Time Left in the Second Quarter: 1:10
Coach Guy Corson stood on the sidelines, arms crossed, his sharp eyes locked onto the court.
Outwardly, he looked calm.
But inside?
He was pissed.
(Where the hell did this kid come from?)"
His team had prepared for Vorpal Basket's usual weak roster. They had studied Evan Cooper, Aiden White, Ryan Taylor, Brandon Young.
Evan Cooper? A solid point guard, but predictable.
Josh Turner? A streaky shooter.
Ryan Taylor? Limited offensive skill.
Brandon Young? Just a rebounder.
Aiden White? Inconsistent.
They didn't even bother scouting the bench players.
Because why would they?
But now?
That nobody, Ethan Albarado and Lucas Grave, was wrecking their rhythm. Especially that Ethan Albarado
"(I underestimated him. That's on me.)"
Every time Orlando Hoops adjusted, they countered.
Every time they pressured Ethan, he found the right pass.
Every time they tried to suffocate the offense, he created an opening.
Coach Corson's fingers twitched in frustration.
(This is bad. If we let him get comfortable, they'll think they have a chance.)
He turned his gaze to Alec Storm.
The point guard was dribbling up the court, his usual cocky smirk still there, but his eyes…
They were serious now.
Corson took a deep breath, then barked his order:
"Enough playing around."
His voice was sharp. Cold.
The Orlando starters snapped to attention.
Corson's expression darkened.
"Shut that kid down. I don't care how. Make sure he never touches the ball again."
There was no hesitation.
No questioning.
Just obedience.
Alec grinned.
"Got it, Coach."
Mason Hayes cracked his knuckles.
"About time."
Julian Cross, standing near half-court, nodded.
Ethan Blake clenched his fists.
Jaxon Wells stretched his neck.
And just like that—
Orlando Hoops was about to get really serious.
"(For now, I'll observe that kid…)" Corson thought." (And then come up with a plan to shut him down completely.)"
.....
Ethan Albarado felt it immediately.
The shift.
The energy on the court had changed.
Alec Storm wasn't playing around anymore.
Before, he had been messing with them, testing their reactions, sizing them up.
But now?
Every dribble. Every step. Every glance.
It all had purpose.
Lucas Graves, standing near the three-point line, noticed it too.
His golden eyes sharpened.
"(Whoah… this is different.)"
Alec dribbled up the court, his movements fluid, controlled.
Evan Cooper, Vorpal Basket's point guard, dropped into a defensive stance. Arms wide. Knees bent.
Ready.
Alec studied him.
Then—
He attacked.
His right foot slammed against the floor.
A sharp, explosive first step.
Evan reacted—but too slow.
Alec had already shifted gears.
He snapped the ball from his right hand to his left.
A quick crossover.
Evan's weight shifted, his balance breaking for just a second—
And Alec spun off of it.
Smooth. Fast. Deadly.
Lucas rushed in to help.
Too late.
Alec was already in the air.
A perfect floater.
Soft touch.
Perfect arc.
Swish.
Bucket.
...
Score Update
Orlando Hoops – 52
Vorpal Basket – 36
The crowd erupted.
The gym shook with cheers and whistles.
But on the Orlando bench?
No reaction.
No celebration.
Because to them...this was normal.
This was just Alec Storm being Alec Storm.
Coach Corson didn't even flinch.
He just crossed his arms, nodding slightly.
"(That's more like it.)"
...
Ethan Albarado dribbled up the court.
His breathing was steady, his mind racing.
He knew what was coming.
And yet—
The moment he crossed half-court—
They trapped him.
Alec Storm. Mason Hayes.
Two of the best defenders on Orlando Hoops.
Alec pressed him hard, his body low, his arms spread wide. His eyes, sharp and calculating, tracked every micro-movement Ethan made.
Mason Hayes stepped up beside him, his stance just as aggressive, cutting off Ethan's right.
Double-team.
Ethan's fingers instinctively tightened around the ball.
He knew he needed to move—fast.
He tried to pass—but Mason was already there.
His long arms blocked the passing lane, his footwork impeccable.
Ethan's heart pounded.
He glanced to his left—Lucas Graves.
A quick dish, and Lucas could reset the offense.
But—
Julian Cross was denying the pass.
Lucas moved, cutting across the perimeter.
Julian moved with him.
Shadowing him.
Sticking to him like glue.
Ethan swallowed hard.
No passing lanes.
No escape.
The shot clock was winding down.
10 seconds.
9.
Ethan's eyes darted toward the rim.
Screw it. I'll take it myself.
He faked left—
Spun right—
And immediately—
Alec Storm was already there.
Ethan barely had time to react.
Alec didn't bite.
He didn't flinch.
He just read the move.
Anticipated it.
Like he had seen it a thousand times before.
Ethan's stomach dropped.
Shit.
Before he could recover—
Mason Hayes reached in.
A blur of hands.
A hard swipe.
The ball was gone.
Steal.
Alec caught the loose ball—
And took off.
Fast break.
Ethan turned—too slow.
Lucas sprinted back—too late.
Alec Storm was already at the rim.
One step—
Two—
BOOM!!
Alec slammed the ball through the hoop.
The backboard shook.
The crowd ERUPTED.
The sound was deafening.
The Orlando bench was on their feet, hollering, clapping.
Even Coach Guy Corson—who had been furious just a moment ago—gave a small nod.
Because this—this was dominance.
[Scoreboard Update:]
Orlando Hoops – 54
Vorpal Basket – 36
Lucas wiped the sweat from his forehead, his golden eyes flicking toward Ethan.
Ethan's chest was rising and falling quickly.
His fingers flexed.
His jaw was tight.
Frustration.
Alec Storm landed smoothly, stepping back onto defense, a smirk playing at his lips.
As he walked past Ethan, he didn't even slow down.
Didn't even turn his head.
But his words were sharp.
"You had a good run. But better luck next time."
Then, without waiting for a response—
He was already gone.
Ethan clenched his fists.
His blood boiled.
........
Damn.
That was too easy.
Lucas Graves stood near the three-point line, hands resting on his knees as he caught his breath. His golden eyes locked onto Alec Storm, who had just finished one of the cleanest plays of the night.
Lucas had watched Alec move before.
Had studied him.
Had mimicked him.
But this?
This was different.
Faster.
Sharper.
Cleaner.
Alec wasn't just playing anymore.
He was showing why he was elite.
Across the court, Ethan Albarado clenched his fists.
His jaw tightened, his breath came in slow, controlled exhales, but Lucas could see it.
That flicker of frustration in his expression.
Ethan was competitive. He had always been. But this? This was something else.
Alec jogged back on defense, his movements relaxed.
Effortless.
Like that play—like that entire sequence—meant nothing to him.
And then, as he passed Ethan, he threw him a quick glance.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
Casual. Confident. Inevitable.
"Hey, you had a good run."
His tone was light. Like they were just messing around in practice.
Then—
"But better luck next time."
Alec didn't even slow down.
Didn't wait for a response.
Because in his mind—this wasn't up for debate.
It was a fact.
Lucas saw Ethan's body tense.
The slight shift in his posture.
The way his fingers curled into fists, his knuckles turning white.
He knew that feeling.
That rage bubbling beneath the surface.
The refusal to accept what had just happened.
Lucas could see it in Ethan's stance.
The realization sinking in.
Alec meant every word.
And that—
That pissed Ethan off even more.
...
[3rd Person POV]
The gym was buzzing.
Alec Storm's dunk had sent a shockwave through the court.
Vorpal Basket's momentum? Gone.
Ethan Albarado stood frozen near half-court, his chest rising and falling.
His fists clenched.
His stomach twisted.
His mind was racing.
(What the hell just happened?)
Everything had been fine just a minute ago.
Lucas was making plays. Ethan was controlling the tempo. The game was within reach.
And then—Alec Storm happened.
Alec's moves weren't flashy. They weren't exaggerated.
They were efficient.Deadly.Sharp.
He didn't just outplay Ethan. He dismantled him.
And that last play? That wasn't just a dunk.
That was a message.
"You had a good run."
"Better luck next time."
Ethan's jaw tightened.
"(You think this is over?)"
He took a step forward—
Then he heard it.
A voice.
Not from the crowd.
Not from a teammate.
From within himself.
Jonathan Brandit's voice.
His past self.
"It's happening again, isn't it?"
Ethan froze.
"You're gonna lose. Just like before."
His breath hitched.
"No matter what you do, they're just better than you."
He tried to block it out.
But the past kept creeping back.
That hospital room.
That empty gym.
That wheelchair.
That feeling of helplessness.
Ethan's heartbeat pounded in his ears.
Was it happening again?
Was it happening again?
Was he breaking?
Was he going to be powerless all over again?
No.
His fists clenched.
His breath steadied.
His blue eyes hardened.
"(No... I'm Ethan Albarado.)"
"(And I won't give up until I win.)"
Lucas Graves caught it immediately.
The shift.
The tension in Ethan's posture—gone.
The fear in his eyes—gone.
Instead—
That calm smirk was back.
Lucas's golden eyes flickered.
"(Oh... hell yeah.)"
Ethan cracked his knuckles, exhaling slowly.
Then he called out—loud and clear.
"Hey."
Alec, already dribbling up the court, paused.
The gym went silent.
Ethan's smirk widened.
"Run it back."
The crowd erupted.
Lucas grinned.
Evan Cooper, still catching his breath, chuckled.
Coonie Smith let out a low whistle.
Mason Hayes blinked in surprise.
Even Coach Corson narrowed his eyes.
Alec Storm?
He stopped.
His fingers gripped the basketball tighter.
Then, slowly—he turned.
He locked eyes with Ethan.
And for the first time in the game—
Alec grinned.
"Alright."
"Let's see"
To be continue