The sun had already dipped below the horizon, casting golden streaks over the gym windows as the echoes of celebration slowly faded. But for Ethan Albarado and Lucas Graves, the real noise had only just begun.
Word of the game had spread like wildfire across Oak Hill Academy. Students who had once ignored their school's struggling basketball team now talked about it with wide eyes and excited voices. Some had watched from the bleachers, others through shaky phone streams, but all of them had witnessed the same thing:
A miracle.
A team once dismissed as "garbage"
Had won.
The once-quiet walkways of Oak Hill were now filled with buzzing energy. Groups of students pointed, laughed, and gathered near the dorm steps, waiting—hoping—to get a glimpse of the ones who changed everything.
As Ethan and Lucas stepped into the open, heading toward the dorms with Evan, Ryan, Josh, Brandon, and the rest trailing behind, they were immediately met by a wave of cheers.
"Lucas!!! Ethan!!!"
"Ethan Albarado!!"
"Lucas Graves!!"
It was surreal. Faces they barely knew. People who had never spoken to them. Students from different grades, different programs—shouting their names with genuine excitement.
Ethan blinked, confused. "What the…"
Lucas looked around, stunned, his hand half-raised in disbelief. Evan laughed, slapping Ethan on the back.
"They must've seen our game back then," Evan said with a grin.
Lucas smiled, still overwhelmed.
("Is this what it feels like… to finally be seen?")
They weren't invisible anymore.
They were the talk of the academy. The pride of a team reborn.
And even though it was just one exhibition game—just one win—they had carved their names into the walls of Oak Hill with that performance.
This wasn't just about winning a match.
It was the beginning of something far greater.
A new reputation.
A new chapter.
A new beginning.
….
Ethan pov
I thought to myself,
"(As expected… that game earlier made us celebrities overnight. Well, in this novel, basketball is everything… after all, this is the world of basketball.)"
I glanced around.
The faces of the students lit up as they looked at us—smiling, laughing, cheering like we were heroes. Like we mattered.
"(I still can't get used to that look… the way their eyes shine when they look at me like that. It's too different from the world I knew. Too warm.)"
Then came Kai Mendoza, loud as ever, grinning like a madman and throwing his arms up as he yelled,
"We are good, right? Right? RIGHT?"
Coonie Smith, always the straight-faced one, just rolled his eyes and snapped,
"Shut up."
Lucas Graves stood beside me, slightly behind, his usual energetic persona dimmed down as he scratched the back of his head shyly. Despite all his bouncing and joking, he wasn't used to this much attention. Praise, celebration—it overwhelmed him more than anyone.
Even he wasn't immune to this new feeling. That warmth. That light.
Then Evan came up and clapped a hand hard on my back.
"What do you think about their reaction?" he asked, smirking.
I hesitated.
"(Should I even think about their reaction?)" I wondered.
But when I met their eyes—those who praised me, who called my name with admiration—I felt something stir inside me. Something warm. Something… nostalgic?
"(What is this…? It feels… good. Like I missed this. Like something I lost a long time ago...)"
I turned to Evan, hiding that swirl of emotion behind a small grin.
"Not bad..." I replied.
That was all I could say without letting too much slip.
Then, of course, Ryan Taylor was being… Ryan Taylor.
Slick hair, cocky grin, surrounded by a group of curious girls as he leaned against the wall like he was in a drama scene.
"We are the best, right?" he said, flashing a wink.
The girls giggled, half-impressed, half-confused.
Brandon Young, our center and unofficial team babysitter, crossed his arms and shook his head, muttering under his breath,
"This guy..."
He looked like he wanted to pretend he wasn't part of this group, but I could see it in his eyes. He was proud.
We all were.
Even if we didn't show it the same way.
This… this was something different.
Something we could hold onto.
Something that felt like the start of a story worth telling.
…..
Meanwhile — Eastgate College, Boston, Massachusetts
Eastgate Wildcats Basketball Team Locker Room
The bouncing of basketballs suddenly stopped. The usual chatter faded into hushed whispers as every player gathered around a phone, eyes glued to the screen.
Orlando Hoops: Defeated.
By a team no one had even paid attention to.
Vorpal Basket.
The locker room went still. It was like a cold gust had swept through, leaving the players frozen in disbelief.
Standing in the center was Miho Park—the captain of the Eastgate Wildcats. He was known across the region as a Korean prodigy: tall, sharp, and unnervingly precise in everything he did—whether it was passing, defending, or scoring.
But right now, that calm precision shattered.
The basketball in his hands slipped from his fingers, bouncing off the hardwood with a loud thud that echoed through the room.
His wide eyes were locked on the screen. His mouth was slightly open.
Then he spoke, barely above a whisper:
"What are you saying? Are you telling me Alec got defeated? My rival... Alec?"
His voice cracked—not out of fear, but something deeper.
Confusion. Curiosity. And maybe... excitement.
(Alec... The one I've always chased after... lost?)
One of his teammates, Davis Conner, the reliable and strong power forward, stepped forward slowly. He had the look of someone delivering heavy news.
"Yes… Captain. It's true. Orlando lost. They lost to some team from Virginia. Vorpal Basket."
The room went completely silent.
Then, unexpectedly, Miho let out a loud, sharp laugh.
"Ahahahahaha!"
The sound echoed unnaturally in the tense air. Every player turned to stare at him like he'd lost it.
Miho's chest rose and fell as he tried to calm himself, the laughter turning into short, excited breaths.
"I can't believe it—no… I can't," he said, eyes gleaming with something wild. A grin slowly formed on his face.
He bent down, picked up the ball he had dropped, and gripped it tightly.
Then he stared down at the floor like he was replaying the game in his mind.
(Alec… My greatest rival... brought down by a team no one even knew? Who the hell are they? Vorpal Basket? What kind of name is that?)
His grip on the ball tightened, fingers pressing into the surface.
(If they're strong enough to beat Alec... then maybe I've been chasing the wrong person all this time. Maybe they are the ones I need to beat.)
The tension in the room shifted the moment Miho Park lifted his head. The wild grin was gone. In its place was a cool determination that made the rest of the team straighten up without even thinking.
As Miho lifted his gaze, and his eyes now sharp with new purpose.
His voice was low, but it carried weight—
"Get ready."
"Because we're going to Virginia."
Gasps, murmurs, and wide-eyed glances shot around the room.
From the corner, a wiry teen with shaggy brown hair and sharp reflexes raised his hand slightly, a bit hesitant. It was Armi Hassuf, their ever-curious, sometimes-overthinking shooting guard.
"But Captain," Armi said, scratching the back of his head,
"they just played a match, right? Wouldn't they be… I don't know…tired? Burned out?"
Miho paused. His lips curled into a slow smirk as he tilted his head toward Armi.
"You're right… hahaha…"
The soft laugh grew a little louder, filled with amusement, not mockery.
"Then we should…"
He stepped forward, his shoes echoing softly against the wooden floor.
"…meet them tomorrow."
His voice dropped just enough to send a chill down some spines.
"Give them a night to rest. Let them taste victory a little longer. Let them think they've made it to the mountain."
He turned to face the whiteboard where plays and scouting notes were once scribbled, now completely erased with a single swipe.
"And then… we show them that there is still a mountain to climb."
Armi gave a small laugh of his own.
"Damn, Captain... you sound like a movie villain."
Miho glanced over his shoulder.
"Good. Then let this be a new act."
The team exploded into excited chatter. The room was alive again—not just with tension now, but anticipation.
The game wasn't over.
It was just beginning.
...…
Street Court – Somewhere in Virginia
The air crackled with energy cheers, shouts, and the squeak of sneakers cutting across
the rough concrete. A loose crowd of kids had formed around a half-court game as the orange sun dipped lower in the sky, casting golden light on the scene.
At the center of the action was a boy 13 years old, wiry and wild-eyed, moving with the kind of fearless confidence that only comes from playing countless street games.
He zipped forward, basketball low and tight against the court, his crossover so smooth it was almost invisible.
His defender, a taller teen, stumbled trying to keep up.
"Tch! Damn!" the teen grunted, caught completely off guard.
But the boy wasn't stopping.
He charged toward the basket, and a much taller center stepped in front of him, arms out like a wall, ready to stuff the shot.
The boy took off into the air.
Then—twist. A fake. A mid-air switch that sent the center flying the wrong way.
"OHHHHHHH!" the crowd exploded in amazement.
The ball spun off the boy's fingers in one clean, practiced motion—
Swish.
Right through the net.
From the sideline, someone shouted, half-laughing, half-screaming:
"DAVAS!!"
The boy landed, panting hard, a tiny cut above his right eyebrow and sweat dripping from his temple. His little bit gold brown eyes gleamed under the sunlight.
He turned toward the voice.
"What?" he called back, confused.
An older kid ran up to him, eyes wide, phone in hand.
"The Vorpal Basket team they won. They actually won a match!"
Louie Gee Davas blinked, hearing the name like a jolt of lightning.
"...What?" he muttered again.
The phone was handed to him.
A short video played. Ethan Albarado flying down the court. Lucas Graves launching a great shot. The roar of the crowd.
No flashy edits. No fancy cuts.
Just raw, pure victory.
Louie lowered the phone slowly, his gaze distant, expression unreadable.
(They really did it... Those guys actually won… even without me...)
His jaw tightened.
He remembered it clearly Coach Fred Mason, arms crossed, face blank, voice cold.
"You're too skinny, Louie. You'll get tossed around on the court. We need power, not tricks."
Louie spat to the side in disgust.
"That damn fatass…" he muttered.
But his eyes drifted back to the video. That moment—the shot, the net, the celebration—it replayed in his head like a spark he couldn't ignore.
(If that team can win… without me...)
He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms.
(Then imagine what they could do with me.)
And just like that, a smirk broke across his face.
Not bitter.
But hungry. Focused. Ready.
Louie Gee Davas, rejected and underestimated, was done watching from the sidelines.
His time was coming.
To be continue