Extra Basket-Chapter 107 - 94: 4 Days

July 21, Tuesday, 2010

11:00 PM – School Gymnasium

The fluorescent lights above hummed faintly as we stood together on the polished hardwood court, each of us dressed in our sharp black-and-red Vorpal Basket jerseys. My number—#20—stood out in white against the black fabric, just like the others.

Lucas Graves (#10) – Shooting Forward

Evan Cooper (#9) – Point Guard

Josh Turner (#8) – Shooting Guard

Ryan Taylor (#11) – Power Forward

Brandon Young (#15) – Center

Aiden White (#7) – Small Forward

And then, on the bench:

Louie Gee Davas (#5) – Guard/Shooter

Coonie Smith (#6) – Guard

Jeremy Park (#42) – Forward

Kai Mendoza (#31) – Guard/Forward

The gym was quiet except for the echoes of our agenda and the faint hum of machines nearby. We were supposed to be eating lunch, but instead, we found ourselves drawn here—maybe out of habit, or maybe because this court was the only place that made us feel like ourselves again.

Then Coonie Smith broke the silence.

"Bastards. I still haven’t forgiven you five for leaving us in the dark," he muttered, arms crossed and gaze sharp as he looked directly at me, Lucas, Evan, Brandon, and Louie.

Kai Mendoza chimed in beside him, nodding in agreement. "Yeah, yeah! You guys disappeared like ghosts. I thought something happened. We were worried sick."

Ryan turned his head toward Brandon, a scowl forming. "Especially you, big buffoon! I thought we were boys. You didn’t say a damn thing."

Brandon, towering and awkward, scratched the back of his neck and lowered his eyes. "We said sorry... like, a hundred times already. Can’t you forgive me, man?"

Ryan huffed, arms folded tight. "Hmph!" He turned his head away like a kid pouting—but everyone could see the corner of his mouth twitch. He wasn’t that mad anymore.

Evan just sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Why are we always like this... It’s like babysitting a bunch of middle schoolers."

Lucas nudged me with his elbow and gave me a look. Not angry. Just... expectant. Like I was supposed to fix this.

I let out a sigh. Of course, I had to be the one to mop up the emotional mess again.

"Alright, alright, everyone chill," I said, stepping forward and facing Coonie and Kai. "You’re right. We messed up. We should’ve told you something... anything. But we couldn’t. There was too much going on. We were just trying to protect you."

Josh raised an eyebrow. "Protect us? We’re your teammates, not porcelain dolls."

"Yeah," I admitted, "but you weren’t there when Freeman lost it. When bullets started flying. When people died."

The gym fell quiet.

I looked over at Lucas, Evan, Brandon, and Louie. We all shared the same haunted silence. That night still echoed inside of us.

Lucas finally broke it. "We didn’t want you to go through what we went through. We didn’t want anyone else getting hurt because of us."

Kai shifted uncomfortably and looked down at his shoes. Coonie clicked his tongue and looked away, but the fire in his eyes had softened.

Meanwhile, Louie Gee Davas was leaning against the wall, earbuds in, arms crossed, mouthing the lyrics to whatever song was playing. As usual, he was in his own world, unfazed by the emotional battlefield happening in the center of the gym.

"Look," I said, softer now. "We know we let you down. And if you still hate us for it, fine. But we’re here now. We made it out. Together. That has to count for something."

For a few seconds, no one spoke.

Then Ryan cracked a grin. "Well... if Brandon buys me McDonald’s for a whole week, I might forgive him."

Brandon groaned. "Bro, I’m not made of money..."

"Deal?" Ryan grinned wider.

Brandon looked like he was calculating the cost in his head. "...Fine."

That got a chuckle from Evan.

Aiden finally sighed. "Whatever. Just don’t pull that crap again. We’re a team. You leave us in the dark like that again, I’m benching you myself."

Coonie smirked. "You wish you had that power."

The tension slowly began to dissolve into light-hearted jabs and laughter. It wasn’t perfect—but it was healing. The first step.

We were broken, all of us. Some more than others. But we were still here. Still on this court. Still Vorpal.

And for now... that was enough.

We were broken, all of us. Some more than others. But we were still here. Still on this court. Still Vorpal.

And for now... that was enough.

I clapped my hands once and faced the team. "Alright, now that the drama’s settled—" I glanced at Ryan and Brandon who were still bickering like kids "—we need to talk about the upcoming tournament. July 28, 2010."

Evan nodded. "Yeah. The Qualifier Phase."

"Exactly," I said, pacing a little across the hardwood. "Middle school teams from every city and district will compete. Only the top two teams from each local area get to advance. So we can’t afford to slack."

Ryan scratched the back of his head. "Wait, wait... I still don’t get how this whole thing works."

I sighed. "You’re just like Louie."

Louie looked up from tying his shoelace. "Hehehehe."

I smirked. "Let me break it down for all the slow learners. Alright, here’s how it goes."

....

Let’s Start from the Beginning:

Step 1: Local Trials – Qualifier Phase

Every middle school team in each city or district competes.

Only the top 2 teams from each district will qualify.

These two advance to the Division Cup.

I held up two fingers.

"We’ve got 32 districts across the country."

Evan added, "So that’s 2 teams per district..."

"Yup," I confirmed.

2 teams x 32 districts = 64 teams moving on to the next round.

....

Step 2: Division Cup

"Now we take those 64 teams and divide them by regions," I continued.

North – 16 teams

South – 16 teams

East – 16 teams

West – 16 teams

"Each division runs a mini-tournament or round-robin format."

"The top 4 teams from each region will advance to the Nationals."

Ryan blinked. "Wait, so 4 from North, 4 from South, East, and West?"

I nodded again.

"Exactly. That gives us 16 total teams in the next stage:"

4 regions × 4 teams = 16 teams in the Sweet 16.

....

National Sweet 16 – The Knockout Stage

"Now we’re entering serious territory," I said, voice firmer.

Single-Elimination Format

→ Round of 16

→ Quarterfinals

→ Semifinals

→ Finals

"One loss, and you’re out."

Brandon muttered, "So no second chances..."

"Exactly," I said. "This is where every match counts. Where every mistake can end your run. And..."

.....

The Grand Arena – National Middle School Championship

I paused, letting it sink in.

"If we make it to the Final 4, we play in the Grand Arena."

Lucas’s eyes narrowed. "The one with national broadcast?"

"Yeah," I nodded. "Live fans. Cameras. Scouts. College reps. Everyone’s watching."

Josh Turner gave a low whistle. "Man... that’s pressure."

"But that’s..." I said, stepping to the center of the court. "That’s the dream, right? To play on the biggest stage of them all.

"

I looked around at all of them—my teammates, my brothers. Even the ones still annoyed or half-smiling. Even the ones carrying trauma and pain. Even Louie, who was quietly tapping his foot to music only he could hear.

"We’re Vorpal. We’ve come this far through hell. And now we’ve got a shot at something bigger than ourselves."

Silence fell. The air shifted.

Then Lucas finally spoke, soft but clear. "Let’s go win it, then."

Louie suddenly stood up, fists clenched with a grin stretched wide across his face.

"I CAN’T WAIT!" he shouted, the sound echoing off the gym walls.

Everyone turned to look at him. Even Coonie cracked a smirk.

I couldn’t help but smile, nodding.

"Then let’s get to work," I said, my voice calm but serious.

No more delays. No more doubts.

Lucas stepped forward. "Training schedule?"

I nodded. "Two-a-days. Morning conditioning, evening tactics and scrimmage. We’ll simulate real games starting tomorrow. We go full-speed, full-heart."

Evan added, "Let’s review each team’s top scorers too. I’ll dig through footage and stats."

"Hey, I can help with that," Josh said. "I’ve been following a couple of teams from the North side—they’ve got this shooter that’s nuts."

Ryan was already stretching. "Fine. If we’re gonna win, I’ll give it my all."

Brandon grinned. "That’s the spirit."

"Good," I said. "Because from this moment on—we’re not just playing ball. We’re fighting for our future."

Lucas nodded. "For ourselves."

Evan: "For our families."

Josh: "For the team."

Ryan: "For pride."

Brandon: "For Vorpal Basket."

....

As the sun filtered through the high gym windows, casting long shadows across the court as the girls’ basketball team took a short water break. Sweat clung to their jerseys, and the distant sound of a bouncing ball echoed.

Charlotte Graves, 15 years old, leaned quietly against the wall, her gaze drifting across the room until it landed on a familiar figure.

"Natalie..." she called softly.

Natalie Carter, still holding a water bottle, turned her head.

"Captain."

There was a pause. An invisible thread of tension hung between them—shared, unspoken.

Charlotte stepped closer.

"Um... how’s Caleb?"

Natalie lowered her bottle slowly. Her usual brightness dimmed a little.

"He’s doing fine... as fine as anyone can be, I guess. He’s got therapy sessions lined up now. Mom said the doctors think it’ll help with the trauma." She hesitated.

"I mean... who wouldn’t need therapy after that? They said he saw... Uncle Charles... die."

Her voice faltered near the end, eyes fixed on the floor.

Charlotte’s hands tightened slightly into fists.

"I... I know that feeling too."

Natalie blinked and looked up at her captain—her friend. What she saw in Charlotte’s eyes made her breath catch: pain. Familiar pain. Not the kind you hear about. The kind you live through.

Charlotte’s gaze was distant, but her voice remained steady.

"Seeing someone break right in front of you...I’ve seen that."

A long pause.

"And you don’t forget it."

Natalie didn’t say anything at first. She just looked at Charlotte with quiet understanding. Then finally: "...Was it Lucas or you?"

Charlotte didn’t answer right away. She just nodded once. Barely. But it said enough.

She looked up again, forcing a small, brave smile.

"But what we gotta do now... is be strong. Right?"

Natalie nodded slowly.

"Yeah. For them. For Caleb. For everyone."

Charlotte stepped back onto the court and called to the team:

"Break’s over, girls! Back to work!"

Natalie followed her, determination in her step now.

Because both of them knew:

Even if your heart’s still healing—

You keep playing.

You keep fighting.

You stay strong.

....

Location: Crescent Ridge – Chicago Raptors Training Facility

Time:July 21, 2010 – 6:32 PM

The gym’s lights buzzed faintly overhead, illuminating the polished hardwood below. Faint echoes of sneakers and the controlled thump of basketballs filled the air—but the usual rhythm was off today. There was no joking. No music. No trash talk. Only focus.

The Chicago Raptors, Crescent Ridge’s elite youth squad, were going through their evening training drills with an intensity that could be mistaken for a playoff warm-up.

A sudden blur of motion flashed across the court.

Jalen "Flash" Carter (#2) sliced through two defenders with a lightning-quick crossover, his body tilting like a race car rounding a tight curve. One bounce pass behind the back, no-look, right into the shooting pocket of Tyrese Lang (#3) in the corner.

Tyrese’s feet were already set.

Swish.

The net didn’t even move.

Tyrese "The Ghost Shooter" Lang stepped back and reset calmly, like a machine programmed only to score.

Three defenders closed in next possession—too late.

Bang. Another three.

"Call the coroner," Malik Ryker muttered under his breath.

Malik "The Lock" Ryker (#9) crashed into the lane next play. A high-flying layup attempt came from Jeremy, one of the juniors called in for defense. Malik leapt—not to block.

He caught the ball mid-air, snatched it out of the air like a hawk grabbing prey.

His legs coiled.

Slam.

The entire gym echoed as the backboard shivered. Malik landed and simply walked back to the perimeter, his face unreadable.

Meanwhile, Zion Vale (#8) stood at the top of the key, hands on his hips, eyes scanning like a war general. He didn’t move fast—but he didn’t need to.

He orchestrated plays without touching the ball for several seconds. A jab step here, a screen call there—soon, the defense was tangled.

He lobbed a pass over the zone without even looking. The ball dropped like a raindrop into the paint where Kobe Morales (#11) waited.

Kobe "Tower" Morales turned, two defenders on him. He didn’t flinch.

Drop step. Fake. Pivot.

Up-and-under. Lay-in.

He said nothing as he jogged back to the baseline. He never did.

Coach Mendez, clipboard in hand, watched quietly from the sideline, not interrupting. He knew this team needed no motivation. Just room to breathe. And space to dominate.

On the far end of the court, Jalen Carter stood dribbling absently as the others reset. Sweat dripped from his chin, but his eyes weren’t on the court anymore.

They were distant.

His breathing slowed.

His body was here—sharp and steady.

But his mind...

...was somewhere else.

He stared at the Raptors’ team logo at center court. But he didn’t see it. Instead, he saw flashes of that day.

The day Caleb Carter, his little brother, nearly died.

His jaw tensed, his grip tightening around the ball.

He inhaled... exhaled.

(I should probably pay a visit to Vorpal Basket... to thank them... for saving my little brother Caleb.)

He took a step toward the sideline.

"Flash, you good?" Zion asked, jogging past.

Jalen nodded slowly.

"Yeah. I just... got somewhere I need to go."

To be continue