Extra Basket

The gym in Baltimore reeked of sweat and hardwood polish. The Harbor Kings had just finished their last scrimmage before the semi-finals, jerseys clinging to their skin, sneakers still echoing faint squeaks across the court.

Mrs. Sora Nakamura, their coach, stood at midcourt with arms folded. Petite but commanding, her sharp eyes swept across her ten players. She held up her clipboard like a judge about to hand down a sentence.

"Your next match in the semi-final… is Vorpal Basket. Are you all ready?"

Silence for a heartbeat—then Lamello "Jet" Robinson, still bouncing the ball between his legs, let out a smirk.

"I'm born ready."

The swagger in his voice spread like fire. Malik "Spin" Carter twirled the ball around his waist, spinning it on his finger before casually flicking it into the air.

"Vorpal, huh? The team everybody's drooling over. Ethan Albarado, Lucas Graves… those names been flying around like legends already." Malik grinned, but his eyes sharpened. "I kinda like that. Makes breaking them down way sweeter."

Terrence "Brick" Douglas cracked his knuckles. His broad shoulders glistened with sweat as he stomped once, like a bull waiting at the gates.

"Sweet? Nah. I'm here to break 'em. Nobody gets easy buckets on me. You bring your fancy moves inside, I'll send you back limping."

Kaki "The Sniper" Morales leaned against the padded wall, shooting imaginary threes with his fingers. "And if they sag off, I'll bury 'em alive in triples. Simple math. Three beats two."

DeShawn Rivers, the team's skyline in human form, stretched his long arms over his head like he was already snatching rebounds out of thin air.

"Vorpal better pray their big man packed extra muscle. 'Cause once I start climbing, it's lob city. Skyline don't lose air battles."

Their coach didn't flinch at the flood of bravado. Instead, she set the clipboard down, walked forward, and looked each of them in the eye.

"Good. You've got fire. But listen well—this is not the playground. This is the national semi-finals. Vorpal is not just a strong team; they are precise. They're disciplined. They've beaten teams stronger, taller, and faster than you. What makes you think you're different?"

The room fell quiet. Even the usual clowning from Andre "Slick" Vasquez paused. That's when Lamello stepped forward, bouncing the ball once, the sound sharp as thunder.

"'Cause they ain't seen speed like mine. They ain't seen Jet Step. They think they got handles? They'll trip just tryin' to keep up."

Slick finally snorted, tossing his towel aside. "Speed don't mean nothin' if you can't finish. But me? I'll break ankles until the floor's littered with 'em. You think Ethan's special? Let me get him one-on-one. We'll see how special he feels on the floor."

Corey "Rhythm" Banks, smooth as always, chimed in while flicking sweat from his wrist. "Keep dreamin', Slick. If Ethan touches me, I'll just pull up, splash, and jog back like it's practice. That boy's good, no doubt—but he bleeds the same as we do."

Isaiah "Clamps" Lee leaned forward, eyes flashing like he'd been waiting his whole life for this. "Forget the scoring. I want Lucas Graves. Absolute Mimicry? Copying NBA moves? Cute. Let's see if he can copy breathing when I'm on him full court."

That drew a round of laughter and hollers, Brick slapping Clamps on the back so hard he nearly stumbled.

Dominic "Diesel" Brown, the Hammer himself, cracked open his water bottle, then crushed it flat in his palm. "Y'all do your thing. Me? I'll crash the boards till the glass cracks. That's my language."

And Khalil "Wave" Johnson added with his usual grin: "Yeah, and I'll swat shots into the bleachers so hard fans'll get souvenirs. Skyline can't be the only one getting love."

The Harbor gym buzzed with energy, the echoes of their voices almost shaking the rafters. But Sora Nakamura cut through it all with a single clap of her hands.

"Enough." Her voice sliced clean. "Confidence without discipline is arrogance. And arrogance loses games."

Her gaze swept across them again, sharp as knives.

"Vorpal is dangerous because they are unified. Ethan is their brain. Lucas is their weapon. The others—Cooper, Brandon, Ryan—they know their roles and execute them with precision. If you go in trying to be flashy for the crowd, you'll lose. If you go in thinking you're already better, you'll lose. If you go in as ten individuals instead of one unit…"

She let the silence hang, letting them all breathe it in.

"…you'll drown in their system."

For a moment, the Harbor Kings stood still, the weight of her words pressing down like an anchor. Then Malik tilted his head, grin returning, but this time with a darker edge.

"Coach… when the Harbor Kings hit the floor, we ain't ten individuals. We're the storm. Fast, loud, and everywhere at once. And storms don't ask permission."

Lamello slapped Malik's hand, energy sparking again.

"Rule the Court, Rule the Harbor."

The chant started low, then grew as the team repeated it, each voice pounding louder.

"Rule the Court, Rule the Harbor!"

They shouted it until the walls shook, until the gym itself seemed to pulse with their heartbeat.

Sora allowed herself the faintest smile, hidden quickly behind her hand. She knew this team was wild, unruly, even reckless. But their fire was real. Against Vorpal, it might be exactly what they needed—or exactly what doomed them.

As practice wrapped up, Lamello lingered behind, dribbling at half speed, staring out the window toward the city skyline glowing orange with sunset.

His thoughts whispered loud in his chest:

"Ethan Albarado… Lucas Graves… everybody says y'all are the future. But me? I'm the now. The court's mine. The harbor's mine. And when the clock runs out, y'all gonna remember the Jet."

And across the city, Vorpal was already sharpening their blades.

..

Meanwhile on the Vorpal side

The ball echoed against polished wood, each bounce reverberating in the cavernous private gym Lucas Graves called his second home. High ceilings, glass windows spilling moonlight, and the faint smell of sweat and resin hung in the air.

Vorpal Basket wasn't practicing drills right now, they were in a circle, water bottles scattered, sweat drying on their shirts. On the far wall, Ayumi Brooke leaned against the scoreboard, clipboard in hand, her neat handwriting already filled with notes. Coach Fred Mason stood nearby, looking more serious than usual, his hands buried in his pockets.

At the center sat two figures who naturally commanded the room.

Ethan Albarado, posture upright, gaze razor-sharp—the genius who saw games before they unfolded.

Beside him, Lucas Graves, sunshine in human form, towel draped around his shoulders, still smiling even after a grueling session.

Lucas broke the silence first, tossing his towel at Ethan's face.

"Man, why you sitting there like a statue? Lighten up. It's basketball, not war."

Ethan calmly removed the towel, not even blinking. "Against Harbor Prep, it will be war."

The words hung heavy, enough to make Louie Davas whistle.

"Yo, war sounds scary, but I'm down for it. Harbor Kings? Pfft. I've seen their highlight reels—flashy crossovers, trick layups, half-court threes. Fun stuff. But gimmicks. They ain't Vorpal."

Evan Cooper raised a finger, ever the tactician. "Not gimmicks. They're chaos with discipline. They thrive on forcing opponents to rush, to lose shape. That press defense? If we aren't sharp, they'll swallow us whole."

Ryan Taylor leaned back on his elbows, voice calm, a hint of sarcasm in his tone. "So, what you're saying is—they're wolves in streetball jerseys."

Josh Turner crossed his arms, eyes narrowing. "Wolves bite, yeah. But they bleed too. We just need the right blade."

Brandon Young, usually quiet, finally rumbled low: "Their bigs… Skyline and Wave. Strong. Athletic. But not invincible. I can hold my ground if the help defense rotates."

Ayumi's pen scratched across her notes. She spoke up softly but firmly. "Harbor is unpredictable. Lamello Robinson especially. He's fearless. He'll drive right at you without hesitation."

Lucas chuckled, leaning back, arms crossed. "Perfect. I like fearless guys. Means I can test them harder. Jet Step or not, he's still just one man. And one man can't outrun the sun."

Ethan turned his gaze to him, a rare smirk twitching at his lips. "Sunshine, huh. Careful, Lucas. Even the sun gets eclipsed."

Lucas grinned wider. "Only if the moon's big enough. And I don't see any Harbor moons that size."

Louie barked a laugh, pointing dramatically. "Bars! My boy Lucas spittin' poetry now."

The team erupted in chuckles, but Ethan remained stone-faced, folding his hands together. His inner thoughts hummed like clockwork.

(Lamello. Fast, reckless. Kaki. A sniper with zero conscience. Malik, the trickster. Terrence, the enforcer. DeShawn, the skyline. Their styles are wild, but together… they can suffocate a team. If we underestimate them for even one possession, they'll control momentum.)

Coach Fred finally cleared his throat, drawing attention back. His voice was steadier than in the past, more grounded.

"Listen. Ethan's right. Harbor plays streetball with a system behind it. That's rare. That's dangerous. But we have something more dangerous: balance. We don't crumble because we don't depend on one star. Everyone has a role. Everyone matters."

Ethan rose, walking toward the whiteboard. He picked up a marker and began sketching Harbor's press defense setup.

"They trap early. Jet leads the point, Clamps hounds full court. The moment you hesitate, Malik and Kaki jump passing lanes. Terrence sets the wall, and DeShawn waits to eat lobs."

He tapped the board sharply. "So we play to break their press, not to avoid it. Evan, you're the general. You'll read the floor. Ryan, Brandon—screens and relief passes. Louie, Josh, Aiden—you cut into space fast. Lucas and I… we'll be the breakers. The first one to get free receives and attacks."

Ryan tilted his head, half-grinning. "So we're basically saying: let them come, then flip the board on them."

Lucas clapped once, eyes gleaming. "Exactly! And when I get the ball, I'm running straight into their heart. If Malik wants to spin, I'll spin faster. If Skyline wants to jump, I'll climb higher. That's the fight I live for."

Ethan glanced at him, expression unreadable. "…Don't overextend. Their chaos feeds on impatience."

Lucas shrugged with that same radiant confidence. "Don't worry. Even chaos bends when the sun's burning hot enough."

Ayumi's eyes lingered on the two of them—Ethan the calculating mind, Lucas the blazing spirit. A strange warmth curled in her chest. She scribbled something down but didn't share it.

Meanwhile, on the bench seats, Coonie Smith groaned loudly. "Ugh, are we strategizing or reciting anime monologues? Somebody pass me popcorn."

Kai Mendoza slapped his shoulder playfully. "Nah, bro, this is fire. Semi-finals deserve anime vibes."

Jeremy Park chuckled, leaning forward. "As long as you actually back it up on the court. Trash talk doesn't score buckets."

Coonie shot him a smirk. "Maybe not, but it does keep morale spicy."

The laughter loosened the tension, but Ethan's eyes remained fixed on the board.

(Cloud. Somewhere out there, my cousin is moving toward the same stage. Fate might push us together. But first—Harbor Prep. They're not just another opponent. They're a storm. And storms are unpredictable. To survive, I must be sharper. Faster. Better.)

Lucas's own inner voice flickered, uncharacteristically serious for a moment as he tightened his shoelaces.

(Ethan carries the weight of strategy, of destiny. Me? I'll carry the joy. I'll carry the fire. Together, we'll light up this storm until there's nothing left but clear skies.)

Coach Fred clapped his hands once, snapping the group out of their thoughts.

"Alright. Enough talk. Tomorrow, we drill against the press until it's second nature. No mistakes. No panic. If Harbor wants a storm…"

He looked around, his tired eyes sparking with something close to pride.

"…then we'll be the harbor wall."

The team erupted, voices overlapping—shouts, laughter, determination. The echoes filled Lucas's gym like a promise to the night sky.

And in that moment, Vorpal Basket wasn't just strategizing. They were sharpening their blades.

To be continue