Extra Basket-Chapter 53 - 40: Thunderhawks

The gym lights flickered slightly as the Thunderhawks wrapped up their final drill of the evening. Sneakers squeaked, whistles echoed, and the distant thump of a basketball hitting hardwood rang out in rhythm like a war drum. At the center of it all stood their captain, Charlotte Graves—sharp-eyed, calm, and resolute.

At just fifteen years old and already a third-year, Charlotte wasn’t just another rising star—she was a symbol.

Nicknamed "The Commander Hawk", "Silver Falcon", and to some simply "C.G.", Charlotte had built her legacy through grit, leadership, and iron discipline. Her silver eyes, short-cropped black hair, and a lean, athletic build made her an unmistakable presence on and off the court. She didn’t talk much—but when she did, people listened.

Her leadership had taken the Thunderhawks to the finals last year. They came agonizingly close to a championship... but a cruel injury to one of their starters had ripped that dream away.

Not this year.

Now, with three days before their showdown with the Vorpal Basket, she was locked in. The whole team was.

Starting Lineup – Thunderhawks

Charlotte Graves (Captain) – Point Guard

Height: 5’6"

The strongest presence among the starters, Charlotte’s height gives her an edge in vision, reach, and physical defense. Known for her killer instincts, elite passing, and surgical game control.

Isabella "Izzy" Moreno – Shooting Guard

Height: 5’5"

A hyper-quick shooter with deadly precision. Her ability to break ankles and launch mid-range shots makes her a silent killer. What she lacks in size, she compensates with unshakable confidence.

Lena Kowalski – Small Forward

Height: 5’6"

A feisty defender with a knack for predicting offensive moves. Plays with a chip on her shoulder, often challenging players larger than herself and coming out on top.

Sakura Tanaka – Power Forward

Height: 5’7"

Explosive in the paint and surprisingly agile. While smaller than traditional forwards, Sakura relies on impeccable timing and core strength to bully her way under the rim.

Carmen "The Tiger" Delgado – Center

Height: 5’10"

The tallest player on the team. Strong, stable, and reliable. She’s the wall that holds the line on defense and is always first to snatch a rebound.

Bench Players

Eva Johansson – Guard

Height: 5’4"

A reliable backup with a calm demeanor and sharp court vision. Subtle but effective in both defense and passing.

Natalie "Nattie" Carter – Forward

Height: 5’5"

Known for her silky shooting stroke and quick sidesteps. Always moving, always dangerous from mid-range.

Amina "Mina" El-Sayed – Small Forward

Height: 5’7"

Gritty defender with fast hands and quicker feet. Can match up against taller players by getting under their skin—mentally and physically.

Jasmine Williams – Point Guard

Height: 5’6"

The smallest on the roster, but also one of the fastest. Known for her flashy handles and fast-break offense. Can change momentum in seconds.

Clara van der Meer – Backup Center

Height: 5’10"

Tied in height with Carmen. A second wall. Plays a more physical style and doesn’t shy away from contact. When she subs in, opponents groan.

The team huddled at center court, cooling down after drills, sweat glistening on their brows. Charlotte bounced the ball slowly, deep in thought.

"So... this is it." she whispered under her breath, silver eyes narrowing.

She looked over to the sideline where a tall woman with a clipboard and arms crossed stood watching her like a hawk herself—Coach Lory Moore.

Former WNBA champion. Former shooting guard. Former teammate of Romanov Graves—Charlotte’s mother, and a WNBA legend in her own right. Lory and Romanov had been more than teammates—they were sisters in battle. When Romanov passed, Lory took Charlotte under her wing like her own child.

Charlotte jogged up to her. "Coach Lory... did..."

Lory nodded.

"Yeah, I spoke to him. He agreed. The match is set."

Charlotte felt a shiver run down her spine.

"So what did he say?"

Lory’s face was serious. Her voice firm.

"July 6, 2010. Three days. Be ready."

She turned to the rest of the team, her voice rising.

"Girls! Listen up!"

The girls gathered quickly, sweat still dripping, muscles aching—but alert.

"You all saw the tapes, right? That team..." she paused, eyeing each of them, "they’re not the same losers you saw before."

"Vorpal Basket is rising fast—and they’ve got someone new. Lucas Graves. Ethan Albarado. And that whole roster’s hungry for a win."

"So be..." she paused dramatically, her voice dropping like a hammer,

"prepared. Understand?"

"YES COACH!" the team roared, fists raised, the energy vibrating through the gym.

Charlotte stood quietly, holding the ball in both hands.

"(Three days. Ethan... Lucas... let’s see how far you’ve come. I’m not the same little girl from before either.)"

And somewhere deep in her heart, a voice echoed.

"(Mom, I’ll finish what we started...)"

The whistle blew again.

"Back to work!" Coach Lory barked.

The sound was sharp, slicing through the fading silence like a blade.

Without a word, the girls hustled back into formation.

Charlotte clapped once. Loud. Solid.

"Izzy. Lena. Corner cuts. Sakura, Carmen—screens up top. Let’s run it at full tempo. No pauses."

They broke.

The gym came alive again with motion—

feet pounding, balls bouncing, voices calling.

"SCREEN LEFT!"

"CUTTING THROUGH!"

"SWITCH, SWITCH!"

Sakura slammed into a screen position like a freight train—her feet planted, her arms locked. Carmen followed up, creating a wall on the top side.

Izzy zipped around the edge, caught Charlotte’s laser pass, and let it fly.

Swish.

Net. Only net.

"AGAIN!" Charlotte called.

"Faster. Sharper. No mercy."

Coach Lory watched from the side, arms still folded, lips tight.

(Good. They’re locked in now. But will it hold when they face Graves’ boy? When Ethan Albarado starts firing on all cylinders?)

Across the court, Mina and Nattie worked on switching defense.

Jasmine chased Clara through a rebounding drill, sweat pouring from her forehead, determination in her eyes.

Even the bench felt like starters tonight.

Then it happened.

Lena missed a switch.

Izzy ran into Carmen mid-play, staggering back.

Charlotte’s voice cut the air like a whip.

"Lena! You’re one second late. Again!"

Lena bit her lip, frustrated, but nodded. "Got it, Cap."

Charlotte didn’t ease up.

"We can’t afford mistakes. Not against them. Not this time."

The girls reset.

And again, they ran it.

Again.

And again.

Until the only sound was exhaustion.

Until Carmen was breathing through clenched teeth.

Until Izzy’s arms shook from the number of shots she’d released.

Until Charlotte’s shirt clung to her back like a second skin.

...

Coach Lory finally blew the whistle.

"Break. Water. Stretch. Then final run."

Some girls dropped to their knees.

Others slumped against the wall.

But not Charlotte.

She paced silently, gripping the ball.

(This isn’t just a match. It’s war. And we already lost one war before... I won’t let it happen again.)

She glanced at her reflection in the gym’s window—

the silver eyes, the tension in her shoulders, the fire behind her gaze.

(Lucas Graves. You’re not the only ones chasing redemption.)

Coach Lory walked over, voice low, almost like a whisper.

"Remember what your mother told us the night before our first WNBA finals?"

Charlotte didn’t look at her.

"Yeah. I remember."

Coach nodded, smiling faintly.

"Then say it."

Charlotte inhaled, then said it like a vow.

"You either break... or you break through."

Lory patted her shoulder.

"Good. Now get them ready. Final drill starts in five."

Charlotte turned, raised the ball, and shouted:

"THUNDERHAWKS—RISE UP!"

"RISE UP!" they roared back.

Sweat and fire. Will and war.

The final drill was just beginning.

....

7:00 PM – The Park Court

The setting sun cast an amber hue across the cracked concrete court. The rusted rim creaked in the breeze, chain net clinking softly like wind chimes. Ethan jogged toward the center of the park, hoodie pulled over his head, hands in his pockets. He spotted Louie, already dribbling a ball near the free-throw line, his figure silhouetted by the fading light.

Ethan raised an eyebrow, "Why are you calling me here?"

Louie spun the ball in his hands and tossed it to Ethan. "Let’s play. First to twenty."

Ethan caught it with ease. "Raise to 20, huh? Alright."

.....

The Game Begins – First to 20

The park was quiet except for the rhythmic sound of a ball bouncing on cracked concrete. The sky had turned a bruised purple, the last rays of sunlight streaking through the trees.

Louie checked the ball at the top of the key, sweat already dotting his forehead from pre-game warmups. Ethan crouched low into his defensive stance, eyes locked in, knees bent, palms twitching with readiness.

"(Let’s see if you’ve grown after that match with lucas)" he thought.

1–0, Ethan.

Ethan jabbed hard with his left foot, freezing Louie for just a split second. That was all he needed. He spun off a reverse pivot, keeping his dribble alive with his right, slicing into the lane like a hot knife through butter. Louie reached to contest, but Ethan had already floated the ball over his fingers—soft, clean, and nothing but net.

...

1–1.

Louie didn’t waste time. He drove hard to the left, bumped Ethan with his shoulder, then spun back to his right. Quick bank shot—off the glass and in.

.....

3–2, Ethan.

Ethan got tricky. First, he hit a jumper with Louie right in his face. Then, on the next play, he crossed over so fast Louie’s feet slid. Ethan stepped back and nailed a fadeaway.

Louie clenched his fists. Ethan’s footwork was too sharp.

...

4–3, Louie.

But Louie didn’t back down. He faked a step-back, then dropped his shoulder into Ethan’s chest and spun right. A quick bank shot off the glass—he made it look easy.

...

7–5, Ethan.

Ethan caught fire. He nailed a deep corner three—perfect form. Then, on defense, he stole the ball clean and raced down the court. One smooth finger roll at the rim.

Now they were both sweating. Their breathing got heavier. But neither said a word.

....

9–9.

Louie drove hard again, then pulled a slick step-through move. Ethan jumped too early—Louie finished under him. On the next play, Louie bumped Ethan in the lane, then floated one off the glass.

Tied game.

Ethan smirked. "He’s getting better."

....

12–11, Ethan.

Ethan dribbled slow, then exploded forward. He stopped suddenly, rose for a mid-range jumper—net. Louie came back with a deep three of his own—cold-blooded.

But Ethan didn’t flinch. He faded away on the next shot, high release, and nailed it.

....

16–13, Ethan.

Ethan stayed calm and locked in. He faked right, jabbed, then stepped back and hit a clean two-pointer. Next possession—same setup, but this time he spun into a fade.

Louie had a hand in his face. Didn’t matter.

Net.

.....

18–16.

Louie wasn’t done. He shot a rainbow jumper that dropped straight through. Then he crashed the boards hard, grabbed his own miss, and tapped it back in.

They were both soaked in sweat now. Shirts stuck to their backs. Breathing like runners at the finish line.

.....

Final Possession — 20–16, Ethan.

Ethan held the ball at the top. He looked at Louie. No words—just focus.

He jabbed left—hard. Louie bit.

Ethan spun right, rose into the air, and saw Louie jumping to block him. So mid-air, Ethan adjusted—twisting his body just enough—and floated the ball over Louie’s hand.

The ball went up.

And dropped in.

Swish.

Game over.

....

Louie bent over, catching his breath, drenched in sweat. Ethan wiped his brow, walking toward the ball, when Louie suddenly straightened and looked at him, eyes burning with something deeper.

"Ethan... can I be your disciple?"

Ethan blinked. "What?"

Then Ethan raised his head, breathing hard. "Louie... why are you so persistent? Why do you even idolize me like that?"

Louie didn’t hesitate.

Louie’s eyes softened, a quiet reverence in his voice. "Because... you are Michael Jordan in this era."

Ethan tilted his head. "What?"

Louie stepped back and spread his arms dramatically, looking toward the darkening sky. "You see... ever since I was a kid, I idolized the legends—Kobe, Shaq, Magic, Kareem, Bird... but Michael Jordan... he was different. The greatness, the finesse, the killer instinct. The way he floated in the air..."

He looked back at Ethan, passion brimming in his voice. "It was art."

A pause.

Louie took a breath, staring right into Ethan’s eyes.

"And you... when I saw you play on that video... I felt it. That same fire. That grace. That greatness. It was just like him. Watching you was like watching art in motion."

Ethan said nothing at first. The wind rustled the trees.

Then, slowly, he smiled—not prideful, not smug. Just... deeply, quietly moved.

"...You’re a weird kid...." he said.

Louie grinned.

To be continue