the same intensity, Lucas burning to prove himself, Charlotte silently calculating from the bleachers.

Charlotte folded her arms tighter, lips pressing together. Ethan’s command of the possession, his refusal to celebrate, the way he snapped everyone back into position — she saw it. She couldn’t ignore it. (That’s not the behavior of a bench guy... That’s the pulse of a leader, disguised in a practice jersey.)

Back on the hardwood, Darius slowed near the three-point line, tapping the ball twice against the floor. His eyes flicked toward Malik. The guard already knew the look.

Malik clenched his jaw, muttering:

"Alright. Watch me cook him this time."

Cut hard. Use the screen. Force the switch.

Ethan’s stance dropped lower, chest pumping steady. Lucas shadowed Malik step for step.

The chess match wasn’t over.

It had only just begun.

From the top, Darius Coleman dribbled with his usual calm rhythm, left hand patting the floor like he was keeping time with a hidden drumline. His shoulders stayed loose, posture steady but Ethan saw it. The flicker in his captain’s eyes.

(He’s not thinking "practice." He’s thinking "win.")

Ethan slid into view, knees bent, arms wide, sneakers squeaking as he planted in Darius’ line.

Darius angled half a step left, patient. He was waiting, baiting. Malik sprinted up from the baseline, Cody "Tank" Wilson leaning his granite shoulder into Brandon Young to open the path.

Malik caught.

The gym shrank. The bleachers, the benches, the noise all of it dimmed to Malik and Lucas, face-to-face.

Malik jabbed hard to the right.

Lucas didn’t flinch.

Malik slashed sharper, left foot snapping forward.

Still nothing. Lucas’ eyes weren’t fooled by the ball, by the shoulders. They were locked dead center Malik’s core.

"Read the body, not the show," Lucas thought, steady as his stance.

Malik bounced into a crossover, lunging left, hoping to knife inside. Lucas mirrored him step for step, chest grazing shoulder, lane sealed.

On the other side, Darius still hadn’t made his move. He was patient, predatory. His dribble shifted rhythm, tugging Ethan just a sliver toward the sideline.

(Spacing me out... He wants the collapse. He’s waiting for it.)

"Switch! Weak side coming!" Ethan barked, his voice cracking through the gym.

Tank rumbled to the paint again, flattening into a wide screen for Tyler Brooks curling from the far wing. Josh Turner fought like hell, but Tyler caught it in stride two steps from liftoff.

Lucas stayed glued to Malik. No panic. No peek. (Force him to finish. No kick-back. No lob.)

Tyler rose, muscle coiling into his drive but Aiden White slammed the lane shut, chest-first, arms up like steel bars. Brandon Young braced under the rim, body set to absorb the collision.

That was the crack Darius had been hunting.

The instant Vorpal’s defense pinched inward, he snapped his dribble low and sliced straight into the key.

Ethan’s eyes sharpened. (There. Move.)

He launched sideways, sliding directly into Darius’ lane. Their shoulders brushed, Ethan’s chest solid, Darius’ eyes narrowing with the faintest respect.

"Not this time," Ethan muttered, breath sharp.

Darius spun smoothly, tucking his dribble, buying space. Malik threw up a hand, yelling:

"Ball! Kick it! I’m open!"

Lucas stayed plastered, hip to hip, voice low enough for only Malik to hear:

"You’re not going anywhere."

Clock bleeding. Six... five...

Darius pulled back, rising into a midrange jumper. Ethan’s contest was instant — hand high, fingertips grazing the space where the ball wanted to breathe.

Clang! Back iron.

The rebound was swallowed whole by Brandon Young, elbows swinging wide like gates of iron.

Ethan didn’t waste half a second. "Run!" he snapped, already streaking past half court.

Lucas didn’t even glance. He knew the drill. He exploded up the right sideline, Malik dragging at his hip. Ethan fired a rope of a one-hand pass that hit Lucas in stride.

Lucas gathered once. Malik clawed to close, still half a step late.

Pull-up. Deep range. Confident. No pause.

The ball spun in the air, slicing silence through the gym.

Even the benches froze.

Even Charlotte Graves leaned forward, hands clenched, eyes locked on the arc.

To be continue