Extra Basket-Chapter 97 - 84: Syndicate Arc (7)

Date: July 17, 2010 – Friday Morning, 9:54 AM

Location: Oak Hill Academy – Math Class

The gentle hum of the ceiling fan barely masked the droning voice of the math teacher as she explained the intricacies of algebraic expressions on the whiteboard. Most students sat still, their eyes half-lidded with boredom or concentration.

But three sets of eyes were focused elsewhere.

Coonie Smith, Kai Mendoza, and Jeremy Park weren’t paying attention to the equations. Instead, their gazes were locked on two empty seats near the back of the classroom—seats that belonged to Ethan Albarado and Lucas Graves.

Coonie tapped his pencil against his desk, eyes narrowed.

"Where the hell are those two?" he muttered under his breath.

He glanced at Kai, who raised an eyebrow, and then at Jeremy, who gave a slight shrug, though he too looked uneasy.

Ethan and Lucas weren’t the type to ditch class without a reason. And on a day like this—just days before the biggest tournament—any absence was suspicious.

Coonie leaned back in his chair, brows furrowed as a thought echoed in his mind:

"(Something’s off... Did they get pulled into something again?)"

Whatever it was, it wasn’t normal. And with everything that had been going on lately—rumors of kidnapping, etc...Coonie had a feeling this wasn’t just a coincidence.

Kai leaned over toward Coonie, his voice low enough to avoid catching the teacher’s attention.

"Coonie, you said they were just late..." he said, glancing again at the empty chairs. "It looks like they’re really not coming to class today."

Coonie exhaled slowly, scratching the back of his head.

"Yeah... it looks like it," he admitted, his tone uneasy. "And it’s kinda sus, man. Ethan doesn’t just skip school. He’s too serious for that."

Jeremy, who had been quietly drumming his fingers on the desk, finally spoke up.

"Are they... maybe at Brandon’s house again?" he asked, his voice edged with curiosity and concern. "I mean, Brandon’s been missing from training for days now. And when we stopped by his place, his mom wouldn’t tell us anything. Just gave us that weird look."

The three fell silent for a moment, the classroom noise fading into the background as a subtle tension built between them.

Coonie’s eyes narrowed.

"Whatever’s going on... they’re hiding something. And I don’t like being left in the dark."

Kai looked down at his notebook, then back at the door as if half-expecting Ethan or Lucas to walk in any second.

But the door didn’t budge.

..

Location: Oak Hill Academy – History Class (3rd Year)

The history classroom smelled faintly of chalk dust and old wood. Rays of sunlight filtered through half-drawn blinds, casting thin stripes across rows of desks. The ceiling fan spun slowly above, barely cutting through the summer heat pressing against the windows.

At the front of the room, Mr. Donahue, a stern but passionate teacher in his mid-50s, paced slowly in front of the whiteboard. His voice filled the room as he traced a timeline of American civil rights movements, writing in broad strokes.

"...and by the late 1960s, the fragmentation of these movements reflected both their internal tensions and the external pressure they faced from systemic resistance..."

Most students listened in varying degrees of interest or apathy, pens scratching quietly on notebooks.

But near the back of the classroom, Aiden White leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting toward an empty seat across the aisle.

"Looks like Evan’s not coming today," he muttered, half to himself, half to the others.

Josh Turner, sitting beside him, followed his gaze.

"What’s going on with him...?" he asked, frowning. Evan wasn’t the type to skip lightly, especially with the tournament approaching.

Ryan Taylor, slouched with one arm lazily draped over the back of his chair, glanced toward the same empty seat. His usual smirk was absent.

"Brandon’s still absent too," Ryan added with a quiet sigh. His voice lacked its usual flirtatious lilt—more subdued, almost heavy. For someone usually joking around or teasing classmates, his tone stood out.

Aiden turned slightly in his chair, now watching Ryan instead of Evan’s empty spot.

"You okay, man?"

Ryan gave a tight shrug, forcing a lopsided grin.

"Yeah... it’s just weird not seeing him around.

Josh glanced around, lowering his voice.

"Are... you think Evan went to Brandon’s house too?"

Aiden tilted his head, thoughtful.

"Why would he? I mean, Ethan made it clear: if Brandon’s not in the gym, we all go together. No solo missions."

Josh nodded slowly.

"That’s a good point..."

Mr. Donahue raised his voice slightly at the front, sensing some inattentiveness.

"—and can anyone tell me what led to the escalation of protests in 1968?"

A student in the front row cautiously raised a hand.

"Was it after Dr. King’s assassination?"

"Correct," Mr. Donahue replied, nodding. "That event was a national turning point and intensified the urgency of grassroots action across the country..."

But in the back, the three basketball players weren’t really listening anymore. Their thoughts were elsewhere—on missing teammates, unanswered texts, and the strange silence that seemed to be settling over their group.

The classroom carried on as usual.

But for them, something wasn’t right.

....

[Carter Family side]

The golden morning sun filtered in through the blinds, but the Carter household remained shrouded in a heavy fog of exhaustion and worry.

Eddie Carter, principal of Crescent Ridge Academy, sat on the edge of the couch lacing up his polished dress shoes. His navy blazer lay tossed over a chair, untouched. Normally by 9:00 AM, he’d be on campus, overseeing drills or evaluating recruits. But today, like the last few days, he wasn’t Principal Carter. He was just a father—tired, desperate, and out of answers.

Jalen Carter, 15, sat silently at the kitchen table, his elbows resting on a folded map. His trademark hoodie was wrinkled and dirty, hair uncombed, dark circles shadowing his sharp eyes. He hadn’t touched the eggs his mother made him. His mind wasn’t here—it was out there, still chasing every shadow that might lead to his brother.

Across from him, Natalie "Nattie" Carter, 14, stirred a spoon around her cereal bowl without eating. She hadn’t said much all morning. Her phone sat on the table, the wallpaper still a photo of her, Jalen, and Caleb from a beach trip last year. Her other hand gripped a crumpled flyer bearing her brother’s face.

Eddie stood, smoothing his shirt.

"I’ll start with the trail near the school today. Maybe someone there saw something." His voice was calm, professional—too professional. That meant he was barely holding it together.

Jalen rose.

"I’m coming with you. We missed the warehouse yesterday."

Eddie looked at his son, proud even in pain.

"Okay. Grab your shoes."

Nattie stood as well.

"Me too. I can check the convenience stores. Leave posters. Someone might’ve seen him."

"No." Linna turned. Her voice cracked. "You stay here. What if... what if someone calls?" freeweɓnovēl.coɱ

"You said that yesterday," Nattie whispered. "No one called."

There was a long silence.

Eddie finally broke it. "We all go today. Caleb wouldn’t wait around. So neither will we."

Outside, the town of Mouth of Wilson was already stirring—kids heading to basketball training, Crescent Ridge’s scouts reviewing morning footage. But for the Carters, time had stopped.

They weren’t chasing championships today.

They were chasing their son.

..

Meanwhile

The gym was filled with the faint echo of sneakers on hardwood, but there was no rhythm today. The usual intensity was missing. The Chicago Raptors, Crescent Ridge’s premier team, was supposed to be hitting their marks, running through scrimmages, and preparing for their next big game. But instead, they stood like pieces on a chessboard—just moving through the motions, waiting for someone to make the next move.

Coach Jenkins, a no-nonsense, stoic leader of the team, blew his whistle sharply, cutting through the silence.

"Tyrese! Malik! You’re not moving your feet fast enough!"

Tyrese Lang, the SG, known as "The Ghost Shooter", barely acknowledged the coach’s command. His focus was clearly elsewhere—his shooting drills were slower, the usual crisp off-ball movement absent. He looked like a ghost of himself, more a figure moving through the motions than a weapon on the court. He muttered under his breath,

"Where is Jalen?"

Malik Ryker, the SF known as "The Lock", adjusted his position on the wing, but his eyes kept darting to the empty spot where their captain, Jalen Carter, would usually be standing. Malik’s defense was sharp, his lateral speed a blur when he was locked in—but today, his usual intensity was dull. The absence of Jalen’s leadership was weighing on him, and it showed in his game.

"You don’t think something’s happened, do you?" Malik’s voice was low, uncertain.

Zion Vale, the 15-year-old PF known as "The Chessboard", sat on the sideline, head in his hands. His IQ and vision on the court were usually his greatest strengths—he saw the game as if it were a chess match, moving his teammates around as pieces on a board. But without Jalen, the strategy felt incomplete. He glanced over at Kobe "Tower" Morales, the C known as "Twin Pillar", who was standing silently in the paint, as stoic as ever. Kobe was the anchor, always steady, always quiet—but even his post presence seemed less imposing today.

Kobe’s voice cut through the silence.

"We’ve been running like this for days. It’s not the same without him."

Coach Jenkins stood there, arms crossed, eyes flicking over each of the players. He could feel the shift in the air. The Raptors were used to having Jalen Carter leading them—not just as their ace, but as their captain. His presence demanded attention, respect. When Jalen was on the floor, they knew the game would be controlled, directed, and dominated. Without him, it felt like the foundation was cracked.

Coach Jenkins spoke, his voice calm but heavy.

"You can’t keep waiting for someone to show up, boys. You all have to step up."

Tyrese looked up, shaking his head.

"It’s not about stepping up. Jalen leads us. Without him... how do we even play?"

Zion stood up slowly, his eyes narrowing.

"Coach is right, though. We’ve been through worse. We can’t let this mess with our heads. Jalen’s gone, but we’re still the Raptors. We still have a job to do."

Malik gave a half-hearted nod, his usual fire dimmed by the worry.

"We can’t play like this. It’s not just Jalen. It’s Principal too. We’re missing both of them."

The room was silent for a moment, the players lost in their thoughts. They couldn’t shake the unease gnawing at them. Their star player, their captain, was nowhere to be found, and the driving force behind their program—Principal Eddie Carter, their coach’s closest ally—was also MIA.

Coach Jenkins let out a sigh, wiping a hand down his face.

"Alright. Take a break. We’ll figure it out. But you better bring your focus, every one of you. We don’t wait for someone to come save us. We save ourselves."

The players slowly began to disperse, some retreating to the bleachers, others tossing basketballs to one another, but the air in the gym was thick with tension. They weren’t just a team; they were a family, and right now, they felt like they’d lost their way.

Noah Davies, the 16-year-old manager, stood by the sidelines, watching it all unfold. His mind was racing—there was something bigger going on. He pulled out his phone once more, checking the texts from earlier in the week. He’d been trying to reach Jalen, but no replies.

Noah glanced toward the locker room door, his eyes narrowing in thought.

"This isn’t just about basketball anymore," he murmured to himself. "We need answers."

To be continue