CHAPTER 225: CHAPTER 212: VORPAL VS PIEDMONT (2)

Scoreboard: Vorpal 21 – Piedmont 17

The horn blared, its echo lingering in the gym rafters like a warning bell.

Second quarter. No subs. No breathing room.

Both teams gathered at center court, the hardwood trembling faintly under the rhythmic stomp of shoes from the restless crowd. The coaches weren’t gambling on fresh legs—they wanted their starting fives to collide again, but this time, the tone had shifted.

The referee stood between the two Brandons—Young and "Brick" Thompson—holding the ball aloft.

(First quarter, they tested our speed. Second quarter... they’ll grind it. Strength test. Control test.)

The Basketball System flared in Ethan’s mind, overlaying red warning text like a heads-up display.

[Opponent Strategy Shift Detected – Tempo Control Initiated.]

Brick’s eyes were flat and unblinking. He barely bent his knees. Brandon Young mirrored his stance, coiled, ready.

"Ball’s up!" The ref tossed it into the air.

Brick didn’t bother with height—just perfect timing and angling, tapping the ball back into Darius "Steady D" Coleman’s waiting hands.

Darius’s thoughts were ice-cold. (Slow it down. Every second we drain is a second they can’t run free.)

His dribble was deliberate, each bounce like a metronome. Evan Cooper shadowed him closely, eyes sharp, but Darius never let the pace break.

"Not gonna push it?" Evan asked, half-taunt, half-curiosity.

"Why rush," Darius replied smoothly, "when we can cook you on low heat?"

Lucas’s gaze slid to Ethan. "They’re dragging it."

Ethan’s tone was steady, controlled. "Yeah. They want us guarding for twenty seconds a trip. No gambling, no lunges—stay disciplined."

Piedmont’s offense moved like a slow tide. Cody "Tank" Wilson rumbled into position, planting a screen so solid Louie Gee Davas bounced off with a thunk.

"Ow!" Louie winced, holding his side. "Yo, someone check if my ribs are still attached!"

Malik "Flash" Johnson came curling around the screen, caught the pass at the wing, and pump-faked. Louie stumbled again, biting on it. Malik rose into a clean mid-range jumper.

Swish.

Vorpal 21 – Piedmont 19

The Piedmont bench erupted, but Coach Ron didn’t even smile—his eyes stayed locked on Ethan like a sniper tracking his mark.

(They’re not trying to blow us out—they’re chipping, grinding, turning this game into cement. If we play impatient, we’ll drown in it.) Ethan thought, jaw tightening.

He inbounded to Evan. "We don’t play their game. Push when we can. Swing it when we can’t."

Vorpal flowed into motion. Evan zipped a pass to Lucas, who caught it on the wing. Without hesitation, his Absolute Mimicry kicked in, Ray Allen’s 2010 Finals quick release, sharp and economical.

"Three for the road," Lucas muttered, letting it fly.

The ball arced... clang! Off the rim.

Brick Thompson swallowed the rebound like a vacuum and shoveled it to Darius, who jogged back into his deliberate pace.

From the Vorpal bench, Ryan Taylor yelled, "They’re milking us! Don’t bite!"

The next Piedmont possession was an even slower choke. Every player touched the ball, every cut dragged out, every screen a thudding impact. Tyler "Skywalker" Brooks sealed Ethan near the elbow, gave one bump, spun into a soft hook shot.

Bounce... bounce... drop.

Vorpal 21 – Piedmont 21

Louie exhaled hard. "Alright... now I’m annoyed."

"Good," Ethan said, voice like steel. "Channel it. Don’t force it."

Vorpal attacked, but Piedmont’s defense felt like fighting in waist-deep water—every pass contested, every lane clogged. Louie finally found a seam and drove hard, but Tank met him in mid-air, forcing a contorted layup that rolled out.

Darius snatched the rebound, glanced at the clock, and smiled faintly. (Perfect. Just keep it ugly.)

They burned another 20 seconds before Malik slipped inside for a floater over Brandon Young.

Plop.

Vorpal 21 – Piedmont 23

The crowd sensed it now, Piedmont’s pace was pulling the game into their grip.

From the bench, Coonie cupped his hands and called out, "Yo! Speed it up before I fall asleep over here!"

Ethan caught the words and allowed the faintest smirk. (Not yet. Let them think they’ve got the leash.)

On the next trip, Ethan caught it up top. The System pinged, a defensive gap forming weak side. Without warning, he zipped a no-look dart to Lucas in the corner.

Lucas faked, dribbled once, then rose into a Kobe Bryant fadeaway over Skywalker.

Swish.

Vorpal 23 – Piedmont 23

"Guess slow doesn’t mean I stop scoring," Lucas said calmly.

Skywalker exhaled, shaking his head. "Guess I’m not sleeping tonight watching tape."

Piedmont didn’t flinch. On their next trip, Tank bullied the paint, Brick walled Brandon Young, and Darius fed him for a baby hook.

Vorpal 23 – Piedmont 25

Evan tried to quicken the pace on the inbound, but Darius was already waiting at half-court, his hand signaling for the Spartan shell defense to close ranks.

(Feels like playing chess against a guy who only moves pawns... but somehow, you’re still losing pieces.) Evan thought grimly.

Louie finally punched through with a sharp crossover on Malik, slipping inside for a layup.

Vorpal 25 – Piedmont 25

"That’s one for the mixtape!" Louie grinned.

"Yeah?" Malik shot back. "Wait till I burn you next trip."

The tug-of-war continued. Vorpal looked for bursts, Piedmont kept dragging them back to the mud.

With 30 seconds left, the score sat knotted at 31–31.

Ethan held the ball at the top, dribbling slow. Eyes locked on Darius.

"You like slow?" Ethan asked, voice low. "I can slow dance too."

He waited... and waited... then exploded left. Tank and Brick collapsed together, exactly as he’d wanted. A quick dish found Brandon Young wide open for a roaring dunk.

The buzzer split the air.

Vorpal 33 – Piedmont 31

On the bench, Ryan pumped his fist. "That’s how you flip it!"

Across the court, Darius walked calmly to his seat, towel over his shoulder, voice flat. "We’re right where we want them. One quarter left."

The Piedmont bench erupted in a mix of groans and shouts. A couple of players slapped their knees in frustration, while others threw their towels onto the floor.

Ryan "Jet" Harper leaned forward, his eyes narrowing at the court. "Man, we had that covered! How’d he even squeeze that pass through?"

Coach Ron kept his cool, though his eyes tracked Ethan the whole way back to the Vorpal bench. (Hmm... interesting approach from the Vorpal. That kid’s reading us faster than I thought.)

"Eyes up, fellas," he said, clapping once to pull his team’s focus back. "They want to make it a sprint. We control the pace—control the game."

The Piedmont players exchanged nods, but the sting of giving up that clean dunk at the buzzer was still fresh.

..

The buzzer’s echo hadn’t even faded before the Vorpal bench erupted. Ryan leapt to his feet so fast his chair skidded backward and clanged against the wall. "THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKIN’ ABOUT, BABY!" he hollered, pointing at Brandon Young as if he’d just won the championship.

Kai Mendoza slapped both hands together, eyes wide. "Brandon just murdered that rim! Somebody check if it’s still alive!"

Coonie Smith, ever the dry one, didn’t even look up from sipping his sports drink. "If the rim’s dead, that’s a felony. Guess we’re all accessories."

Josh Turner cracked a small grin, shaking his head. "That’s why you trust Ethan to hold the ball with the clock running down. Always."

Ryan Taylor, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, had a different perspective. "Nah... you all don’t get it. That wasn’t just about the dunk. Ethan waited. He baited Tank and Brick into collapsing on him. That’s reading the floor like a novel."

Jeremy Park adjusted his glasses, nodding. "And you notice the angle on that kick-out pass? Perfect bounce to Brandon’s inside hand. Reduced gather time, maximized momentum. That’s textbook."

Kai tilted his head. "...Textbook? Bro, that’s like, sacred scripture in basketball form."

Even Ayumi Brooke, who normally kept her reactions quiet, was standing now, a hand over her mouth before breaking into a smile. "I swear, those two—Ethan and Lucas—they make the court feel like home again."

Lucas jogged back to the bench beside Ethan, grinning ear to ear. The second quarter starters, Ethan Albarado, Lucas Graves, Evan Cooper, Louie "Gee" Davas, and Brandon Young were dripping with sweat but carrying themselves like they were up twenty instead of just two.

Ethan, as usual, was calm. Inside, his basketball system was already parsing data. (Piedmont’s slowing down next quarter. Ron’s not gonna let it be a sprint again. Fine... let’s dance at their tempo.)

Lucas tossed a towel over his neck, still buzzing. "Man, that felt good. They’re trying to box us in, but once I saw you drive, I knew—dunk city."

Ethan smirked. "You think I drove for fun?" He tapped his temple. "That was all set-up. Just wait—next time, we won’t even need the dunk."

Louie, who was somehow both cooling down and hyping himself up at the same time, leaned over. "Yo, I call next highlight. Somebody get me the ball and an empty lane, and I’ll—"

Ryan cut in with a deadpan tone. "Trip over your own shoes?"

"...Shut up."

The bench kept buzzing even as Coach Fred walked over, clipboard in hand. His voice was steadier than usual, no fumbling, no uncertainty. "Good finish, boys. But the Spartans aren’t panicking. They’re gonna slow it, force us into half-court battles. Stay patient."

Ethan just nodded. (Half-court or full-court, doesn’t matter. I’ll make them play our game.)

On the opposite end of the gym, Piedmont’s bench was a storm of frustration, muttering and shaking heads, while Vorpal’s side felt like a party. One side simmered; the other radiated.

Momentum wasn’t just in the score, it was in the air.

To be continue