Extra Basket-Chapter 117 - 104: End of 2nd quarter

Marcus locked eyes with him.

"You’re not better than me." His voice was low, dangerous, half-spit, half-confession. The kind of line you threw when ego got bruised, and blood started boiling.

Lucas smiled, just a sliver. Barely enough to be seen.

"Then prove it without fouling."

The words hung in the air like smoke. Sharp. Unfiltered. Cutting right into the nerve.

A tension rippled across the court. Like the floor might snap.

The referee handed Lucas the ball on the sideline.

2:40 left. Second quarter. 37–16.

The crowd quieted just enough to hear the squeak of shoes.

Ryan Taylor, Vorpal’s power forward, stood at the left elbow, hands on his knees. Sweat rolled off his jaw as he glanced sideways at Lucas and Marcus, locked into their private war.

(They’re gonna kill each other at this pace...) Ryan thought grimly. He adjusted his stance.

His fingers twitched.

(We’re up, but we’re not in control.)

Across from him, Evan Cooper their point guard, bounced on his heels just past the arc. His eyes shifted between the two like a pendulum. Between Lucas’s calm... and Marcus’s barely restrained fury.

(This ain’t about points anymore...) Evan realized.

(This is pride. This is proving who’s him.)

He blew out a breath and wiped his palms on his shorts.

(We gotta back Lucas and Ethan before this explodes.)

At center, Brandon Young watched the interaction with a clenched jaw. He stood a few feet inside the paint, body leaned forward, arms half-raised. Ready to protect the rim. Ready to crash a body if he had to.

(They’re not letting us breathe.) Brandon thought. (But Lucas just keeps dragging their attention.)

(If this turns into a shootout between that Marcus guy and Lucas, we better make damn sure who wins.)

The referee’s whistle pierced the tension.

Play resumed.

Lucas inbounded to Evan. The smaller guard pivoted and took off, barking a coded call.

"Cross Dice, loop it!"

Ethan sprinted the baseline. Brandon sealed the paint. Ryan shifted toward the left corner.

Everything moved in motion—but Lucas?

He just watched Marcus.

Like he was waiting.

Marcus didn’t flinch. He stood tall. Still. Ready.

And then Lucas made his move.

He darted up from the wing to the top of the arc. Evan read it immediately and handed the ball off—a clean dribble hand-off.

Lucas caught.

And Marcus pounced.

Isolation.

The crowd buzzed—they knew. This wasn’t just a regular possession. It was personal.

Lucas jabbed left.

Marcus mirrored.

Lucas hesitated—floated the ball from right hand to left, crouched lower.

Marcus matched him inch for inch.

(You think you’re me?) Marcus’s eyes narrowed. (You think you can fake what I’ve built with talent?)

Lucas’s right foot snapped forward.

Marcus slid—

—too much.

Lucas dragged it back. Split-second recoil.

Crossover. Inside-out. Spin.

He slithered through a microscopic gap, brushing shoulders—and Marcus reached again.

Contact.

WHISTLE.

"Foul—number 6, two shots."

"DAMN IT!" Marcus barked, slamming his hands against his shorts.

Coach Ryland Hale turned in a storm, fists clenched.

"Stop reaching! Use your damn body! He’s baiting you—STOP TAKING IT!"

Lucas walked to the line without a word.

Ryan stepped in, clapping once behind him.

"Yo," he muttered low. "You good?"

Lucas gave a tiny nod. His hands were steady as he took the ball.

"Yeah. Let him get mad. He’ll break himself."

Ryan tilted his head.

(That’s dangerous confidence... or something deeper.)

Ethan walked over too, crouched beside him for a second.

"Wanna trap him next time? Force the ball out?" he whispered.

Lucas didn’t look over. He just stared at the rim.

"No. Not yet."

He spun the ball once.

Dribble.

Bend.

Release—

Swish.

38–16.

The crowd murmured.

One more.

Dribble.

Focus.

Release—

Swish.

39–16.

The lead ballooned. But it wasn’t just the score.

It was the pressure.

Marcus took the inbound. He pushed it hard this time, jaw tight, shoulders squared like armor. He didn’t even call a play—he dared his teammates to keep up.

At half court, Evan slid up. Ethan stepped over to switch.

But was stopped by Lucas.

"I got him," Lucas said.

Ryan looked to the sideline—then at Ethan. A silent question:

(Do we let him keep going?)

Ethan nodded. No hesitation.

Brandon dropped back in the paint, voice ringing:

"Talk on the cut! Help if he beats him clean!"

But Marcus didn’t cut.

He charged.

Straight into Lucas.

Head down. Muscle-first.

Lucas slid back, absorbed the bump.

Kept moving.

Marcus stopped.

Stepback.

Pull-up three.

High arc.

CLANG.

Back iron.

Brandon boxed out and soared—grabbing the rebound with one hand like a pro.

He looked up.

Lucas was already streaking down the sideline again.

(He’s not done yet...)

Ryan sprinted ahead, knowing what came next.

Brandon fired the outlet.

Lucas caught it in stride.

One dribble. Two.

Marcus scrambled to recover.

Evan flew to the left corner. Ryan to the right.

Defenders collapsed.

Lucas rose.

Mid-air pause.

Double clutch.

Off the glass—

AND IN.

41–16.

..

Timeout. Vultures.

The buzzer snapped like a whip. Coach Hale didn’t even wait for the refs—he stormed onto the court, calling for his team like he was dragging them out of a burning building.

Marcus Flynn kicked at a towel as he walked toward the huddle, jaw clenched tight, sweat streaking down his temples. Silas Green followed behind, towering, quiet, fists balled.

And then there was Darnell Fox.

The ace.

Number 0.

Unbothered.

He walked with his usual relaxed gait, chewing gum like the game was background noise. His eyes flicked up to the scoreboard—41–16.

He didn’t say a word.

On the bench, the Vultures’ freshman guard Jamie Lin stood up, notebook still open on his lap, eyes sharp beneath his mop of black hair. His fingers tapped a rhythm against the cover. Not nervous. Focused.

He looked over at Coach Hale

"Coach," Jamie said calmly, voice firm enough to slice the fog of tension, "I’ve got a plan."

The coach blinked. "You sure, Lin? You’re going in this time? I thought you star—"

Jamie cut him off with a respectful wave.

"Don’t worry. I still won’t play in this second quarter."

Coach narrowed his eyes. "Then what the hell are you telling me this for?"

Jamie snapped the notebook shut and stepped closer. Darnell arched an eyebrow. Even Marcus looked up.

Jamie’s voice dropped—low, controlled.

"Because if we keep letting Marcus fall into Lucas’s rhythm, we’ll lose before halftime. He’s not just baiting fouls. He’s unraveling us. Piece by piece."

"And you’ve got an answer?" Darnell asked, skeptical.

Jamie nodded.

....

...

..

The buzzer sounded again.

Timeout over.

2:00 left – Second Quarter. 41–16.

They inbounded fast.

Marcus didn’t even glance at the scoreboard this time. He just sprinted ahead, jaw clenched. Rage was his compass now, not strategy. The ball hit his hands, and he drove past half court like he was trying to crash through the game itself.

But this time, Ethan Albarado was watching more than just the ball.

He trailed the play with cold, flickering eyes.

(Hold on...)

He didn’t press. He didn’t yell. He didn’t even glance at the bench. Instead, Ethan drifted into a wide stance near the elbow, subtly glancing from Marcus Flynn... to Darnell Fox... to Silas Green to Anwar Pafur rotating into the high post.

(Then Darnell slipped to the middle last possession.)

(They ran HORNS—double high.)

(But no off-ball motion. One-dimensional.)

His mind spun like a reel of film.

(It’s a set. But not tight.)

Marcus dribbled hard right—Lucas stayed with him.

Darnell faked a slip again—Brandon caught it early and edged up. Ryan slid to cover the weak side.

Ethan narrowed his eyes.

(Their counters are based on Lucas biting. But Lucas isn’t reacting, he’s mirroring.)

Suddenly, Marcus fired a bullet pass to Silas Green in the post.

Silas caught. Pumped.

Brandon stayed grounded—arms straight up.

Silas fumbled the second gather.

TAP.

Ethan lunged—stole the loose ball with surgeon’s hands.

And froze.

(No fast break.)

He backed up, holding the ball like it was glass.

The rest of Vorpal began to spread the floor—but Ethan didn’t call anything yet. ƒreewebɳovel.com

He waved them back down.

"Wait."

Lucas blinked at him.

"E?"

Ethan looked at the defense—then spoke quietly.

"I need more data."

Evan cocked an eyebrow. "What?"

Ethan pointed toward Marcus. Then Silas. Then Darnell. (Their center just standing there the heck?)

"(Something’s off. They’re repeating patterns—but the spacing is wrong. It’s like they’re trying to mimic a system they don’t fully understand.)"

Ryan approached, wiping his face.

"Man, we got momentum—let’s just bury ’em."

Ethan shook his head.

"If they adjust at halftime, we need to know the backbone of their playbook now. Otherwise, we’re going in blind."

Lucas stepped in.

"You think they’re hiding something?"

Ethan’s eyes were deadly calm.

"No. I think they’re forcing something that doesn’t fit."

"Someone else made their plays. Marcus is just the executor."

"And that means someone up there is watching."

He glanced up at the private box seats where the tinted glass shimmered.

(their gotta be something.)

He turned back to the court.

"Let’s run Delay Motion. I want to see who panics when we don’t attack immediately."

Brandon grinned.

"You’re evil."

Ryan chuckled. "I’m in."

They reset.

1:20 left.

Ethan brought the ball up slow.

No flair. No show.

Just steps.

Each pass was surgical. Evan to Ryan. Ryan back to Ethan. Ethan down to Lucas. Lucas held it. Passed to Evan again.

Like a pendulum swinging. Left to right.

The defense shifted... slowly unraveling.

Ethan watched every twitch.

Darnell stepped late. Silas dropped too deep.

(There. That hesitation forced them into zone principles.)

(They’re not drilled for man reads off a slow tempo.)

One dribble. Then—snap—he whipped a no-look bullet to Ryan in the corner.

WIDE. OPEN.

Ryan squared up.

Release—

SWAT!

Rico, the shooting guard, soared in out of nowhere.

Blocked.

Already orchestrated...

Jamie Lin’s voice echoed from the sideline like a war general calling the shot before it happened.

Portsmouth Vultures.

Anwar, who secured the rebound with ease. The Vultures had just stolen back the momentum, and the crowd roared like a wild animal freed from its cage.

Jamie Lin’s eyes never left the court, watching as the defense collapsed around them. He’d known Anwar would be there, knew the timing of the pass would be too precise to let the shot go unchallenged. The entire play was a setup—a trap waiting to spring. The Vultures had fallen into it.

Marcus sprinted up the court, face set like granite, shoulders squared for the next battle. But the air around him felt different now. Every movement was calculated, every pivot and step designed to make him more dangerous. And yet, for the first time, he looked... uncertain.

Ethan’s gaze flicked to the scoreboard—1:00 left in the second quarter, 41–16. The lead was insurmountable, but Marcus wasn’t done. His pride was a beast with its claws deep in the game now. And the Vultures, even as they slid into their counterattack, knew they had to stop him.

Jamie Lin’s plan was working. The tempo had slowed, but it wasn’t just the game that had changed—it was the rhythm, the unspoken pressure now settling into Marcus’s chest.

As Marcus approached half-court, Ethan slid into his defensive stance like a predator closing in on its prey. Marcus’ eyes never left the ball, but there was a subtle shift—fear.

Ethan grinned. He didn’t move an inch.

Marcus exploded, driving past Ethan with a powerful, relentless push. His body took on the shape of a battering ram, but Ethan didn’t bite. He stayed with him, matching the fury in Marcus’s eyes with a cool, clinical precision.

The crowd was electric. They knew something was coming—something big.

WHAM!

Marcus drove into the paint, using his shoulder to force past Ethan. For a moment, it looked like he might get a clean look at the basket. But then—

CRACK!

Brandon exploded out of nowhere, locking Marcus’s shot attempt with a perfect block.

The ball bounced back into the air, a heartbeat suspended in time, before it was grabbed by Lucas—who had been waiting. Calculating. Watching. He ripped the ball out of the sky and took off down the court like a comet.

45 seconds left.

The floor was his. The game was his. Marcus’s body language told the story—he was beaten, his legs heavy, the frustration evident in his every move.

Ryan pushed to the left. Evan sprinted to the right. They were waiting for Lucas to find them—but Lucas didn’t pass. Not yet. He saw the whole court, felt the rhythm of it all.

Rico stumbled in pursuit, his defense more out of desperation than control.

"Get back!" Darnell shouted, but it was too late.

Lucas approached the arc—step-back—and then, with a smooth fluidity that belied the pressure, he let the ball fly.

The sound of the ball swishing through the net was like a symphony to the fans, and for just a moment, everything else faded. It was clean, it was perfect.

Swish.

43–16.

The lead ballooned.

With 30 seconds remaining, the Vultures looked to run a final play, but it was too late. The timeouts, the substitutions, the plays—they all blurred into the hum of the buzzer. Coach Ryland Hale stared at the floor, lost in thought, while Coach Hale looked furious on the sideline.

Silas Green stood, chest heaving, sweat streaming down his face. He had fought hard—but the battle felt lost. His eyes flicked up to the scoreboard again, but this time, there was no denying the truth: the game was slipping away.

Ethan glanced at Lucas, a silent understanding passing between them.

"One more stop."

As the final seconds ticked down, it felt like the game was already decided. Marcus didn’t even try to contest the final shot. It was the silence that echoed louder than any cheer or scream.

The horn blared as the teams jogged off the court.

End of 2nd Quarter: 43–16.

The crowd was on its feet, the energy palpable—Vorpal Basket had set the tone, and the Vultures, for all their talk, were left scrambling. And Ethan? He wasn’t finished yet. Wasn’t finished analyzing cause when he does say your prayers.

To be continue