Extra Basket-Chapter 128 - 115: The end of quarter

The hardwood groaned beneath their feet.

Jamie spun again a desperate, beautiful whirl of muscle and spirit.

Ethan slid with him, like a shadow that had known this rhythm all along. Their bodies collided for half a second chest to chest, sweat to sweat, will to will.

"Tch...!" Jamie gritted his teeth. (He’s still reading me... even now?!)

But he didn’t stop.

He refused to stop.

"ONE MORE TIME!!" Jamie roared, digging deep for a burst of speed that wasn’t left in his legs but in his heart.

He slipped just half a step past Ethan.

For a moment just a moment the rim was in sight.

His foot planted.

He rose.

A floater. High. Arcing. Fragile.

The ball danced in the air like hope barely holding on.

Ethan turned his head, watching it rise, watching it hang.

(He got past me...)

But Ethan didn’t jump.

He didn’t flinch.

He just watched.

Lucas, standing at the wing, whispered aloud: "Please... just this one..."

Brandon held his breath.

Even Coach Mason went silent.

The ball kissed the front rim—

Rolled—

Hung—

Fell.

Swish.

105–56.

No eruption of cheers.

No chants.

Just a thunderous silence filled with goosebumps and awe.

Jamie landed on one foot, stumbling forward with his hands on his knees, chest heaving. His arms trembled, fingers twitching.

(I scored...)

(But we lose...)

He looked up at Ethan eyes glassy, but burning.

And Ethan... smiled.

Just faintly.

Ethan stepped forward and held out a hand.

Jamie stared at it.

The gym... was still.

Then, slowly, Jamie took it.

Their hands locked calloused, rough, battle-worn.

Two warriors.

Two sides of the same love.

Basketball.

Ethan Albarado held his grip firm, steady.

Their fingers slowly parted.

And in that space between palms, something unspoken passed. Respect. Pain. Growth.

"That was a sharp knife," Ethan said, voice low, but honest. The ghost of a smile tugged at his lips.

Jamie gave a breathless chuckle, almost a cough.

"Yeah... but it took me too long to sharpen it..." he muttered, looking down at the floor, then back up again eyes clearer than they’d been the entire game.

..

The scoreboard glowed above them in cold finality.

Vorpal Basket – 105

Portsmouth Vultures – 56

But the numbers... felt distant.

Because what just happened went beyond a win or loss.

Ethan turned slowly, walking toward the Vorpal bench, yellow hair clinging to his forehead, jersey clinging to his back.

With every step, he took in the silence of the gym. Not a silence of shame — but of reverence.

He passed Lucas, who looked at Jamie with a mixture of awe and sympathy.

Lucas muttered, more to himself than anyone, "That guy... he didn’t fold. Even after all that."

Ethan exhaled deeply.

(This... is what conviction means.)

(Even when the scoreboard screams at you to give up — you still fight. You still try. You still believe.)

He looked over his shoulder one last time, gaze falling on Jamie, who was now surrounded by his team — tired, beaten, but upright.

(Even if they lost...)

(They never lost their will.)

Then the thought hit him, raw and real:

(It almost feels like... we were the villains. And they were the protagonists all along.)

He didn’t say it aloud.

He didn’t need to.

From the stands, the crowd finally began to applaud.

Not the raucous, booming cheers of a blowout win.

But slow. Respectful. Honest.

Claps that honored both sides of the story.

On the Vorpal bench, Louie Gee had stood, arms crossed, nodding slowly.

Coonie Smith sat with wide eyes, whispering, "That was real basketball..."

Kai Mendoza blinked, staring down at his hands. "I wanna be like that... even in the worst moment, still giving everything."

Aiden White simply grinned. "They got blown out... and I still respect the hell out of them."

And Jeremy Park whispered, "That’s the type of guy who’ll be back stronger. Next time... it won’t be so easy."

Coach Fred Mason, towel still hanging around his neck, sat down with a heavy thud and scratched his tummy.

"...Huh." He blinked slowly. "Did we win?"

The arena lights softened as the teams lined up to shake hands.

Ethan was the first to reach out.

Jamie’s palm met his.

Their eyes locked no tension, no pride. Just mutual respect forged in battle.

"Ethan," Jamie said quietly. "Next time... I’ll bring more than a knife."

Ethan smiled.

"Then I’ll bring armor."

They laughed.

And behind them, the crowd stood again not for the team who won.

But for both sides who gave them a story worth remembering.

....

As the line of players moved down the court, hands slapped palms, brief nods exchanged, tired legs dragging two figures approached each other with quiet weight.

Darnell Fox.

Lucas Graves.

Both had sweat dripping from their brows.

Both had fire that hadn’t quite cooled.

They stopped in front of one another, a breath of tension lingering between them.

Darnell’s expression was tight not angry, but lit with a simmering defiance. He extended his hand, rough and calloused.

Lucas took it firmly.

For a second, their grips held longer than necessary.

"You win this time," Darnell said, voice low, like a storm waiting to return. His eyes didn’t blink. "But next time... it won’t be easy."

Lucas didn’t flinch. His fingers tightened.

"I don’t want it to be easy," he replied. His tone was calm, but steady. "Push us harder. We’ll be ready."

Darnell’s jaw clenched... then he let out a short huff of a laugh. Almost amused.

(This kid... he’s got that spark.)

He finally let go of the handshake and gave Lucas a single nod.

"Good game," Darnell said. It was honest. Maybe the most honest thing he’d said all season.

Lucas gave a nod back, a small smile forming at the edge of his lips.

"Good fight," he replied.

Behind them, the last of the teams finished their handshakes.

The scoreboard flickered one last time.

The gym began to empty, one slow footstep at a time.

But that handshake that exchange lingered like the echo of a final buzzer that hadn’t quite stopped ringing.

Both of them walked away with something more than a win or a loss.

A promise.

A challenge.

A rematch... written in silence.

...

The gym buzzed with leftover adrenaline. Reporters gathered in small packs, notebooks open, cameras flashing under the court lights still humming overhead.

The scoreboard behind them read:

Vorpal Basket 102 — Portsmouth Vultures 54

Local Trials – Qualifier: COMPLETE

Some students stared blankly at the scoreboard.

105–56.

They couldn’t believe it.

Vorpal Basket, the team everyone mocked, the joke of the district for years, had just destroyed one of the most feared lineups — the Portsmouth Vultures.

It was like watching a graveyard rise and dance under the lights.

Cameras flashed.

Microphones clicked on.

One empty chair.

One already straining under the weight of a red-faced Coach Fred Mason.

He dabbed at his forehead with a sweat-stained handkerchief, chest heaving, shirt untucked. The cameras were already rolling.

A reporter cleared her throat. "Coach Mason, congratulations on advancing to the Division Cup. How do you feel about the team’s performance today?"

Coach Fred wheezed, eyes darting to the side where Ethan Albarado stood just outside the camera frame, arms crossed.

"Uh... y-yeah, the boys played great," Fred stammered, giving a nervous laugh. "That press strategy was all part of, uh, my adjustments. Yeah."

Ethan raised an eyebrow from the shadows. Lucas, beside him, stifled a snort.

(Unbelievable... he’s taking credit again.)

Another reporter leaned in. "And what about that fourth-quarter run?"

Coach Fred blinked rapidly. "That, uh, that was a collaborative decision, of course. We let the players develop leadership. Builds character!"

Ethan’s voice suddenly broke through as he stepped up beside the table, grabbing the second mic.

"If I may," he said calmly, voice steady, yellow eyes reflecting the camera lights, "we run things as a team. Everyone has a role. Coach Fred signs the papers."

Fred Mason choked on air. "I-I mean, yes! Paperwork’s critical. Forms, you know. League compliance..."

The reporters all turned their cameras on Ethan now.

Ethan Albarado.

And beside him, slightly awkward but eyes burning

Lucas Graves.

"Well." a reporter from the local sports channel called out. "The entire gym just witnessed something unbelievable. Your first win, how does it feel? To win and in such dominant fashion?"

Lucas looked down at his shoes for a second, then spoke quietly into the mic.

"It’s not about proving anyone wrong anymore," he said. "It’s about proving we belong."

The room stilled.

Ethan stepped forward next, gaze sharp, voice unwavering.

"We were written off before the game even started."

He looked directly into the camera.

"Everyone expected us to lose. Just like always. They call us the zero-win team. The warm-up squad. But not anymore."

A murmur moved through the crowd. Reporters scribbled faster.

"Was this a fluke?" another reporter asked cautiously. "You beat a seeded team. Some people are already calling it a ’miracle.’ What do you say to that?"

Ethan smiled faint, but there.

"A miracle?" He glanced at Lucas.

"If working your body to the point of collapse every night is a miracle... then yeah. Maybe it was."

Lucas gave a rare grin.

"Lucas, you were practically invisible at the start of the season," another journalist said. "Now you’re being called the dark horse MVP of this game. What changed?"

Lucas pushed his glasses up and answered without hesitation.

"Someone believed in me."

He didn’t need to say it. Cause everyone already knew who is it.

...

From the sidelines, the rest of Vorpal Basket huddled together, wide-eyed, half-smiling, still not quite processing what had happened.

Louie leaned over to Coonie and whispered, "Bro... are we famous now?"

Coonie, who had once given up on even warming up during games, nodded slowly.

"I think we just became real team."

Kai Mendoza sat frozen. Aiden White blinked like he was waking up from a dream. Jeremy Park wiped his eyes for the fourth time, just to make sure the scoreboard was still real.

105–56.

A team that never won.

Now advancing to the Division Cup.

...

Back at the press table, Coach Fred Mason sat with a towel over his shoulder, barely holding in his sweat. His mic was off again. Nobody cared what he had to say.

Ethan turned to the reporters one last time.

"This was just step one."

"We’ve got more to show."

The gym filled with a hum again. Not laughter. Not pity.

Respect.

For the first time... Vorpal Basket had become a name worth remembering.

.....

Unknown Location

The room was dim.

Curtains drawn.

Walls lined with silent television screens some playing footage from the Vorpal vs. Vultures game, others flickering between maps, drug trial graphs, and corporate surveillance data.

A long obsidian table sat in the center.

Seven seats.

Seven figures.

The scent of expensive cigars hung faintly in the air, but no one smoked.

Not today.

At the head of the table, an old man sat with fingers steepled. His eyes—milky gray from age were still sharp. Watching. Calculating.

"Tsk..." he muttered, voice dry like cracking leaves.

"It looks like the team Vorpal is advancing..."

To his left, a man burst into laughter.

He was in his early 40s, broad-shouldered, his maroon suit hugging muscle like armor. Gold cufflinks winked at the candlelight.

"Hahahahaha! Are you afraid of them?" said Drew, leaning back with a smirk.

"A bunch of street kids who got lucky?"

On the far end, a stern woman scoffed. Her black bobbed hair was streaked with silver, her posture militaristic.

"Shut up, Drew. Don’t disrespect our leader."

Drew turned his grin toward her.

"Old woman... Madame Vena, if not for your stern attitude, I might bring you to my bed even if you are in your 50s."

"You bastard," Vena snapped, cold and quick.

Tension sparked.

But a man in a gray blazer, calm and composed, spoke before it could escalate.

"...Charles and Greg are already dead. I just don’t want you two to end up killing each other."

Vena narrowed her eyes.

"Don’t worry. I won’t die. Just him."

"Enough!"

The old man’s voice silenced the room.

It was a sound they all obeyed.

His eyes flicked toward the bespectacled man beside him — Jerry, who leaned forward with a predator’s grin.

"Jerry, what’s going on with the drugs Charles enhanced using Greg’s old resources?"

Jerry, a man in his 40s with slicked-back hair and thin-rimmed glasses, chuckled under his breath.

"Fascinating, really. Street-level popularity is climbing. Kids are calling it ’Phase Boost’... they love the side effects. But we need to be cautious."

He tapped his fingers twice against the table.

"That bastard, Romanov Graves, is still investigating the old site..."

The old man’s eye twitched at the name.

"Romanov Graves..." he growled.

"That woman... CEO of BAC—Basketball Asian Company. Tsk. The Graves always complicate things. Just like her husband did..."

A younger man in his early 30s, wearing a sharp dark green jacket, leaned forward with an oily smile.

"Now, now, don’t worry about that, sir. I’m sure Graves won’t find anything. Not unless we let her."

But the woman next to him, around the same age, chimed in — her voice dry and clinical.

"If she’s that capable, do you really think she won’t find out eventually?"

The room fell quiet.

Only the faint sounds of a buzzer on the highlight reel in the background played — Ethan’s final shot. The crowd’s scream. The end of the game.

Vorpal Basket: 105

Portsmouth Vultures: 56

The old man closed his eyes, fingers tapping softly.

"Then it’s time we prepare the next stage."

He looked up.

"Drew, prepare the Shadows."

"Vena, pull the surveillance tighter on BAC."

"Jerry, move Phase Boost to Test Group C — and erase Site 17."

His voice dropped to a low growl.

"If Graves won’t stop, then we’ll make sure one of her love ones will disappear."

The room nodded in silence.

And just like that... the game behind the game had begun.

To be continue