Extra Basket-Chapter 113 - 100: The Gap Between Us

July 25, 2010

Oakridge Park – Late Afternoon

The sun dipped low over the treetops, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement of the old basketball court tucked in the corner of Oakridge Park. The summer air was warm, tinged with the scent of grass and faint echoes of bouncing basketballs from a nearby half-court game.

Charlotte Graves, 15 years old, captain of the Thunderhawks Middle School Basketball Team, stood near the metal bench with a water bottle in hand. Her short black hair clung slightly to her forehead, and her silver eyes reflected the amber hue of the sunset.

She wasn’t nervous.

Not exactly.

But it wasn’t often she asked someone else for advice.

Especially someone younger.

Especially Ethan Albarado.

Across from her, Ethan stood casually, arms folded, gaze sharp as always. His yellow hair glinted faintly in the light, his expression neutral but attentive.

Charlotte took a breath.

"Um, Ethan... about what I said back then..."

Ethan’s eyes met hers. "Yeah. About your footwork. You wanted to know what method would help you move faster than you currently are, right?"

Charlotte gave a quick nod, grateful that he’d gotten straight to the point. No awkwardness. No misunderstanding.

"Exactly," she said. "I feel like I’m fast enough compared to most middle school players, but... when I saw Lucas training—" she paused, frowning slightly, "—I realized I’m still a step behind him. And knowing my brother... he’s only going to get faster."

Ethan lowered his gaze for a moment, thoughtful.

"Lucas isn’t just fast. He reads momentum and cuts before the opponent even reacts. That’s not just speed—it’s predictive movement. You can’t match that with raw agility alone."

Charlotte nodded again, this time slower. "So I need more than just foot drills."

"You need to refine your explosion point," Ethan said, stepping onto the court. "Right now, you’re relying on full strides. That’s great for open-court sprints, but inefficient in close space."

He crouched slightly, mimicking a defensive stance.

"You need sharper micro-adjustments in your hips and ankles. Think of it like... shifting gears in a sports car. Not full-on acceleration, but controlled bursts."

Charlotte tilted her head, intrigued. "You saying I need to reprogram my muscle memory?"

Ethan smirked faintly. "Pretty much. I’ve seen your stance—stable, but a bit wide when cutting left. You lose about half a second repositioning. That’s your gap."

Charlotte narrowed her eyes, absorbing every word.

"Then how do I fix it?"

Ethan walked to the baseline and pointed. "Start with resistance band drills for lateral burst. Then mirror training. But not with cones—use a moving opponent. Someone unpredictable. Train your reaction time, not just your form."

Charlotte raised an eyebrow. "That why you brought me here?"

He shook his head. "You brought yourself. I’m just giving you a direction."

There was a moment of quiet between them. The wind brushed past, carrying the faint cheers from the nearby court.

Charlotte finally broke the silence, voice lower. "Everyone keeps saying I’m ahead of the pack... but lately, I don’t want to be ’ahead’ of them."

She looked at him directly.

"I want to be right beside..."

She thought (You and Lucas)

Ethan didn’t need to ask who.

He simply said, "Then we’ll start now."

Charlotte blinked. "We?"

Ethan stepped back, lowering into a defensive crouch again. "Try to get past me. No tricks. Just footwork."

Charlotte’s silver eyes lit up—serious now, like a fire had ignited behind them.

"...Don’t regret this, Genius."

Ethan smiled faintly. "Wouldn’t dare."

And just like that—

Training began.

No flirting.

No tension.

Just two young players sharpening steel.

Because this wasn’t about dating.

This was about getting stronger.

And Charlotte Graves wasn’t planning on being anyone’s shadow—not even her brother’s.

...

From behind the low branches of a tree near the bike racks, Lucas Graves stood with his hands in his hoodie pockets, his yellow eyes narrowed in quiet suspicion.

He had followed his sister—not out of jealousy, of course—but because Charlotte had been acting weird all day.

Weird in the way she double-checked her shoes.

Weird in the way she actually fixed her hair.

Weird in the way she asked their mom if she looked "too sweaty for the park."

For a moment, he thought the unthinkable.

Wait... was she going on a date?

He almost choked on his cereal when the thought crossed his mind earlier.

So naturally, he trailed her here.

And now...

He watched as Charlotte lunged left, trying to break past Ethan Albarado, who quickly shifted, blocking her angle with sharp precision.

Charlotte reset her stance, gritting her teeth.

Ethan adjusted his feet. Calm. Calculated. Watching.

Lucas narrowed his eyes further.

"...Oh," he muttered

.

Not a date.

Just two basketball maniacs obsessed with footwork and positioning.

He let out a long sigh and leaned back against the tree. "Did She drag him out here just to train?"

There was a flicker of pride in his voice—mixed with just a hint of sibling annoyance.

"She really doesn’t know how to chill."

Lucas watched a few more exchanges. Charlotte tried to bait Ethan with a quick hesitation dribble—he didn’t fall for it. Then she shifted to her weak side, using a step-through. Ethan predicted it, countered immediately.

Lucas tilted his head slightly, a quiet smirk forming.

"They’re both look good together"

Then he turned and walked off, hands still tucked in his hoodie. No need to interrupt.

They weren’t dating.

They were just sharpening each other.

In their own weird way.

And honestly?

Lucas respected that.

As Lucas Graves wandered away from them, still thinking about Ethan and Charlotte’s insane training session.

Then—

BUMP.

He staggered back a step, nearly tripping.

"Sor-"

He stopped mid-sentence.

The guy in front of him had sharp eyes, dyed brown hair parted cleanly, and a lean, defined frame built from years of training. A cooling towel hung around his neck, and earbuds (wired) dangled from his hand like he’d just pulled them out a second ago.

He wasn’t local. His accent gave it away the moment he opened his mouth.

"...You... you’re Lucas Graves!"

Lucas raised an eyebrow.

He knew that voice.

He knew that face.

"Miho Park," Lucas said calmly. "Captain of the Eastgate Wildcats."

Miho stared with intensity, like he was sizing him up in real time.

"I knew it," Miho muttered, voice edged with obsession.

Lucas tilted his head, unfazed.

Miho didn’t smile. He didn’t laugh.

"I watched your footage," Miho said, arms crossed. "You’re copycat on the court. No wasted motion. But you’ve never fought someone like me."

Lucas blinked once.

Then smirked.

"You sound like someone who’s still bitter over an unfinished game."

freёnovelkiss.com

That hit a nerve.

Miho’s eyes sharpened. "That game wasn’t finished. Charlotte stopped it."

Lucas shrugged. "Rules are rules."

Miho stepped forward. "I don’t care about the rules. I care about closure. I was going to win that game. Ethan knows it. He felt it."

Lucas didn’t flinch. "Ohh, is that so?"

A pause.

The two stood in silence, tension between them like a held breath. Not hostile—but charged.

Miho finally scoffed, looking away. "Tch. Maybe you and I should have a game sometime. I want to know which of you is stronger—Ethan or the so-called Prodigy."

Lucas didn’t hesitate. His voice was steady.

"If you can’t beat me, then you can’t beat Ethan."

Miho’s eyes narrowed, offense and pride mixing dangerously. "Arrogant f—"

"Captain!!"

A voice cut through the tension like a whistle at the end of a quarter.

Both turned.

Jogging toward them with a slight bounce in his step was a lanky boy with light brown skin, curly hair tucked under a backward cap, and glasses slipping down his nose. In his hands: two melting cones of soft serve.

Armi Hassuf.

Eastgate Wildcats’ shooting guard. A stats geek. Tactician in training. Known for calculating player averages mid-conversation and overanalyzing missed shots for fun.

Miho blinked. "Armi..."

Armi slowed to a stop, handing Miho one of the cones. "I got your ice cream—double mango swirl, like you asked."

Then he noticed the other boy standing across from his captain. His eyes went wide behind his glasses.

"Wait... you’re Lucas Graves."

Lucas gave a small nod. "Yeah."

Armi’s jaw opened slightly. "The prodigy... real-time decision-making speed off the charts... reaction delay under 0.5 seconds..."

Lucas scratched his cheek, unsure how to respond.

Miho muttered, "Armi, stop."

But Armi wasn’t done.

"I saw your tape against Orlando Hoops"

Lucas said with sincere eyes. "Thank you"

"Welcome," Miho muttered under his breath, licking his cone with visible frustration.

Armi suddenly turned to Miho. "Wait. If you’re challenging him, shouldn’t we prep for—"

"Armi," Miho said flatly. "Eat your ice cream."

Armi looked between the two of them, then took a cautious lick.

Lucas turned to leave, but just before walking off, he glanced over his shoulder.

"Miho," he said.

Miho looked up.

"When the time comes... don’t bring that version of you. Bring the one who made Ethan fight seriously. Cause I want to fight you against your best version"

Then he walked away.

Armi blinked. "Wait, did he just—was that a compliment or a threat?"

Miho watched Lucas disappear around the path curve.

"...Both."

..

Meanwhile...

The sun dipped lower, casting a warm orange hue over the park court. The pavement radiated heat, but the two figures moving across it seemed unfazed.

Ethan Albarado stood across from Charlotte Graves, who adjusted her stance for the fifth time in a row.

"Again," Ethan said, voice calm but focused.

Charlotte sighed, brushing short black strands of hair from her silver eyes. "You’re starting to sound like my coach."

"Good," Ethan replied. "Because I’m not here to go easy on you."

She smirked. "Neither am I."

She darted forward—one step, then a sudden pivot left.

"Too wide," Ethan said immediately.

Charlotte growled and reset her feet.

"Try it again. Shift your weight before you plant. You’re relying too much on muscle memory and not enough on center balance. You’re explosive, Charlotte—but that explosion’s wasted if you’re half a beat behind your own footwork."

Charlotte gave him a look. "You seriously analyze like that mid-game?"

Ethan shrugged. "It’s what lets me keep up with monsters like Jalen and Lucas."

She stared at him for a moment, then nodded. "Alright. Again."

This time, her steps were tighter. Sharper.

She moved like a blade instead of a hammer.

Ethan smiled faintly. "Now that’s speed."

They continued for another set—footwork drills, balance shifts, drive fakes, and pull-up motion breakdowns.

Breathing heavier now, Charlotte leaned against the pole of the hoop, wiping her brow with her sleeve. "I didn’t expect this much detail when I asked for help."

"You asked how to be faster," Ethan replied, spinning the ball casually on one finger. "Speed’s not about just moving. It’s about moving smarter."

Charlotte tilted her head. "You’re really a genius, like the rumors says"

Ethan glanced at her.

"Nah...I’m just desperate to win."

She blinked. Something about the way he said it wasn’t arrogant. It was honest. Heavy. Like it carried something more than just competition.

"I respect that," she said softly.

..

Elsewhere, across the city...

A worn-down half-court sat nestled between rusting fences and cracked concrete. It wasn’t much—no nets, crooked backboard, faded lines—but it was home for Louie Gee Davas.

Thirteen years old. Rookie of Vorpal Basket. And Ethan Albarado’s number one fan.

A small crowd of street kids surrounded the court, their voices echoing through the alleys. Most were older, taller, and rough around the edges—but they respected Louie. Not because of his uniform, but because he earned it here—on this court.

Today, though, was different.

He stood across from Jan, his best friend since forever.

Jan was barefoot. Wearing worn-out shorts and a cracked tank top. He never had the money for a basketball academy. Never owned proper shoes. But his instincts? Raw. Dangerous. Fast.

The kind of fast that came from surviving—not drills.

They were already three games in. The air was thick with sweat and pride.

Louie wiped blood from his lip, smirking.

"You’re getting better," he said, chest heaving.

Jan tilted his head, breathing hard. "No, you’re different."

Louie raised a brow.

Jan stepped closer, eyes sharp. "Where did you learn that move? That step-back hesitation into the crossover... and your burst, man—it’s not normal."

Louie’s lips curled into a small grin.

"From my mentor," he said proudly.

"Ethan."

Jan blinked. "Ethan Albarado? That guy you keep talking about."

Louie nodded. "He showed me how to move with purpose. How to fake, bait, explode... how to read people. I’ve been studying his footwork every day."

Jan looked down at his hands, clenching them. "I don’t have a mentor."

The words sat between them like weight.

Louie swallowed. "I know."

Jan’s voice was quieter now. "I don’t even have shoes."

Louie looked at his friend’s bruised feet, silent for a moment. Then he pulled off his second pair of practice shoes from his bag and tossed them toward him.

"They’re a little worn," Louie said, "but they still grip. Don’t let excuses hold you back."

Jan caught the shoes, stunned.

"I’m not giving them to you for free though," Louie added, smirking.

"Next game—you try that hesitation crossover on me. Let’s see if I trained you right."

Jan chuckled, sliding them on. "You’re crazy."

"Ethan taught me something else," Louie said, walking back to the top of the key. "Doesn’t matter if you’re rich or poor, small or big, what court you play on—what matters is how much you want it."

Jan took position opposite him, crouching into a stance.

"...Then let’s play like we both want it."

The crowd slowly circled tighter, energy rising.

And as the sun set, the two boys clashed again—not as rivals.

But as brothers in the grind.

To be continue