Extra Basket-Chapter 75 - 62: White (18)

Score: 6-3

Time: 0:20 seconds left – 1st Quarter

Ethan glanced at the scoreboard. 6-3.

Not ideal, but it wasn’t panic time—yet.

"(Still the first quarter...)

(There’s time to figure out their weaknesses. We just need to hold on—keep learning.)"

His eyes shifted to Lucas, who was dribbling near the top of the key, eyes flicking between his defender and the shot clock.

Kaia—or rather, her other self, Zaia—was crouched low in front of Lucas, wild grin spread across her face, body practically vibrating with chaotic energy.

"Let’s play, mister!!" Zaia giggled, her voice bouncing with manic joy.

Lucas blinked.

"(Mister? I’m literally 14...)" he thought, exasperated.

From the wing, Charlotte stifled a laugh, clearly having heard it too.

Lucas shot her a half-glare, half-sigh—then flipped a switch in his mind.

His face grew serious.

There was only one way to beat this overwhelming speed now that Zaia had taken the second pill. His usual tricks, his Iverson-style crossovers, hesitation pulls, even euro-steps were being read too easily.

"(I need something unpredictable... something she won’t see coming...)"

He searched his mental archive of copied moves.

Then—

A flash of white.

A court in Sacramento.

A player dancing on the hardwood with a streetballer’s soul and a magician’s hands.

Jason Williams.

"White Chocolate."

A grin crept across Lucas’s face.

"(You... Yeah. You’ll work.)"

He invoked Absolute Mimicry.

And in a heartbeat...he became fluid.

Not just a player. Not just a shooter.

He became entertainment. Flash. Deception.

Lucas dropped his hips low, crossover left.

Zaia lunged.

Crossover back.

Zaia twitched but she didn’t bite.

Then Lucas spun, a sharp, streetball-style rotation, fast and tight. His foot scraped the court as he pivoted out of the spin—Zaia scrambled to keep up.

Then came the dish.

Just as Zaia braced for a shot or drive, Lucas whipped his head left, but his hand bounced the ball right. A no-look bounce pass slid through two defenders’ legs, rolling like it was guided by fate itself.

The ball landed clean in Charlotte’s hands, who had slipped behind Zeke’s blind spot unnoticed.

Charlotte blinked, surprised but only for a moment.

She caught the ball, took one step, and released a high-arcing shot from the elbow.

Swish.

6-4.

Lucas exhaled, his body still tingling from the mimicry.

Zaia’s eyes widened, her jaw slightly open in stunned silence.

Charlotte turned to him, flashing a rare grin.

"Nice pass, ’mister.’"

Lucas smirked back.

"Thanks, ma’am."

The buzzer rang—end of the first quarter.

But the spark had been lit.

...

Monitor 6: A man in a gray blazer, sharp features accentuated by the soft glow of the screen, leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he watched the screen.

"Did that guy... just use that move?" he asked, his voice filled with disbelief.

Before he could get a confirmation, the old man from Monitor 1 spoke up.

"He used Jason..."

Monitor 8 quickly interrupted, cutting him off with urgency in his tone.

"That was White Chocolate’s move! Man, back then... White Chocolate hit the Spurs with that move like it was straight out of a movie. He dribbled up, fooled Avery Johnson with a fake, then spun so smooth it looked like slow motion. Just when the defender stepped up, he didn’t shoot, he threw a no-look bounce pass right to Chris Webber under the basket. No eye contact, no hesitation. The whole defense froze. Man... it was like watching a scene in a basketball movie. It wasn’t just a pass. It was cinema."

The man on Monitor 8 chuckled in awe as he leaned back in his chair

"And this guy used that awesome move. Damn!" His words were full of curiosity and respect, the type of tone reserved only for moments that transcended the game and became legendary.

Monitor 4’s voice cut through the tense silence, the question hanging in the air like a challenge.

"Now what would your team do, Greg...?"

Greg Tarrow gritted his teeth, his eyes still locked on the big screen where Ethan Albarado and Lucas Graves were the focus of the action. The intensity in his gaze was palpable, the strain of the moment evident as he responded.

"Don’t underestimate my team. They’re just shocked by what that kid pulled off, but now that they’ve seen it, they’ll adjust. They can guard him any time now."

His words were laced with a cold confidence, a reminder of his control over the situation. His fingers tightened around the armrest, his eyes narrowing as he watched his team. Despite the surprise from White Chocolate’s move, he knew his players wouldn’t back down. They were Afterall his masterpiece

Monitor 2 remained eerily quiet; his eyes hidden behind a mask that only added to the mystery surrounding him. His platinum blonde hair, contrasting with the dark environment, was the only noticeable feature that broke the monotony of the dim-lit room. He leaned in closer to the screen, his gaze fixed on Ethan Albarado and Lucas Graves, the two standout players of the opposing team. He didn’t speak, but his presence alone felt like it was weighing heavily on the room.

The mask he wore obscured any hint of emotion, but his watchful eyes told a different story. He wasn’t just observing the game; he was calculating, analyzing every movement of the players on the court. Ethan, with his explosive drive and strategic thinking, and Lucas, now showing signs of adapting to the pressure with his remarkable mimicry abilities—these were the ones to watch.

He pressed a button on the side of his chair, zooming in on Ethan and Lucas, the bright lights reflecting off his mask. A subtle smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he spoke softly, almost to himself.

"Interesting...."

Greg, still focused on the game, heard the words and knew they weren’t just idle thoughts. He turned his gaze briefly toward Monitor 2, but said nothing, his mind already plotting how to contain the surprise the young players had unleashed.

The entire room fell into a tense, focused silence. The players on the court were preparing for the next phase of the game, and Greg’s team was adjusting accordingly. The outcome was still in flux, but the stakes were higher than ever.

In the monitor room, every eye was fixed on the screen, watching as the game, and the players’ fates, began to unfold further.

....

Meanwhile, on the court—

2ND Quarter

Vin Cruz dribbled up with a casual rhythm, his expression unreadable, eyes scanning.

He looked at Lucas Graves.

"Lucas Graves..." Vin’s thoughts were cool, but biting. "A copycat. So, what if you’re talented? I’m still the best on this court."

Then, Vin’s eyes shifted to Ethan Albarado.

In a split second, he dropped into a stance and exploded forward—a sudden burst of speed made possible by the pill’s enhancement coursing through his body.

Ethan reacted fast—feet sliding, arms out, eyes sharp. But even with his instincts, Vin’s acceleration was on another level. His movements blurred at the edges. Ethan’s positioning was good, but not enough.

Vin veered past him, brushing shoulders before flicking a no-look bounce pass toward his brother—Dante Cruz.

...

Dante caught the ball cleanly.

His face was calm, but intense. His sharp eyes locked onto Louie, who had squared up, determined.

"You’re not gonna get past me," Louie warned.

Dante smirked faintly.

"We’ll see."

He hit a light crossover, keeping the ball low—then threw in a quick shoulder feint to the left.

Louie reacted, taking a step to cut it off.

But it was a bait.

Dante rotated back, hit a left-right side dribble combo, a deceptive rhythm that pulled Louie’s feet just slightly off angle.

"Shit!" Louie muttered, realizing he fell for the fake.

Dante saw the gap—and took it.

He slashed into the paint.

.....

At the same time, Evan Cooper was locked in a physical struggle with Silas Korrin, the Venganza Center, a towering wall of power under the rim.

Dante glanced at Silas, and gave a subtle nod.

Evan noticed it—his instincts firing.

"Not on my watch!" Evan shouted, springing away from Silas to help.

But that was exactly what they wanted.

Louie lunged back, trying to collapse into the lane.

"Tsk!!" he growled, too late.

Dante planted his foot, rose up—

But it wasn’t a shot.

Mid-air, he twisted and zipped a one-handed dish toward the rim.

Silas caught it mid-jump, both hands up.

And then—

BOOM.

A thunderous dunk.

The rim shook. The court echoed.

Evan was still in the air, inches away—just late.

Silas landed, eyes steely.

Dante didn’t celebrate—he just turned, walking away like it was routine.

Vin, standing at half-court, smirked.

"No one will beat us Venganza"

Charlotte glanced up at the scoreboard, then back at Ethan.

She shook her head.

("How did they get so strong? What Ethan said about pills... I still can’t figure it out. If those pills make them better—what’s the cost? What are the side effects?")

She clenched her fists. "Focus, Charlotte. The game’s in front of you."

....

7–4. Three minutes left in the second quarter.

As Ethan inbounded quickly to Evan, who took the ball and pushed up the court.

He dribbled with urgency, eyes narrowing.

("I have to do something too. I can’t just watch.")

But Venganza was already moving like they’d seen it coming.

Dante shifted—no hesitation.

He intercepted the moment Evan hesitated, stepping into the lane like it was drawn for him.

A single pass to the wing.

Kaia Volt skipped to the corner like a child playing hopscotch. But her eyes... they flickered. That wasn’t Kaia anymore.

"Yay! My turn!" Zaia chirped, her voice high and sing-song as she caught a pass from Dante Cruz. She spun like a ballerina, danced behind the backboard, then flipped the ball over her head. Nothing but net.

"Three... Yay!!" As she dances like a kid

Zaia pranced backward on defense, grinning wide like she’d won recess.

Ethan caught the inbound pass from Lucas, barely giving the ball time to breathe.

He jogged up the court, jaw clenched tight.

("How can I beat them... Think Ethan...")

He crossed half-court, surveying—Dante was shadowing Louie tight at the top. The defense was shifting, hungry.

Ethan slashed toward the wing, dribbling low and fast.

Kaia lunged—he slipped past.

Two defenders rotated—Zeke and Silas converging to trap.

Zip! A no-look bounce pass whipped through the seam—threading the needle.

Straight into Louie’s hands on the opposite wing.

Louie caught it mid-spin, did a pump fake, then drove hard left. Silas Korrin rotated fast, his wide frame already sealing the paint.

Louie didn’t flinch.

"Old school," he muttered.

Up-and-under. The move was smooth, deliberate. He kissed it off the glass. The ball circled—in.

9–5.

....

Silas grabbed the ball from the net and immediately inbounded to Zeke Monroe, already stepping into motion near the baseline.

No hesitation. Like they’d practiced the reaction a thousand times.

Zeke faked right, then exploded left.

Lucas mirrored it perfectly—step for step—his shoes squeaking as he cut across the court.

But before he could celebrate the read, Dante Cruz was already there, switching before Zeke even finished the move. novelbuddy.cσ๓

....

Meanwhile Evan Cooper, breathing hard, stayed glued to Silas in the paint. He couldn’t stop him. He knew that. But he refused to give up position.

Silas Korrin planted himself deep in the post like a stone pillar. Evan Cooper, chest heaving, clung to him with every ounce of strength he had left.

Thud!

An elbow slammed into Evan’s ribs—clean, vicious, and unnoticed by the ref.

Evan winced but didn’t fall. He stayed on his feet, arms locked in front of Silas like a worn-out bouncer refusing to get shoved aside.

Silas glanced down, voice low and rough like gravel. "Still standing?"

Evan didn’t flinch. "Just means I’m doing my job."

...

Back to Zeke as he dished the ball off with a slick handoff—almost like a baton in a relay—into Zaia’s hands.

Lucas tried to adjust, cutting across to contest—

"Tag! You’re it!" Zaia chirped, spinning with childlike glee.

She dribbled once, then bounced it through her legs, disappearing behind Lucas in a blur of motion.

Lucas whipped around—too late.

Zaia was already leaping sideways behind the arc, flicking the shot overhead like it was part of a game.

Splash.

Swish.

11–5. Another two-pointer.

....

....

As the moment passed in a flash. Ethan tore up the court, eyes scanning, reading. He pointed for a screen.

Charlotte sprinted up from the wing, her sneakers squeaking as she planted her feet. But Zaia—Kaia’s unhinged, gleeful alter ego—was already bouncing in anticipation, almost giggling at the setup like it was part of a game.

Charlotte set the pick—but slipped, her heel sliding just slightly. A heartbeat of imbalance.

Zaia lunged to intercept.

But Ethan didn’t panic.

He threw a no-look, behind-the-back pass, a flash of control, just as Charlotte steadied herself. The ball hit her hands cleanly.

Charlotte pumped. Zaia bit—lunging past her like a cat chasing a string.

Charlotte pivoted, saw the trap tightening again, and made a snap decision—kick-out.

She fired it back to Ethan, who had drifted to the corner pocket.

Ethan caught it mid-stride. From the arc

Set.

For Three.

Release.

The arc was clean, the spin perfect.

Bang!

The ball snapped through the net. The sound echoed like a gunshot.

....

11–7.

Meanwhile, Lucas’s eyes locked on Zeke Monroe.

Zeke had been smooth, calculating, reading him like a puzzle piece. But Lucas had been paying attention too. Watching every twitch, every shift of weight.

He clenched his fists.

"(Lets do this...)"

Zeke had the ball just past half-court, signaling a motion.

He dropped into his stance, ready to drive.

But Lucas didn’t wait. He moved first.

Not reacting. Anticipating.

He mirrored Zeke’s steps perfectly: the slight lean to the right, the fake hesitation dribble, the sudden pivot.

Zeke blinked.

Just for a fraction of a second—just enough to show surprise.

("This shit...")

Lucas didn’t smile.

He was locked in—shoulders squared, eyes sharp, breathing steady.

No trash talk. No flair.

Just focus.

Across from him, Zeke Monroe narrowed his eyes. The swagger was still there, but now it was laced with something colder.

Frustration.

"Fuck," Zeke muttered, barely above a whisper.

Lucas didn’t flinch. His eyes never left Zeke’s movement.

To be continue