CHAPTER 249: CHAPTER 236: VORPAL VS HARBOR KINGS (3)

The scoreboard glared: Vorpal 31 – Harbor 29.

The gym buzzed with tension. Sweat clung to jerseys, breaths came heavy, but eyes burned sharp.

Coach Fred Mason clapped twice, trying to look composed. "Alright, boys, stay sharp. Defense first. Let’s not get reckless." His words faded, the players already looking at one person.

Ethan Albarado.

He stood in the middle of the huddle, hands on his knees, gaze sweeping his teammates. His system was already calculating, Harbor’s tendencies, their weak links, their energy flow. He had to pick the right group to open the next stretch.

"Listen up," Ethan said, voice firm. "We need balance. We need shooters, speed, and someone to anchor us inside."

He pointed around the circle.

"Aiden, you’re in. I need your hustle on the wing."

"Lucas, you stay. We need your spark."

"Louie, you’re starting. Keep moving, stretch their defense."

"Brandon, hold the paint. You’re our anchor."

"Josh, you’re in too. Knock down shots and keep pressure on their guards."

Ryan smirked from the bench. "Guess I get to rest my pretty face, huh?"

Brandon rolled his eyes, muttering, "About time."

Louie practically exploded. "YES! Let’s go! Ethan believes in me!" He fist-pumped so hard he nearly smacked Evan in the face.

Ethan gave a small grin, then tightened his jaw. "No mistakes. No fear. Play smart, play together."

The crowd hummed with nervous energy as the break between quarters ticked away. On one side of the court, Vorpal gathered around Ethan, making their adjustments. On the other side, the Harbor Kings huddle formed like a pack of wolves.

Coach Sora Nakamura crouched low, sharp eyes darting over the gym like she could already see the next ten plays before they happened. Her voice cut through the chatter like a blade.

"Listen up! We’re only down two. Nothing to panic about. But Vorpal just switched their lineup, Ethan’s thinking ahead. That means we need to be sharper. We don’t chase. We dictate."

The five starters leaned in, sweat dripping, their expressions a mix of cocky grins and simmering focus. They weren’t rattled. If anything, they looked hungry.

Jamal "Jet" Robinson bounced on his toes, a smirk spreading as he spun the ball in his hands.

"Coach, let me loose. I’ve been holding back. That little guy Ethan? He thinks he can call the shots. He can’t guard me. None of them can guard me."

Sora snapped her fingers. "Jet, listen. You’re our spark, but don’t just run wild. Attack, collapse, kick. Got it?"

Jet winked. "Relax, Coach. I’ll make ’em dance first, then I’ll make ’em bleed." His inner voice throbbed with anticipation. (Ethan Albarado, huh? They call you the genius. Let’s see if your brain works when your ankles are broken.)

Dante "The Sniper" Morales

was already wiping his palms on his shorts, licking his lips like a predator eyeing prey.

"Give me a sliver. That’s all I need. If Jet breaks them down, just look for me on the wing. I don’t miss when the lights are this bright."

Brick chuckled, heavy and low. "Dante, you’d shoot from the parking lot if they let you."

Dante grinned. "And it’d still go in." His thoughts flickered sharp. (Lucas Graves. You’re supposed to be the shooter on their side, right? Let’s see who earns that title tonight.)

Malik "Spin" Carter leaned back, twirling his wrist like he was rehearsing his signature spin move in slow motion.

"Man, I can smell the fear already. They don’t got anyone who can keep up with my footwork. I’m just gonna keep dancing till they trip."

Jet barked a laugh. "Spin, you don’t dance. You make fools."

Malik smirked. (Ethan picked Aiden White and Josh Turner? Seriously? Those two can’t read me. Every step, every fake, they’re already a step behind. Showtime’s about to start.)

Terrence "Brick" Douglas cracked his knuckles, looming over the huddle like a stone wall in human form. His expression didn’t shift—cold, steady, immovable.

"Forget their shooters. Forget their tricks. I’ll handle the glass. Brandon Young’s their big man, right? I’m the bigger man. He’s not getting a single board over me."

Coach Nakamura nodded approvingly. "That’s your job, Brick. Control the paint. Make them think twice before they even step in there."

Brick’s jaw tightened. (Defense wins games. They can keep their flashy names and powers. I’m the anchor. I’m the one who decides if they score or not.)

Finally, DeShawn "Skyline" Rivers leaned forward, stretching his long arms like they were made to block out the sun. His grin was relaxed but confident, like he knew something no one else did.

"Just throw it up, Coach. Doesn’t matter where. Jet, Spin, Dante—any of y’all. I’ll catch it. I’ll slam it. Crowd’s gonna remember my dunks tonight."

The rest of the team laughed, but it wasn’t mocking—it was fueled by belief.

(Vorpal’s center? Brandon? He’s strong, but slow. I’ll jump right over him. This game? It’s my stage. Skyline only rises higher.)

Coach Nakamura straightened, her presence commanding silence again.

"They’ve got momentum, but we’ve got control. Here’s the plan: Jet, you push pace. Force their small forwards to scramble. Dante—hit them early with a three, make them second-guess. Malik, slash when they collapse. Brick, you box Brandon out until he’s invisible. Skyline—you’re our finisher. No mercy at the rim."

She looked at each of them, her voice low but razor-sharp.

"Rule the Court, Rule the Harbor. Say it."

The five starters slammed their fists together in the middle of the huddle.

"RULE THE COURT, RULE THE HARBOR!"

From the bench, the reserves roared just as loud.

Andre "Slick" Vasquez was already twirling an imaginary dribble in his hand. "Can’t wait till I check in. Somebody’s ankles ain’t making it home tonight."

Isaiah "Clamps" Lee cracked his neck. "If they think they can rest their guards on me, they’re in for a long night. Full court, every step."

Dominic "Diesel" Brown slapped the floor like it was already a rebound. "When I get in, boards are mine. Nobody else’s. Period."

Khalil "Wave" Johnson leaned forward, eyes sharp. "DeShawn, don’t worry. If you need a breather, I’ll erase shots for you. Swat city, baby."

Even Corey "Rhythm" Banks hummed under his breath, tapping his wrist like a metronome. "Tempo’s everything. Let me in, and I’ll control the beat."

Back in the center of the huddle, Jet leaned toward Dante and Malik with a mischievous grin.

"Yo, when we hit the court, first possession’s mine. I’m crossing Ethan out of his shoes."

Dante scoffed. "Cross him all you want, just don’t forget me on the wing. I’m about to bury them in threes."

Malik spun his towel like a lasso. "Nah, forget that. First highlight’s mine. I’m spinning through both their wings. Crowd’s gonna chant my name."

Brick glared at all three of them. "Shut up. None of you scoring if we don’t get the ball first. That’s on me."

Skyline just laughed, stretching higher, higher, his fingertips brushing the rafters. "You’re all wrong. First highlight’s me putting Josh Turner on a poster."

The team burst out laughing, the tension melting into fire.

Coach Nakamura gave one last order. "Remember—Vorpal thinks they’ve got brains. But brains don’t mean anything if we take their breath away. Full-court press. Don’t let them breathe."

The buzzer echoed through the gym. The break was over. The Harbor Kings stood, pulling off their warmups, each step toward the court echoing like thunder.

Jet’s inner voice thrummed like a drumline.

(Time to show Ethan that speed kills. Welcome to Brooklyn, kid.)

Dante’s fingers twitched like he already felt the net snapping.

(First shot goes in. Crowd goes silent. That’s my promise.)

Malik’s grin sharpened.

(Streetball meets the spotlight. Watch me cook.)

Brick cracked his neck.

(This paint? It’s mine. Nobody else’s.)

Skyline’s shadow stretched long over the hardwood.

(Rise above. Slam down. Rule the Harbor.)

The Harbor Kings strode out, swagger in every step. The semi-final wasn’t just another game. It was war.

And they were ready to rule the court.

The buzzer thundered. The ball was inbounded.

Vorpal’s new lineup Aiden White, Lucas Graves, Louie Davas, Brandon Young, and Josh Turner, took their positions. Ethan sat on the bench, eyes burning, studying every angle.

Coach Nakamura’s voice sliced the gym:

"PRESS! Don’t let them breathe!"

The Harbor Kings exploded forward.

Jet Robinson was on Aiden before the ball even touched his hands. His body moved like a blur, arms spread wide.

"You think you can dribble past me? Try it, rookie."

Aiden swallowed hard, steadying himself. (Stay calm. Ethan trusted me with this start. I can’t fold now.) He faked left, but Jet’s feet mirrored perfectly. The pressure was suffocating, every bounce of the ball echoing louder and louder.

On the wing, Clamps Lee had already smothered Lucas. He leaned close, voice a low growl.

"Copy all the moves you want, sunshine. Won’t help when you can’t even touch the ball."

Lucas tried to shake free, sprinting through Brandon’s screen, but Clamps slipped around like a shadow, glued to him.

(So fast... so relentless. But I’m not backing down. I’ll break free. I have to.)

Meanwhile, Louie Davas hustled back toward half-court, clapping his hands.

"Aiden! Over here, bro! I got you! Don’t let him punk you!"

But Malik "Spin" Carter shot out of nowhere, intercepting the passing lane.

"Where you going, kid? The party’s over here." His grin widened as he jabbed at the ball, forcing Aiden to retreat.

Brandon Young tried to post up down low, but immediately Brick Douglas slammed into him like a concrete wall.

"Nah. You’re not moving me. Not today."

Brandon gritted his teeth. (I’m strong too... but he’s heavier, harder. Got to hold my ground.)

Josh Turner drifted to the corner, hoping for daylight, but Dante Morales slid in front of him, eyes blazing.

"Don’t even think about it. That shot’s mine before it’s yours."

Josh tightened his jaw. (Ethan said be patient. Don’t force. Just stay ready.)

The trap closed. Aiden had nowhere to go, Jet in front, Spin cutting the sideline, Clamps lurking to pounce.

The gym roared.

"TEN SECONDS!" the referee shouted.

Sweat dripped down Aiden’s forehead. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. (Move, Aiden! Move!)

At the last possible instant, he spotted Louie sprinting back, raising his arms. With a desperate flick, Aiden launched the ball across midcourt.

Louie caught it. The crowd erupted.

"YEEAAHH! That’s what I’m talking about, baby!" Louie hollered, dribbling furiously. But in an instant (Andre "Slick" Vasquez) darted from the bench rotation, subbed in for Clamps. He slid into Louie’s path, his cobra-like hesitation freeze-locking him.

"Too loud, kid. Watch your ankles."

Louie froze, his legs stuttering Slick’s Cobra Cross snapping him sideways. The ball nearly rolled loose. The crowd gasped.

Louie barely saved it, stumbling into Brandon’s chest.

"Phew... okay, okay! I still got it!"

Vorpal reset. The clock ticked.

Lucas finally shook free off a hard double screen from Brandon and Aiden. The ball swung to him on the wing.

Lucas’s eyes lit up. (Now. My shot.)

He rose—fluid, perfect form. But in a blink, Dante Morales flew at him, hand stretched high.

"Not on my court!"

The ball arced anyway splash. The net snapped clean.

The crowd exploded. Vorpal’s bench leapt to its feet.

Lucas clenched his fist. "Try me again"

Scoreboard: Vorpal 34 – Harbor 29.

Jet barely blinked. He grabbed the inbound, already racing.

"Fast break! Move!"

In a heartbeat, he crossed half-court, spinning through Aiden and Louie like they weren’t even there.

"Too slow!"

Lucas sprinted to help, but Jet’s second gear kicked in. The Jet Step—a lightning crossover left him lunging at air.

Jet launched himself at the rim, Skyline trailing just behind.

"Welcome to Brooklyn!" Jet roared as he kissed the layup high off glass.

Two points.

Scoreboard: Vorpal 34 – Harbor 31.

Back on the bench, Ethan’s eyes sharpened. He leaned forward, whispering under his breath.

"Jet’s dictating pace already. Lucas can’t chase him one-on-one. We need the trap to angle him baseline... or we’ll lose control."

Ayumi, beside him, clutched her clipboard. "Can they hold out, Ethan?"

Ethan’s gaze didn’t waver.

"They have to. This is what we prepared for."

The war had just begun.

Vorpal vs. Harbor.

Brains vs. chaos.

And the full-court press was only tightening.

To be continue