Extra Basket-Chapter 116 - 103: Lucas Graves “The Prodigy”

Back on the court, Lucas Graves backpedaled slowly, eyes locked ahead, expression cold—like ice pulled from deep water. No smile. No arrogance. Just sharpened focus.

Then he lifted one arm and pointed.

Directly at Ethan Albarado.

Across the lane, Ethan caught the signal. His response?

A grin—small, dangerous. The kind that meant he knew.

He raised his hand and pointed right back, two fingers to his chest.

"Again?" Lucas called out, voice carrying over the roaring crowd like a challenge.

"Always," Ethan shot back, without pause.

(He trusts me. We’re not here to play.

We’re here to define something.)

The gym, quiet only a heartbeat ago, began to pulse again. Confusion from the earlier play had melted into realization—and awe. The crowd was rising like a wave, row by row, as if they sensed something more was coming.

Roars started to build. Cameras lifted. Chants formed on tongues.

But the Vultures weren’t going down without a scream.

Darnell Fox growled from the paint, lowered his shoulder, and tried again to bulldoze through Ryan, hungry for momentum.

But Ryan didn’t flinch.

Feet wide. Elbows strong. Chest out.

A wall.

Darnell smacked into him with a loud thud—but Ryan held his ground, teeth grit like he was holding back a goddamn freight train.

Evan Cooper blitzed in from the side—a blur, hands quick as snake strikes—and nearly picked Darnell’s loose handle. The Vultures scrambled to recover.

Shot clock: 5.

A panic pass. A rushed sidestep into a wild, off-balance three.

Clang.

Off the rim.

And then—BOOM.

Brandon Young leapt like he had rockets in his calves.

Two hands. Rebound ripped from mid-air like he was snatching thunder itself.

Outlet pass. Instantly.

Ethan caught it in full stride, already moving like he’d known it was coming five seconds ago.

Lucas Graves?

He was gone.

A blur down the sideline, jersey flapping behind him, cutting angles like a sprinter with murder in his veins.

Two-on-one.

One defender at the top of the arc, frozen like he saw a car crash unfolding.

Poor kid.

Ethan faked high—one hard drive right.

The defender lunged.

But the ball was already gone.

A no-look pass, fired behind-the-back at stomach height—a bullet that slipped through space like it belonged there.

Lucas caught it mid-stride, his feet barely brushing the court.

He spun off the gather—in the air—left hand rising smoothly, soft off the glass—

Kiss.

Swish.

BOOM.

The gym exploded like a grenade had gone off in the bleachers.

"OH MY GOD—HE DIDN’T EVEN LOOK!"

Jeremy’s scream cut through the chaos like a siren.

Louie started to shout—but halfway through his yell, he just choked on it and laughed, shaking his head in disbelief.

Kai Mendoza pointed from the bench, nearly falling over.

"Y’all seeing this? THIS is our team?!"

Coonie Smith had risen to his feet without realizing. His hands were curled, his breathing fast.

Eyes locked on the court like he was watching prophecy unfold.

"This... this is what basketball’s supposed to feel like."

Timeout.

....

Timeout – Portsmouth Vultures Huddle

Coach Ryland Hale slammed the clipboard down on the bench seat, the sound sharp as a gunshot.

"What the hell was that?!" he barked, voice hoarse from yelling.

His players staggered toward the huddle like they were returning from a war zone.

Darnell Fox ripped off his headband and flung it to the floor, sweat dripping from his chin.

"I had him—he flopped or something—"

"He didn’t flop, man. You just ran into a damn brick wall."

That was Rico Harrow, the shooting guard, rubbing his eyes, frustrated.

"How are they everywhere at once?"

Silas Green, their lanky small forward, dropped into the chair, arms draped over his knees.

"We close the lane, they kick it out. We stretch, they backdoor. It’s like they know what we’re doing before we do."

Darnell growled, pacing in a tight circle like a caged animal.

"We’re bigger. Stronger. We’re not supposed to be chasing ghosts."

"They’re just kids," someone muttered from the bench.

But it didn’t sound convincing.

Coach Ryland stared at his clipboard, lips tight. No plays written—he’d abandoned the plan two possessions ago.

He was watching a system collapse in real time.

His star players were unraveling.

His schemes—picked apart like old wallpaper.

He looked up.

"Darnell, you’re not the damn point guard. You’re forcing too much. Pass the rock. Rico, stop ball-watching. Silas—stay low, cut off the baseline, stop letting that Graves kid dance through you like it’s fucking ballet."

Darnell slammed the seat beside him.

"He’s not even flashy, man! He just... disappears."

Rico nodded slowly, like something just clicked.

"It’s not about the moves. It’s like a rhythm. Like they’re playing jazz out there... and we’re still stuck reading sheet music."

The bench went quiet.

Coach Ryland leaned in, voice lower now.

Measured. Focused.

"Forget the score. Forget the crowd. Get ugly. Get physical. Make them bleed for every pass. No more help defense, man to man. We don’t let them control it instead we make it a fistfight."

"You sure?" Marcus Flynn asked, eyes narrowing.

"If they start slipping through that..."

Ryland’s jaw clenched.

"Then we grab ’em. Let the ref blow the whistle. I’d rather foul out than get embarrassed."

Silence.

Then, Darnell nodded.

"Let’s make ’em hate this game."

Timeout ended.

The Vultures stood.

Not confident—but angry. Tight-jawed. Coiled.

They weren’t trying to win pretty anymore.

They were about to drag the game into the mud.

But in the corner of the bench, unnoticed, Vultures freshman bench guard Jamie Lin sat quietly. Palms sweating. Watching Lucas and Ethan high-five under the scoreboard.

He didn’t say anything aloud.

But in his head, he whispered:

(We’re not gonna stop that... not unless something changes.)

..

Meanwhile, Ethan and Lucas?

No celebration. No jumping, no trash talk.

Just a subtle chest bump. Thud. Firm.

They turned—no hurry—shoulders squared, walking back to their bench like kings in control.

"That’s six points," Lucas muttered, wiping sweat with his forearm.

Ethan gave him a glance.

A grin broke out again.

"Let’s double it."

They didn’t look back.

The bench had already erupted.

Josh Turner slapped Ethan on the back like he was trying to make a drum beat out of it.

"You two just rewrote streetball physics."

Aiden White, more composed, nodded at Lucas.

"That backdoor read? Perfect timing. Surgical."

Coonie tossed a towel toward Lucas with one hand and smirked.

"Y’all don’t need stats. You need a highlight reel and a contract."

Jeremy, who hadn’t sat down since the fast break started, tapped Louie on the shoulder.

His eyes were wide.

"You ready, bro?"

Louie didn’t take his eyes off Ethan.

His voice was quiet. Honest.

"When I go in... I’m running that combo too. One day."

Ethan, mid-drink, turned his head.

He heard it.

His eyes locked on Louie.

No smirk. Just truth.

"Then study it now—’cause you’ll be the one leading it soon."

Louie blinked.

And nodded.

Hard.

..

Whistle. Timeout ends.

The players broke from their huddles, jogging back onto the court—but the difference was stark.

Vorpal moved like fire. Loose, flowing, hot.

The Vultures moved like iron. Heavy. Dragging. Clashing.

Marcus Flynn walked to the sideline for the inbound. His fingers flexed—twice—like a pianist preparing for a solo.

Sweat trailed from his temple down his jaw, but his eyes?

Lasered in.

(Control. I’m the head. They move how I move.)

The inbound came. Marcus snatched it, snapped it low once—tight, almost invisible.

He walked it up the court. A rhythmic stutter in his dribble. Shoulders square.

Ethan stepped into position near the arc—hands low, knees bent, watching the hips.

Marcus gave a hard jab left.

No reaction.

So he dropped his center of gravity and launched forward—a quick, violent burst inside the three-point line.

Ryan moved to cut off the lane.

But no help this time.

Marcus elevated his eyes—not his arms. Pump-fake.

Ryan froze for a millisecond. And that was all it took.

Drop pass. Darnell.

Big man caught it like it was meant to be there.

One step.

Two.

UP.

BOOM.

"YEAAAAHHH!" Darnell slammed it through with two fists and roared, slapping his chest three times.

His teammates pumped their fists.

34–16.

But Vorpal?

They didn’t blink.

Evan already had the ball. Ethan was turning. Lucas was halfway up the court.

Like it was choreographed.

Evan’s fingers flicked. Long bounce pass to Ethan, who caught it on the move.

Ethan flashed a quick hand signal back at him. Two fingers, side chop.

"C-Shift." He mouthed.

Lucas curled across the top of the key, brushing off Ryan like a ghost screen.

Silas got snagged trying to navigate it—hesitated. Ryan slipped toward the corner—eyes wide, but he was a decoy.

Ethan received the pass and drove hard to the center. Rico stepped up. Too late.

WHACK.

"FOUL! Number 5!"

"WHAT?!" Rico exploded, arms wide.

"He just gets to fly untouched now?! That’s basketball?!"

The referee’s jaw tightened.

"Sit down before you make it worse."

Ethan didn’t flinch.

He walked silently to the free-throw line—like it was a business trip.

The crowd behind him grew louder. Students stomping.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

"VOOOR-PAAAL!"

Dribble. Spin. Exhale.

Swish.

35–16.

Second shot—off the back iron.

Darnell leapt. But Ryan was already there—low, solid, elbows out.

Boxed him out like a pro.

Tip.

Ethan tracked it. Caught. Pivoted.

Marcus yelled, "SWITCH!"—but they were late.

Ethan kicked it to Lucas on the right wing.

Back to the basket. 17 feet out.

Lucas felt the space. Turned slow.

Spin.

Fade.

Wrist snap.

Silas lunged with a hand up—but air was the only thing he touched.

Swish.

37–16.

Coach Ryland Hale slammed his hand against the scorers’ table.

"STAY ATTACHED, DAMN IT!"

Marcus looked over his shoulder as he grabbed the ball.

Eyes burning.

He whipped around to his team.

"HORNS DOUBLE. GO!"

Flynn crossed half court and snapped his fingers.

Double high screens came—Darnell and Silas both flaring out.

He curled around the right screen—Lucas switched on him.

Now it was just the two of them.

Lucas mirrored every hesitation. Every twitch. Every jab. Like a reflection in glass.

"Move!" Flynn yelled, frustrated.

Darnell slipped to the free-throw line.

Dump pass. Caught.

Pump-fake. Jump.

BUT ETHAN.

ROTATION.

TIMING.

PERFECT.

SMACK!

BLOCKED.

Gasps. A half-second of stunned silence.

Louie jumped up.

"ETHAN!!!"

The ball bounced loose.

Lucas snatched it and bolted down the sideline—long strides, low dribble.

Marcus slid over to cut him off.

Lucas wrapped the ball behind his back—changed direction.

Hard bump.

WHISTLE. FOUL.

"TIGHTEN UP!" Coach Ryland barked from the sideline.

"If we’re fouling, FOUL RIGHT!"

Marcus stood there, hands on hips, chest heaving.

Lucas walked past him, calm.

Marcus locked eyes with him.

"You’re not better than me." He hissed under his breath.

Lucas smiled—just barely.

"Then prove it without fouling."

Then Scoreboard blinked bright above the chaos:

Vorpal Basket – 37