Extra Basket-Chapter 115 - 102: Second Quarter

The buzzer echoed.

Second quarter—no more waiting.

I walked to the scorer’s table as the ref nodded.

"Sub in."

The gym buzzed with energy.

Trash talk flew from the Portsmouth Vultures’ bench, but I didn’t hear it.

My eyes scanned the floor.

Lucas Graves – SF (#10)

Evan Cooper – PG (#9)

Me, Ethan Albarado – G/F (#1)

Ryan Taylor – PF (#11)

Brandon Young – C (#15)

Scoreboard glared: Vorpal Basket 19, Portsmouth Vultures 14.

We led, but not enough. The game was still in the mud—sloppy elbows, forced shots, playground pace.

Not my kind of game.

That’s why I stepped in.

Not to match their energy.

To control it.

Ball inbounded. Their point guard took it up.

Marcus Flynn. Lean kid. Smooth handles. Quick release.

He looked like someone who spent more time hooping at cracked parks than practicing in gyms.

Unpredictable. Flashy. Dangerous in the open floor.

But I’d been watching him the entire first quarter from the bench.

Every fake.

Every twitch.

Every tell.

He rocked the ball in his left hand, eyes scanning like he was playing chess.

Then—pop!—he hit me with a left hesitation, shoulder dipped like he was going full burst.

I didn’t flinch.

He drove left. I mirrored the step. Low. Shoulders square. I moved like water down a canal, channeled but flowing.

"Slide. Don’t reach," I reminded myself.

He pivoted, cut back—ball spun behind his back—and dished it off to Darnell Fox.

Big boy. Muscle tank. Hair in cornrows. Tried to play bully-ball all first quarter.

Darnell caught the pass near the left elbow and faced up.

"Move!" he barked at his teammates, waving them away.

Isolation.

He wanted to body Ryan again.

Bad idea.

Ryan was ready this time—feet planted early, weight low, arms wide. No hesitation.

Darnell dropped a shoulder, tried to push inside—thud!—and bounced off.

Ref let it play.

Darnell had no lane. He kicked it to the corner.

Their shooter rose.

Quick catch. Quick release.

Clank.

Iron sang. The rebound tipped in the air.

I rotated to help—but Lucas had already read it.

SNATCH.

Ball in hand, he was off like a sprinter from blocks.

I was right behind him.

Fast break.

Evan took the right wing, his strides long and low like a sprinter out the blocks. Brandon cut straight down the gut, hand raised early—already calling for a lob like he could feel the highlight forming before the pass even left.

I trailed left, pacing myself, eyes locked on Lucas.

He didn’t hesitate. One bounce. "Go!"

The ball skipped ahead, low and fast like it had a purpose. Evan snatched it mid-stride, perfect catch. Defense swarmed—two collapsing on him like flies to sugar.

"Wing!" I barked, lungs sharp.

No look. No pause. He just flicked it over his shoulder like he’d done it a hundred times in his sleep.

(Ball. Mine.)

Right into my palm. No adjustment needed. No wasted motion.

I caught. Rose.

(Eyes on the rim. Elbow in. Balance solid. Follow through—)

"SPLASH."

Three.

Clean.

25 feet out, and it barely touched the net.

22–14.

The gym detonated.

Our bench jumped up like we’d won the game right there. Chairs scraped. Shoes stomped. Louie was halfway on the court already, swinging a towel.

Coach Mason still had a chip in his hand but finally leaned forward like he forgot to chew.

They inbounded fast—trying to catch us lazy in the celebration. Rookie mistake.

I was already back.

Marcus came down, head low, trying to shake Evan with a crossover into a spin. Didn’t work. Evan mirrored him like a shadow with better shoes.

Kick out. Darnell caught on the wing.

He faked a handoff to the point, jabbed baseline. Quick step.

Ryan bit. Darnell slipped by—barely—and jumped, extending under the rim for the reverse.

(That might go.)

Brandon dropped in from the weak side like a stormcloud.

BOOM.

BLOCK.

Not a fingertip. Not a deflection.

A rejection.

Ball pinballed off the glass and skidded halfway to half-court.

Louie jumped off the bench like someone got baptized. "YOOOO!" Even Coonie, quiet all game, was standing up, arms in the air.

We scooped it. No time wasted.

Next play, I took the rock up myself.

Portsmouth had started switching everything now. Trying to survive. Too many shooters. Too many reads.

(They’re scrambling.)

"Ghost Motion!" I called. Evan gave me a nod. Ryan set a ghost screen on the wing, never even making contact—just enough to bait the switch.

I curled around, faked like I was going baseline, then burst back up to the top.

Wide.

Open.

Evan hit me in stride. Seamless.

(Perfect. Right in the pocket.)

Pulled up.

No dip. No hesitation.

Release smooth like breath.

"Splash."

25–14.

The scoreboard lit red.

We didn’t smile.

Not yet.

We were cooking.

...

Timeout – 2nd Quarter

Vorpal Basket 25 – Portsmouth Vultures 14

The sharp CRACK of a clipboard slamming to the ground echoed off the walls like a gunshot. Plastic shattered. Papers exploded into the air like feathers from a burst pillow. But the gym? Unmoved. Numb to it. Portsmouth’s coach had thrown bigger tantrums before.

At the far end of the court, his voice sliced through the buzz of the crowd:

"Don’t give that pretty boy space!"

All heads turned. He was pointing.

At Ethan.

Darnell followed it up, stepping forward, voice harsh, jaw clenched.

"He ain’t real! He’s just hot! He’ll cool off!"

But his eyes told a different story.

They darted to the scoreboard, then back to Ethan.

The barking was loud, but the fire? It was gone.

(They’re rattled.)

Just flickers left. Flickers of doubt. Of worry.

Meanwhile, Vorpal’s bench felt like another planet.

No shouting. No barking. Just breath and heartbeat.

Lucas sat with a towel draped over his shoulders, calmly sipping water, gaze locked on the court like he was studying a chess puzzle with pieces still in motion.

Evan stretched out cross-legged on the floor, flexing his calves like he was prepping for

yoga, not war.

Coach Mason finally looked up from his half-eaten bag of sweet chili chips to mumble something under his breath. Crumbs clung to his stubble like stubborn snowflakes.

Ethan ignored him.

He walked straight to Lucas.

"We’re doing the combo," he said low, almost like it was a code.

Lucas blinked. Once. The kind of blink that stored a thousand calculations.

"You mean that one?"

Ethan gave a subtle nod.

Lucas didn’t smile. Didn’t react.

Just took another sip and said,

"Got it."

Louie Gee Davas leaned forward on the bench, warm-up half-zipped, excitement burning behind his young eyes.

"What about me, Ethan?"

Ethan turned, taking in the bench: Louie, Kai, Coonie, Jeremy—all of them watching, waiting. Kids caught between adrenaline and reverence.

He stepped forward, crouched in front of them.

"I told you—third quarter. We’re giving the bench the run then."

Louie’s lips pressed tight... then curled.

"I can’t wait."

Ethan placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Don’t worry. Your turn’s coming next."

Louie nodded—once, twice—like he couldn’t keep it in.

Then, with a fire only a kid his age could summon, he said,

"I’ll show you what I learned from you."

Ethan grinned.

"I can’t wait for that."

Then—cue the sitcom moment.

Coach Fred Mason cleared his throat dramatically, stepping in like he’d misread the script.

"Ahem... yeah, Louie’ll sub in third quarter!" He gave a nervous chuckle. "I was the one who said that, right, Ethan?"

Ethan slowly turned his head.

Stared.

Then let out a sigh. Long. Heavy. Full of secondhand embarrassment.

"...Okay."

Behind him, Coonie whispered just low enough.

"What a pig..."

Coach Fred spun like someone had jabbed him.

"What did you say?"

Coonie blinked, deadpan.

"Nothing."

Then came the buzzer.

Loud. Demanding.

Timeout over.

Everyone stood.

Shoes squeaked. Sweat hit the floor.

Ethan and Lucas walked out side by side, pace steady, eyes clear.

Combo play?

Locked.

This wasn’t just their court anymore.

It was their stage.

And they were ready to perform.

..

Back to the Game

The crowd quieted—for a single breath.

That strange hush before a spark turns to fire.

Then the whistle chirped. The ball was in play.

The energy surged again, a heartbeat louder now. The court vibrated under sneakers, but at the top of the key, Ethan Albarado and Lucas Graves stood motionless.

Shoulder to shoulder.

Hands on their knees. Eyes locked in like twin snipers.

Reading the Vultures’ defense.

It was a 2-3 zone, aggressive, twitchy. Darnell Fox, the anchor in the paint, glared at them with predator eyes. He pounded his chest twice, loud enough to be heard over the ambient noise, grinning like a lion already tasting the kill.

"Y’all done with your cute timeouts?"

No answer.

Not from Ethan. Not from Lucas.

Because they didn’t need to.

Their silence spoke louder.

Ethan straightened first. His voice came out calm, clipped, a shade under a whisper.

"Combo. Set ’Switch Veil.’"

Lucas’s head tilted just enough to signal understanding.

"I’m ready."

(Let’s light this place up.)

At the backcourt, Evan Cooper brought the ball across the timeline. His dribble was low, nearly kissing the wood—tight, practiced, unhurried. His expression unreadable, like he was half-asleep.

But every step, every bounce, was part of the illusion.

He glanced Ethan’s way. No eye contact.

Just a flick of his fingers.

A small tap to his hip.

(There it is.)

Trigger.

Like a detonated charge, Ethan moved.

A blur slicing toward the right elbow, forcing Marcus Flynn—one of the Vultures’ quicker defenders—to shuffle fast to keep up.

Lucas began to drift, slow, easy, curling toward the top of the arc as if preparing for a flare screen. Darnell’s eyes tracked him lazily.

But then—Lucas snapped.

His slow arc dissolved into a razor-sharp baseline cut, slicing behind Ethan like a blade.

(There’s the switch. The veil.)

Ethan planted his left foot hard and spun, his shoulders turning just as Lucas passed behind him. Not a screen. Not a pick. Something else.

Their shoulders brushed for a millisecond.

No call.

No foul.

Just timing.

Just trust.

Lucas didn’t even look. He didn’t need to.

And neither did Ethan.

His left hand flicked the ball backward on a diagonal bounce. Low. Perfectly angled. Perfectly timed.

A pass through fog—but he saw clearly.

The ball reached Lucas in stride, exactly where it had to be.

Right at the edge of the short corner.

Lucas caught it, controlled it in one motion—then took a single dribble, hard and low, his footwork gliding inside the line. The defender tried to recover, but Lucas was already pulling up.

A clean jump.

Elevated.

Compact form. Wrist snap.

Swish.

The net cracked like a whip—so pure it sounded like paper tearing in a silent room.

Bench rose. Crowd gasped.

Vultures didn’t even move.

And from Ethan’s stance just outside the elbow, he exhaled.

(Perfect. Let’s keep dancing.)

Lucas backpedaled, his face unreadable—but the fire in his eyes said everything.

Combo Set: Executed.

..

"LET’S GO!"

Josh Turner exploded from the bench like a firework, arms flailing. His feet barely touched the hardwood as he jumped, almost toppling Kai Mendoza in the process.

Kai stumbled, catching his balance just in time, laughing.

"Watch it, man!"

Josh didn’t even hear him—his eyes were wide, full of awe and adrenaline, locked onto the court like he’d just witnessed a miracle.

"YOOOO! DID YOU SEE THAT?!"

Louie Gee Davas was already halfway on the court before someone yanked him back. He had both hands on Jeremy Park’s jersey hoodie, shaking it violently like it owed him money. freeweɓnovēl.coɱ

"BRO! DID YOU—DID YOU SEE THE GHOST CUT?! THE VEIL?! THE FREAKIN’ PASS?!"

Jeremy wobbled, his hood twisting around his neck, but he didn’t protest. His eyes were just as glassy with wonder.

Coonie Smith stood slow, calm, almost like the wind was the only thing moving him. He crossed his arms, gave a low, sharp whistle, and nodded once.

"That was clean."

No exaggeration. No shouting. Just truth.

On the other side of the bench, Aiden White stared at the scoreboard, blinking.

Once. Twice.

His voice was soft, stunned.

"That... wasn’t in the playbook."

Kai, still catching his breath from nearly being body-slammed by Josh, laughed and patted Aiden’s shoulder.

"Nah. That was pure chemistry, bro."

"Like twin soul-link kind of stuff."

Aiden just shook his head slowly, trying to process what he saw.

At the far end of the bench, almost in his own little world, Jeremy Park sat upright, hands clasped tightly between his knees, eyes glued to Ethan and Lucas like they were holy men delivering scripture.

His whisper came out reverent.

"I’m learning. I swear I’m learning everything from that."

His legs bounced. Not out of nerves—but purpose. Hunger.

And behind them all...

Coach Fred Mason dropped his chip bag to the floor.

Not dramatically.

It just slipped from his hand.

Crumbs scattered at his feet.

He didn’t notice.

His eyes were wide—too wide. Like a man who had just seen fire bent to human will.

The kind of look you give when something clicks. Or breaks. Or changes everything.

Even the referee, standing near the sideline, let his whistle fall loosely between his fingers. His brows furrowed, lips parted slightly.

Just a small shake of his head. A trace of a grin.

Even he had to admit it.

(Damn, that was cold.)

To be continue