[Score: 3–2]
The gym was still.
The air was thick with sweat, silence, and expectation.
Only the steady rhythm of leather hitting wood cut through the tension.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Lucas Graves stood at the top of the key, the ball in his control left hand, fingers wide, pads of his hand absorbing each bounce with precision. It wasn't random. It wasn't idle.
Each dribble was a message. A heartbeat.
"Control the pace. Control the game."
His body was relaxed, but perfectly aligned, feet shoulder-width, right heel slightly lifted, knees soft, eyes sharp. The way he held the ball wasn't just instinct. It was design. He wasn't trying to get by Louie. He was trying to dissect him.
On the other side, Louie Gee Davas crouched low.
He didn't blink.
He didn't flinch.
His fingers wiggled in place, small, twitchy movements as he hovered just inches off the floor, like a coiled spring waiting to burst.
Louie wasn't watching the ball. He never did.
