CHAPTER 235: CHAPTER 222: VORPAL VS PIEDMONT (12)

The scoreboard burned overhead.

96–84. Vorpal lead.

The clock flashed 1:00.

The gym was no longer just noise. It was thunder and silence mixed together. Every breath from the benches, every gasp from the fans, every squeak of sneakers on polished wood — all of it felt suspended in the air.

Two guards stood opposite one another, drenched in sweat, lungs burning, legs heavy yet unyielding.

Ethan Albarado.

Darius Coleman.

They didn’t blink.

The ball was checked in. Vorpal’s possession.

Lucas inbounded from the sideline, eyes darting nervously at the Piedmont defense tightening like a vice. Ethan stepped forward, hand raised.

The ball smacked into his palm.

Darius was already there. No space. No air. Just pressure.

"(One minute,)" Ethan thought, his heart pounding in rhythm with the clock. "(I can’t just protect the lead. I need to bury them.)"

Darius’ grin was faint but sharp, the kind a warrior flashes when he smells blood.

"One minute. Twelve points? You think that’s safe against me? Watch."

Ethan dribbled left. Darius slid. He crossed back right. Darius mirrored.

A screen came from Brandon Young, but Darius ducked under, never losing ground.

Ethan stopped, pulled back, rose for three—

But Darius’ hand was there, forcing him to double-clutch. He kicked it last second to Lucas.

Lucas caught, swung to Aiden in the corner. Malik flew at him, arms wide. Aiden pump-faked, drove baseline, but Cody rotated in, walling off the paint.

Vorpal’s offense was choked.

The ball whipped back to Ethan, shot clock dying. Five seconds.

"Damn—no time."

He jabbed right, Darius leaned. Ethan spun left, pulled up mid-range. A hand in his face. Release.

The ball arced, hung in the air—

Clang.

Rebound, Brandon Thompson for Piedmont. The gym erupted.

Darius was already sprinting. Thompson fed him.

"This is mine!" Darius’ mind screamed. "I’ll carve the gap myself!"

He attacked full speed, Lucas picking him up first. Cross behind the back, Lucas bit, and Darius burst through. Ethan rotated, chest meeting him at the free throw line.

They collided.

"I’m here!" Ethan roared in his head, planting his feet.

Darius didn’t hesitate. He Euro-stepped right, hanging in the air, twisting—release over Ethan’s outstretched hand.

Swish.

The whistle blew. Foul.

And-one.

The Piedmont bench exploded, screaming, fists in the air.

96–87.

Ethan’s chest heaved as he stared at the net. Darius landed, glaring at him.

"You’re not shaking me off. Not now. Not ever."

Ethan clenched his jaw.

"Good. Don’t back down. I want all of you."

The free throw. Net.

96–88.

0:44 left.

Lucas inbounded again. The trap came instantly. Malik and Cody pinched Ethan as he crossed halfcourt. The ball nearly slipped, but Ethan ripped it away, spinning free. He darted to the right wing, Darius waiting, shadowing every dribble.

A quick hesitation. A burst. Ethan drove left.

Darius slid, body to body. Ethan slammed on the brakes, stepped back. Darius lunged—Ethan rose.

Three-pointer.

"Fall!"

The ball soared, spinning, the entire gym holding its breath—

Splash.

The net snapped.

The Vorpal bench jumped to its feet, fists pumping.

99–88.

Ethan’s chest burned, but his eyes locked on Darius.

"Your move."

Darius caught the inbound, slower this time, surveying. 0:35. He didn’t rush. He prowled.

Cody came for a screen. Darius waved him off.

"No. This is me and him."

He dribbled, legs wobbling but rhythm steady. Cross. Behind. Hesitation. Ethan slid with him, never giving an inch.

Then, in a flash, Darius pulled back deep beyond the arc. Ethan leapt. Darius rose higher, release clean, wrist snapping—

Bang.

The ball dropped pure.

99–91.

0:28 left.

Lucas swallowed hard. "Ethan—"

But Ethan had already turned, hand up for the inbound.

He caught it.

Darius was on him instantly.

"You can’t hold this. I’ll take it from you."

Ethan’s lips curled into a smirk.

"Try me."

He drove hard right. Darius’ arm jabbed, swiping at the ball. Ethan spun, back to him, then pivoted, spinning back the other way. The crowd oohed as he shook free for half a step.

He attacked the rim. Malik rotated—Ethan jumped, absorbed contact mid-air, and flipped the ball with his left hand—

Off glass. In.

The whistle blew again. Foul.

The gym exploded.

Ethan hit the ground, pumping his fist.

"And-one!"

Darius stood frozen, jaw tight.

"He... he answered me again."

Scoreboard: 101–91.

The scoreboard glared down like a crown above them. 24 seconds left.

Ethan dragged himself upright, teeth grit, lungs searing. Sweat streamed down his jaw, soaking his jersey.

Across from him, Darius Coleman stood frozen. His lips pressed into a hard line, jaw carved from stone. His hands curled at his sides like he was holding back something — rage, or maybe the last card in his deck.

Ethan’s eyes locked with his. Words weren’t needed.

(We already won.)

It wasn’t arrogance. It was conviction. Ethan could taste victory in the salt running down his lips.

But Darius’s stare sharpened, blade-like. Ethan felt it cut through him.

"Not yet."

The words weren’t spoken, but Ethan felt them crawl under his skin.

The official bounced him the ball. Ethan toed the line, crowd swirling into a cyclone of noise. Brandon clapped once, steadying him. Aiden crouched near halfcourt, whispering to Josh:

"Rebound strong, crash hard if he misses."

Josh nodded, jaw tight.

Ethan bent his knees, spun the ball once, released.

Clang.

The free throw bricked short (Ethan intended it to missed). Malik’s hands snatched it off the rim like a hawk.

"Push!" Darius roared, breaking his silence for the first time in minutes.

The clock bled to 0:20.

0:20 – 0:15

Malik pounded the ball up the sideline, legs pistoning. Lucas sprinted back to cut the angle, Ethan flying at his side. But Darius slipped behind them, shadow cutting through defenders like a knife through cloth.

Malik’s chest rose as he snapped a low bounce pass.

Darius gathered in stride.

Ethan saw it. Blood surged.

(Not on me. Not now.)

He launched off his right foot, twisting into the lane.

Bang!

Bodies collided mid-air. Ethan’s forearm smacked Darius’s elbow, but Darius twisted, forcing it higher—higher—

The ball kissed glass, spun, and dropped.

Whistle.

"Count it! Foul!"

The Piedmont bench exploded, stomping, shrieking, chairs rattling like an earthquake.

101–93.

Ethan hit the floor hard, legs trembling. Brandon hauled him up with one arm, eyes fierce.

"Stay solid, E. We finish this."

Darius stood over him, chest heaving, sweat dripping like rain. He didn’t grin. He didn’t roar. He whispered low enough only Ethan could hear:

"You don’t understand... until the horn sounds, I’m still here."

0:15 – 0:12

The free throw swished pure.

101–94.

Seven points. The gym rattled, Piedmont pressing full. Malik blanketed Lucas, arms chopping the air.

Josh sprinted baseline to free space. Brandon squared himself as a safety valve. Aiden jabbed once, trying to shake his man.

Lucas darted free for just a breath. The inbound flew hot — he caught it, barely dragging his foot to stay in bounds.

"Ball! Ball! Ball!" Malik barked, swiping at him.

Lucas snapped it to Ethan.

Every head turned. Every voice rose.

Ethan didn’t call timeout. Didn’t stall. He brought it up himself.

Because this was his war.

0:12 – 0:08

Darius met him at halfcourt, a wall of fury. Their chests bumped, sweat spraying.

Ethan’s dribble cracked like whiplash. Cross once, twice.

"Move," Darius hissed, eyes wild.

Ethan’s grin bared teeth. Not joy — fire.

"Try me."

He jabbed right, spun left, exploded down the lane. His legs screamed. His lungs clawed for air. The burn only fueled him.

Malik rotated again, arms wide. A trap.

Josh slid to the corner, clapping once.

"Hit me if you need!"

But Ethan didn’t care.

He rose.

0:08 – 0:05

The floater left his hands. A rainbow, high, higher than reason.

Darius sprang. Malik swung.

The crowd gasped.

Swish.

103–94.

The gym ripped open. Vorpal’s bench erupted — Brandon pounding his chest, Aiden slapping Josh’s head, Lucas screaming as he slapped the floor on defense.

Ethan landed, chest heaving, fist raised.

But the clock kept ticking.

0:05 – 0:02

Piedmont tore back. Darius refused to quit. He stormed upcourt, weaving through Aiden’s bump, brushing past Brandon’s arm. He ignored contact. His eyes locked only on Ethan.

This wasn’t about scoreboards anymore.

It was about proving who burned brighter in the dark.

He stepped back — deep. Ethan leapt with him.

The ball arced, impossibly pure.

Bang!

103–97.

Four seconds.

The Piedmont bench lost its mind, stomping, roaring, believing again.

0:02 – 0:00

Lucas screamed for the ball, Malik clawing at him like a predator.

Ethan jogged to the baseline, hand raised. Josh cut across to free him, colliding with a body, giving just enough space.

The inbound came. Ethan caught.

Darius lunged. Hands tearing. Body slamming.

The horn blared.

Ethan stumbled back, clutching the ball tight to his chest.

Final.

103–97.

The gym exploded benches storming the hardwood, hands raised, voices shrieking in waves. Brandon lifted both arms, roaring like a bear. Aiden hugged Lucas, screaming in his ear. Josh dropped to a knee, pumping his fist.

Ethan bent forward, hands braced on his knees, sweat dripping to the floor. His chest heaved, every muscle aflame but he was still standing.

Across from him, Darius straightened slowly. Not broken. Still burning. His fists clenched at his sides.

"You..." he rasped, voice drowned in the storm.

Ethan shook his head, forcing words through the fire in his lungs.

"This wasn’t practice for me."

And the horn still echoed not as an ending, not as silence but as proof that two warriors had dragged each other to the edge, and neither one had yielded.

To be continue