CHAPTER 234: CHAPTER 221: VORPAL VS PIEDMONT (11)

The scoreboard glowed: 80–67. Four minutes left.

Vorpal still held control, but the Piedmont starters weren’t going down without bleeding every drop of pride on the court.

Lucas dribbled across half court, Malik in his face, jaw tight, sweat flying from every jab step. He probed, jabbed left, then kicked the ball out, Ethan was waiting at the wing.

The pass snapped into Ethan’s hands, and as he turned, Darius Coleman was there, squared up, chest heaving. His jersey clung to him, his breathing heavier than before, but those eyes — calm, calculating, locked in.

Ethan bounced the ball lightly, eyes scanning Darius.

"You’ve been out here since tip-off," Ethan said, tone almost casual, though his chest was rising fast too. "I’m impressed... five starters still grinding."

Darius grinned through the sweat dripping from his chin.

"Heh... we’ve been doing this since last year. We don’t break easy."

For a moment, silence just the squeak of sneakers, the bass of the ball pounding. Then Ethan drove.

A sharp first step. His left foot stabbed into the hardwood like a blade, body low, shoulders slicing forward. Darius shifted immediately, chest angling, cutting the lane, his hand flicking down to bother the dribble.

Ethan snapped the ball behind his back, pulling it tight to his right. The crowd gasped, that first burst had left a trail of wind. But Darius didn’t bite. He slid perfectly, knees bent, balance anchored like stone.

"Nice," Ethan muttered under his breath.

He jabbed again, retreat dribble, then suddenly rose jumper fake. Darius twitched, knees flexing. That was all Ethan needed: a split-second window. He pushed off his right foot, crossing hard back left, slicing past Darius’ shoulder.

"Got him," Lucas muttered from the corner.

But Darius wasn’t done. He spun, chasing tight, his hand swiping across Ethan’s hip. Ethan gathered, leapt for a floater and Darius’ fingertips grazed the ball.

The shot caromed high, bouncing off the front rim.

"Board!" Cody Wilson roared, shoving Brandon Young under the basket with his massive shoulders, snatching the rebound with both hands like it was his birthright.

Spartans sprinted. The ball was pushed up to Malik, who darted like a lightning bolt along the sideline. Lucas was already there.

Step for step. Shoulder to shoulder. Malik stutter-stepped, tried to split with a crossover — but Lucas cut the angle perfectly, his shoes screeching as he planted. Malik had no lane. He passed back out to Darius.

The duel resumed.

Ethan backpedaled, Darius dribbled slow, eyes never leaving him. The two orchestrators — point guards, captains of rhythm.

"You can’t keep me out forever," Darius said, grin faint but sharp.

"You’re panting already," Ethan shot back. "How many more trips can you last?"

Darius didn’t answer. He drove instead.

His body leaned forward, powerful, deceptive. He wasn’t as explosive as Malik, but every motion was efficient, honed by hundreds of games. He dipped low, shoulder brushing Ethan’s chest, then spun right silky smooth. Ethan reached, nearly poked it free, but Darius sealed the ball with his hip and rose for a midrange pull-up.

Pure. Swish.

The Spartans’ bench erupted. 80–69.

Ethan caught the inbound immediately, waving off his teammates. "Clear out."

Lucas raised a brow but obeyed, drifting to the wing. Josh slid opposite, Aiden and Brandon posted deeper. The floor stretched wide.

Ethan dribbled casually across half, eyes still on Darius. The crowd knew what was coming — a duel within the duel.

"Your turn," Darius said, hands up.

Ethan attacked.

This time, no hesitation. He launched forward like a sprinter out of the blocks, crossover right into Darius’ body. Contact. Chest on chest. Ethan bounced off, spun left, and before Darius could reset, Ethan planted, rose pull-up three.

Splash. Net snapped clean.

The Vorpal bench jumped. 83–69.

Ethan didn’t celebrate. He simply jogged back, two fingers pointing at the floor. Settle. Defense.

Darius caught the inbound, jaw set. "Not bad."

He advanced, slow dribble, eyes flicking at the court. Malik cut through baseline, Tyler Brooks floated high on the wing, Cody wrestled for position inside. But Darius didn’t look to them yet. He wanted this.

He jabbed right, Ethan mirrored. He crossed left, Ethan mirrored again, eyes sharp, hands quick. It’s like they dance, each feint answered.

Then Darius leaned hard left, planting his shoulder into Ethan. Ethan slid, absorbing it. Darius spun back right quick-fast pulling for another jumper.

Ethan’s hand shot up. Block.

The ball ricocheted, bouncing toward half court. Lucas pounced, snagging it in stride. Fast break. Malik chased, desperate, but Lucas shielded, pulled up at the arc. His eyes flicked

— Ethan trailing.

Lucas tossed it back. Ethan caught, rose, fired. Another three.

Bang. 86–69.

The crowd exploded.

Coach Ron on the sideline clapped once, hard. "Keep your heads! Nothing easy!"

But Piedmont refused to wilt.

Darius pushed again, this time using a screen from Cody Wilson. Brandon Young tried to hedge, but Cody was a wall. Ethan fought over, barely, but Darius already had daylight. He sliced middle, floated a pass to Tyler Brooks cutting baseline.

BOOM. One-hand slam. The rim rattled. 86–71.

Momentum checked.

Ethan clapped his hands once, loud. "Again!"

They inbounded. This time Lucas brought it up, Malik harassing full court. Lucas didn’t flinch, dribbling low, shoulders rolling like water. He crossed, spun, broke half court, then zipped it to Ethan.

Ethan immediately attacked Darius again. He jabbed, retreated, then burst right. Darius tried to shade but Ethan whipped a no-look pass to Aiden White.

Aiden caught it in stride, two dribbles, took off dunk. Crowd roared. 88–71.

"Good find!" Lucas shouted, pointing at Ethan.

But Darius just grinned wider, despite the sweat pouring. He wanted more.

He stormed back, barking at his teammates. "Set the horns!"

Cody and Brandon Thompson came high, setting a double screen. Darius used it, weaving through, pulling up for three at the top. Net. 88–74.

Ethan answered with a quick drive, spinning through contact, flipping a layup high off glass. 90–74.

Darius came right back. Cross, hesitation, step-back. Pull-up. Net again. 90–76.

The duel turned relentless. Back and forth, strike and counterstrike, each possession a test of will. Ethan’s fingerprints on every Vorpal bucket directing, creating, scoring when needed. Darius orchestrating Piedmont’s every breath, dragging his team forward with sheer willpower.

By the two-minute mark, both were drenched, chests heaving, legs heavy but their eyes burned hotter than ever.

Lucas glanced between them, almost in awe. "Thi.." he muttered. "This is war."

As The clock ticked under 2:00.

Vorpal ball.

Ethan dribbled at the top, jersey clinging to his torso, chest rising and falling like a piston. Sweat trickled down his cheek, but his eyes never left the man crouched across from him.

Darius Coleman chin dripping, lungs burning still stared back with that same unblinking calm. His legs coiled like springs, his hands twitching low, waiting.

Ethan lifted two fingers, then nodded. Lucas slid up, brushing Darius with a screen.

Darius slipped right through, refusing to be shaken.

Ethan didn’t flinch. He jabbed once, rocked the ball side-to-side. Then sudden strike.

Two hard dribbles left. Spin. Rise.

Darius launched with him, hand high.

But Ethan hung in the air just a fraction longer, body tilting, wrist flicking. The ball kissed glass, spun soft, dropped through.

92–76.

"Beautiful touch..." Lucas muttered, jogging back.

But Darius didn’t blink. He caught the inbound, head already up.

"Get up! Get up!" Ethan barked, chopping his arm, pointing.

Piedmont spread the floor. Cody and Brandon trailed, pounding the hardwood like stampeding bulls. Malik curled baseline, desperate for daylight, but Lucas stuck like glue.

Darius didn’t care. Cross right. Hard left. Ethan slid.

Hesitation. Ethan planted.

Step-back.

Rise. Release.

Splash. 92–79.

The Piedmont bench detonated, fists hammering chairs like war drums.

Ethan smirked, panting, shaking his head.

"Still got legs, huh..."

Jogging back, Darius’ grin widened, sweat dripping like rain.

"Always."

1:40 left.

Vorpal slowed it down. Ethan walked the ball up, letting the moment stretch, milking every ounce of control.

Brandon Young lumbered high to screen. Darius darted over, barking:

"Switch, Brandon! Switch! Cover that lane!"

But Ethan had already read it two moves ahead. No-look bounce pass, Lucas slicing sharp from the wing.

Layup.

94–79.

Lucas slapped Ethan’s palm.

"That’s what I’m here for."

But Piedmont punched back. Darius stormed up the sideline, Ethan mirroring. Stopped on a dime whip pass to Malik in the corner.

Finally. Daylight.

Malik rose but Lucas exploded, body colliding, hand high.

Clang.

Ball tipped. Cody snatched it, muscling through traffic. Kicked it back out.

Darius.

Ethan’s eyes narrowed.

"No reset for you."

And Darius didn’t.

One step. Deep pull.

The arc stretched impossibly high.

Net — pure.

94–82.

The Piedmont bench went wild, players spilling to their feet, voices cracking. Their captain wasn’t letting go.

1:10 left.

Ethan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, chest heaving. This wasn’t plays anymore. This wasn’t scouting.

This was pride.

He dribbled slow at the top, staring daggers at Darius.

Low voice, barely above a whisper:

"You want this?"

Darius’ reply came back steady, cutting.

"You already know."

Ethan attacked. One hard dribble right. Stop. Spin back left.

Darius bit half a step.

That’s all it took.

Ethan rose at the free-throw line, perfect balance. Release smooth.

The ball floated — net.

96–82.

"Let’s go!" Lucas shouted, slapping the floor as he sprinted back on D.

But Darius wasn’t done. He caught the inbound, waved everyone off. No set. No action.

Just him.

Isolation.

He dribbled hard left. Ethan cut him.

Crossover right. Ethan slid.

Behind-the-back left. Ethan lunged, fingertips grazing the leather almost.

But Darius leaned in, shoulder brushing Ethan, rising just enough space for daylight.

Fadeaway. Midrange.

Buckets.

96–84.

The clock flashed 1:00.

The two guards drenched, breathing fire didn’t blink.

The gym, the benches, even the squeak of sneakers seemed to hold its breath.

And the war raged on.

To be continue