Extra Basket-Chapter 69 - 56: White (12)

2...

1...

The countdown disappeared.

No buzzer. No whistle. Just a sudden, almost unnatural silence as the ball shot into the air—suspended in a perfect vertical line, like it had been fired from the center of the earth itself.

It was almost beautiful.

But there was no time to admire it.

Silas Korrin moved like a piston. His legs flexed and launched upward, towering over everyone around him. He didn’t even have to try—his long arm smacked the ball with precision, sending it flying back with a clean, practiced motion.

Louie said " He is fucking big!!"

Straight into the waiting hands of Dante Cruz.

"Defense!!" Ethan’s voice cracked like thunder across the court, snapping his team out of that brief trance.

Lucas was already moving, heart racing as adrenaline flooded his limbs.

"I got this!!" he shouted, seeing Dante eye his next pass.

Lucas anticipated it perfectly—Dante’s body shifted just slightly, just enough to telegraph his intentions. Lucas pushed off the hardwood, ready to intercept—

But something slammed into him.

It wasn’t a shove. Not loud enough to be obvious. Just a sly, quick elbow to the ribs, right before he could jump into the passing lane. It knocked him off-balance just enough to miss.

Pain flared in his side. Not sharp—just enough to sting and piss him off.

He gritted his teeth.

"This is a foul—!" he hissed, eyes snapping toward the one who’d clipped him.

Zeke Monroe was still leaning lazily, gum tucked in his cheek, hands loose at his sides. He didn’t even look apologetic. If anything, he looked bored.

"Not if there’s no referee."

Lucas froze. That line hit harder than the elbow.

No rules. No whistle. No one to call anything fair or unfair.

Just them. Just this court. Just this brutal reality.

"So that’s how it is..."

Dante Cruz didn’t even flinch at the commotion. Quiet as a shadow, he redirected the ball with a smooth flick of his wrist. He didn’t look rushed. He didn’t even seem to blink.

The pass found its way into the hands of Vin Cruz.

Everything slowed.

Vin caught the ball like he’d been born with it already in his hands. There was no hesitation. No wasted motion. His body moved with fluidity, the way rivers flow around stone.

Eyes locked forward. Posture poised like a predator ready to pounce.

The captain of Venganza had entered the game.

And the real match—no, the real trial—had finally begun.

Vin locked eyes with Ethan as he casually dribbled the ball up the court. The rest of the world seemed to blur out—just the two of them, the heat rising between them like steam off asphalt.

Vin’s voice cut through the tension, calm but sharp.

"You... Ethan Albarado."

Ethan immediately dropped into his stance, legs bent, arms out, eyes focused.

"Answer me—how do you know me?"

He was already trying to calculate—the angles, the options, the risks.

Vin smirked, taking another slow dribble forward.

"I watched the video. The game against Orlando Hoops."

His eyes narrowed with something that wasn’t quite admiration.

"I’ll admit... your strategies in that game were admirable."

A beat passed. Then his tone shifted, dropping low, smooth like oil on water.

"But... your strategies won’t work on me."

Without warning, Vin exploded into a crossover—faster than anything Ethan had seen on the court. The ball snapped from one hand to the other, his hips shifted, and in a blink, he was gone.

Ethan reacted late. His foot slipped just half an inch and that was enough.

(He’s really... faster than I thought.)

He pivoted hard, trying to recover. His eyes scanned for the ball—but by the time he did, it was already behind him. Vin had slipped past with surgical precision, a blur in motion.

Ethan turned, stunned, breath caught in his throat.

Vin didn’t look back. He just said over his shoulder—

"You think too much."

Vin didn’t waste a second. As soon as he cleared Ethan, his eyes locked on the rim.

His steps were precise—one, two—fluid, like he was born in rhythm. The court beneath him barely seemed to exist as he gathered his energy.

With a single bounce, he rose.

Time slowed for everyone but him.

His form was clean. Elbow in. Follow-through high. A flick, not forced. The ball left his fingertips with the kind of confidence you couldn’t teach—only earn.

(Perfect release...) Ethan thought, still recovering his footing, eyes wide as the shot sailed.

The ball arced high into the air, spinning clean, the net waiting like it already knew.

Swish.

The sound echoed.

It wasn’t loud, but it cut deep—slicing through the silence that followed.

Vin landed, already turning, walking back as if it was nothing.

He glanced at Ethan over his shoulder. No smile. Just focus.

"1-0. Better keep up."

Ethan clenched his fists.

"(Damn it... he’s not just fast. He’s efficient. His moves are unbelievable.)"

Charlotte ran up beside him, voice firm but supportive.

"Ethan. Shake it off. We got next possession."

Ethan nodded slowly, exhaling through his nose.

(Don’t get caught in his rhythm. Make him react. Force him off-script.)

Evan look concern saying " Are you okay lucas?"

Lucas jogged over, rubbing his ribs.

"I’m fine, but these guys play dirty."

"Yeah," Ethan said under his breath, locking eyes with Vin again.

"And they’re not even hiding it."

He turned to his team, voice rising.

"Let’s move!

...

In a sterile, dimly lit control room far above the court, a wall of sleek monitors glowed—each screen showing a different angle. Some displayed the players on the court. Others? They were locked on Greg himself.

Behind those screens sat a row of powerful men and women—board members, investors, partners—silent, analytical, and judgmental. Every expression Greg made, every word he spoke, was being scrutinized as much as the blood-pumping chaos unfolding below.

One monitor zoomed in on Ethan gritting his teeth as Vin drove past him.

Another showed Lucas holding his ribs where he’d been elbowed.

And yet another screen... showed Greg, sweating slightly under the pressure of their gazes.

A man in his 40s, leaned forward, his voice calm but sharp as a blade.

"Why is there no referee?"

Greg’s head tilted slightly at the sound, picked up through his own earpiece. He tried to keep his cool, but his throat tightened.

"Um..."

The man narrowed his eyes, fingers steepled.

"This is not fair! How can you prove your product is great when your so-called masterpieces are fouling them left and right? How can you demonstrate real value if they play like savages?" He scoffed, waving toward the screen.

"This is nothing but a brawl. This isn’t fun at all... I want real entertainment!!"

Greg’s eyes flicked to the corner camera watching him.

(Tsk... they’re even watching me now...)

He swallowed hard, plastering on a quick smile.

Clapping his hands, he shouted toward the entrance of the control floor.

"Guard!!"

The doors opened, and a tall, built man stepped forward, already alert.

"Sir."

Greg jabbed a finger toward the live feed of the court.

"You’re going down there. Act as the referee."

The guard blinked.

"Sir?"

"You heard me," Greg snapped.

"You know the rules of basketball, right?"

"Sir, yes sir."

"Then good. Enforce them." His voice dropped as he leaned closer.

"Clean it up... but don’t ruin the entertainment."

The guard gave a tight nod and turned, leaving quickly. The doors hissed shut behind him.

Back in the control room, the board members watched silently as the guard moved through the hallway cams toward the court.

The 40 years old man looked back at Greg through the screen.

"You better hope this gets more interesting."

Greg forced another smile, even as his hands clenched behind his back.

(They want a show? Then I’ll give them one..)

....

Back to the game.

The scoreboard flashed: 1 - 0, in favor of Venganza.

Charlotte stood at the top of the key, her eyes focused, sweat glistening on her forehead. She held the ball firmly, scanning the defense.

In front of her stood a slender girl with quick feet and lightning-fast reflexes—Kaia Volt, Venganza’s Shooting Guard. Her reputation? A speed demon. But Charlotte wasn’t one to be underestimated. She was the captain of Thunderhawks for a reason.

Kaia’s eyes twinkled as she sized Charlotte up.

"Same girl as me~ Hehehe."

She sounded innocent, playful—even childlike. But then something shifted.

Her pupils dilated. Her grin widened unnaturally.

"Name is Zaia. Let’s play-play!! Gahhahaha!!"

"What...?" Charlotte flinched at the tone. It wasn’t the same person anymore.

Kaia—or Zaia now—started bouncing on her feet with unnatural energy, dribbling wildly as she approached.

"(This girl... she’s like a kid playing tag. Her entire vibe just changed. What’s going on?)" Charlotte thought, taking a defensive stance.

Zaia giggled like a maniac, then suddenly lunged forward, not for the ball—but to grab Charlotte’s wrist mid-dribble, yanking it just enough to cause pain.

"Ah—!!" Charlotte winced, her hand stinging. It was clearly a foul.

"Foul!! That’s a foul!" she shouted.

Zaia ignored her, giggling as she snatched the ball from Charlotte’s momentary hesitation.

Dribble-dribble. Spin. Giggling. Skip-step.

She sprinted down the court like a girl playing in the rain—reckless and wild.

But just as she passed it to Vin, a blur of movement cut across her path—

Ethan Albarado.

He timed it perfectly, intercepting the pass cleanly with both hands.

Without pausing, Ethan launched into a fast break, dashing toward Venganza’s hoop, sneakers pounding the floor. For a moment, adrenaline surged—until—

....

WHAM.

A sharp elbow slammed into his side—Zeke Monroe had collided with him mid-sprint, intentionally.

"Tsk!" Ethan winced, stumbling to keep balance.

Zeke stood tall, smug.

"Why are you blaming me?" he said coolly.

"You see a referee anywhere?"

He smirked, but then—

FWEEEEEEEEET!!

A loud whistle echoed across the court. Everyone froze.

A voice—firm and authoritative—called out:

"Foul. Number 13—unsportsmanlike contact."

Zeke blinked, confused.

"What?! There’s a referee now?"

From the sidelines, a man stepped onto the court—tall, uniformed in black and white stripes, holding a whistle confidently. The players stared.

He met Zeke’s eyes without fear.

"Yes. And I’m watching every play from now on."

For the first time in the match, order had entered the chaos.

Charlotte rubbed her wrist, staring at the new arrival.

"(Finally... someone’s here to fix this mess.)

To be continue