CHAPTER 247: CHAPTER 234: VORPAL VS HARBOR KINGS (1)

After minutes...

The scoreboard blinked: 4–0, Vorpal.

The Harbor Kings didn’t flinch. Their bench stood, voices sharp, and on the sideline, Coach Sora Nakamura clapped once loud, decisive, cutting across the gym’s chaos.

"Jet, Clamps—initiate! Malik, crash the weak side! Brick, anchor!"

Jamal "Jet Step" Washington wasted no time. His sneakers squealed against the hardwood as he exploded forward, the ball slapping the floor in a blur. One dribble snapped left, another back right, his shoulders twisting so violently the crowd gasped.

Lucas Graves stuck to him like glue, knees bent, arms wide. His eyes never left Jet’s hips.

(Stay low, Graves. Don’t bite on the flash. Mirror the real step, not the fake.)

Jet smirked, a predator testing prey. Then came a lightning crossover behind his back. The ball vanished from left to right so fast Lucas’s breath caught. His feet lagged by half a beat enough. Jet slashed through the seam, body weaving like smoke.

But Brandon Young stepped up. The Vorpal center’s shadow fell across Jet, arms spread, chest planted.

(Wall’s here, little man. Let’s see you climb it.)

Jet didn’t climb, he scooped. The ball skimmed low, skipping to Malik Reed cutting behind Ryan Taylor. Malik’s body twisted midair as Ryan lunged. Glass kissed leather. Two points.

4–2.

Malik landed grinning, pounding his chest. "Too easy! Y’all can’t stop the Kings inside!"

Ryan’s jaw tightened, fists clenched. (Next time, I’m sealing harder. No freebies, no celebrations in my face.)

The inbound found Ethan Albarado. Immediately, a shadow swallowed him—Clamps, Harbor’s defensive hawk. His arms darted like knives, his eyes hungry.

Ethan’s heart beat steady.

(He wants me panicked. He wants me coughing the ball up. Not happening.)

He baited the trap. A slow dribble, dangling the ball just inside Clamps’ reach. The Harbor guard lunged, fingers swiping too eager. Ethan spun behind his back, smooth as water, and Clamps’ hand closed on air.

The crowd detonated.

Ethan accelerated, head lifting, scanning lanes. Evan Cooper’s hand shot up on the wing.

"Swing it!"

The ball whipped Ethan to Evan, Evan to Lucas. Lucas caught, pump-faked. Jet twitched upward.

(Got you.)

One dribble, pull-up jumper, body rising clean. Swish.

6–2, Vorpal.

Jet slapped his thigh, barking. "Stay grounded, man!"

The Kings wasted no time striking back. Jet probed, luring Ryan inward. In an instant, the pass zipped corner—Dante "Splash" Morales. Release was lightning, arc pure. Evan lunged but too late.

Net snapped.

6–5.

Evan cursed under his breath, backpedaling. (He doesn’t need space—he only needs light. I can’t trail. I have to choke his oxygen.)

Coach Fred clapped steadily on the sideline. "Good pace! Don’t force—don’t panic!"

Brandon trudged up, setting a massive screen. Ethan brushed past, Jet trailing. But Brick hedged high, a mountain shifting to meet him. Suddenly, Ethan was trapped between two bodies near halfcourt.

His heartbeat spiked but his eyes narrowed.

(Trap. They’re testing me. Breathe. See the crack. Find the gap.)

He lifted, lobbing over the hedge to Ryan rolling downhill. Malik slid late, colliding with Ryan’s chest—whistle shrilled. Blocking foul.

Ryan staggered, palms brushing the floor before pushing himself up. The gym roared.

At the line, Ryan steadied his breath.

(Don’t think about the crowd. Just bend, release, follow-through.)

First free throw: pure.

Second: clang off the rim.

But Brandon wrestled Brick for the rebound, veins bulging in his neck. He kicked to Lucas—corner three.

Rattled out.

Brick ripped the rebound, growling. "My house!"

The Kings thundered forward. Jet a blur, Clamps streaking beside him. No-look pass—Clamps to the baseline. Evan slid, arms spread, shadow swallowing light.

Clamps hesitated then dumped it low.

Brick caught. Rose like a wall. Dunk cocked. Brandon leapt. Collision midair. Slam! And-one.

The Harbor bench erupted. 6–8, Kings lead.

Brandon slapped the floor, glaring. (He’s heavier. But stubborn beats brute. He won’t bully me twice.)

The war raged, each possession a battlefield.

Evan Cooper took the ball near the wing, Jet lurking close enough to breathe on him. Brandon lumbered forward, pretending to hand the ball off. Evan’s eyes flicked—once at the rim, once at Dante.

(He thinks I’ll swing it back to Ethan. No. I’ll sell the handoff, then carve the lane myself.)

Evan dipped the ball low, shoulder brushing Brandon’s hip. Jet leaned too far toward the pass. In that instant, Evan slipped inside, gliding across the paint. His body rose, fingers soft on the release.

The floater arced, kissed the glass, and dropped.

8–8.

The Vorpal bench leapt, clapping. Evan backpedaled, jaw tight, as if daring anyone to challenge him again.

But Harbor answered.

Malik Reed crashed the boards like a storm. Jet missed his first layup against Lucas’s contest, but Malik was already airborne, arms outstretched. Ryan boxed him, body colliding, but Malik’s fingertips brushed the rebound.

(Mine. Always mine.)

He snatched it, twisted in one motion, and hammered the put-back down through the rim.

The gym thundered as he landed, muscles rippling.

10–8, Harbor.

Ryan grimaced, shoving Malik lightly in the chest. (Not again. Next rebound’s mine, no matter the cost.)

Ethan took the inbound, eyes narrowing at the Kings’ wall. Jet crouched low, Clamps circling like a vulture. Brick and Malik towered near the paint.

(Two walls in front, two hounds behind. Doesn’t matter. Cut through them.)

He snapped one dribble between his legs, then another. Jet lunged, too quick. Ethan slipped between him and Brick, body twisting. Brick’s arm stretched, but Ethan bent low, dragging the ball across like a magician sliding through a crack in a door.

At the last second, as Brick’s shadow swallowed him, Ethan whipped a wraparound pass, one-handed, curling behind his back. Brandon caught it in stride.

(Finish this.)

Brandon went up strong, chest into Brick, and laid it in.

10–10.

The crowd was on fire.

Now, every duel sharpened into something personal.

Jet pushed the ball, eyes blazing at Lucas. The two clashed, speed versus poise. Jet’s first step was lightning, but Lucas mirrored, sliding perfectly.

(He wants to break me. Not today. I’ll be his reflection in a mirror.)

Dante circled like a hawk, waiting for daylight. Evan stuck like glue, every cut matched, every curl denied.

(One crack and he’ll burn us. I won’t give him even air.)

Brick posted deep, bumping Brandon again and again, each thud echoing in the wood.

Brandon’s teeth gritted, arms locked.

(Hit me harder. I won’t move. You’ll waste all your strength before I give you an inch.)

Malik swarmed the glass, relentless, body colliding with Ryan on every jump. Ryan fought back, forearms bruised, sweat dripping.

(You want chaos? I’ll answer with control. You won’t take what I’ve claimed.)

And threading all of it, Ethan’s vision.

(Lucas curling baseline—feed him. No, Jet cheats left—swing to Evan. Ryan’s late—wait half a second, then strike. Every move has a counter. See the whole board.)

Coach Sora’s voice sliced the air. "Trap Ethan harder! Jam their outlets! Make them improvise!"

The Kings pressed like a vice. Jet and Clamps closed on Ethan at halfcourt, Malik ready to intercept. For the first time, Ethan stumbled, his dribble nearly smothered.

The crowd gasped.

Then, Lucas moved.

"Here!"

A sharp cut behind Malik’s back. Ethan bent low, snapping a bounce pass between Malik’s legs like threading a needle. Lucas scooped it, laid it up before Brick could rotate.

The gym exploded into chaos, stomps and screams shaking the bleachers.

14–12, Vorpal.

But the storm refused to calm.

Clamps stole the ball next possession, reading Ethan’s spin and plucking it clean. He sprinted, legs pumping, laying it in with fury as the Kings’ bench roared.

Ethan clenched his fists. (Too careless. Won’t happen again.)

Evan answered the next trip. The ball swung to him at the elbow. No hesitation—he rose, shoulders square, wrist snapping. Mid-range dagger, pure. He landed light, expression cold.

The crowd chanted, half in disbelief, half in awe.

Brick snarled in reply. A missed Harbor shot clanged long, but he bulldozed Brandon aside, snaring it. His body twisted, elbows wide. One power dribble, then he rose, slamming the ball through with primal force.

He landed flexing, screaming at the stands. The gym shook with energy.

Brandon shoved back, chest to chest. (You think that scares me? I’ll outlast you.)

On the other end, Ryan fought through bodies. Ethan slipped him the ball mid-spin. Malik clung to his back, Brick rotated late. Ryan absorbed both, gritting his teeth, and muscled a layup in off the glass.

The Vorpal bench erupted, voices hoarse.

And so the scoreboard ticked up, blow for blow, neither side surrendering. Until it screamed under the noise of the crowd:

20–20.

The gym was a cauldron, boiling over, each possession stoking the fire.

Three minutes left in the quarter.

The gym was a furnace. Every sneaker squeak, every breath, every whistle echoed like thunder.

Ethan dribbled at the top, chest rising and falling. His eyes swept the Harbor defense—Jet’s restless steps, Clamps’ twitching hands, Dante circling like a hawk, Malik coiled, Brick looming.

(Both sides throwing haymakers. This isn’t speed versus control anymore. It’s war. And I will not lose.)

Lucas wiped sweat from his brow, glaring at Jet. (You’re fast. But I’m not following your game—you’re going to follow mine.)

Evan’s jaw flexed, eyes never leaving Dante’s fingertips. (One inch is too much. He gets no light. None.)

Ryan smacked his chest, fire in his lungs. (No boards given. Not one.)

Brandon’s stare drilled into Brick. (Strength isn’t enough. I’ll make him think. And when he thinks, he hesitates.)

The possession began.

Ethan faked right. Jet bit hard. Ethan cut left, dribble low. Clamps collapsed, Malik rotating with perfect timing.

Three defenders smothered him.

The gym rose to its feet.

Ethan twisted midair, vision blazing. Lucas flared to the corner, Evan lifted off a screen, Ryan crashed baseline, Brandon sealed Brick.

(Decision. Now.)

He snapped his wrists. The ball rocketed out of his hands.

The buzzer clicked 3:00.

The entire gym held its breath, frozen, watching the ball arc toward destiny.

To be continue