CHAPTER 243: CHAPTER 230: HARBOR KINGS PLAYTIME

The projector flickered, filling the dim film room with the grainy light of Vorpal’s last match. The players of Inner Harbor Prep, Harbor Kings sat in a semicircle, restless but attentive. The national semi-final was days away, and every second of tape mattered.

On screen: Ethan Albarado whipping a no-look pass through traffic, threading the needle between defenders as if the ball was magnetized to his teammate’s hands.

Mrs. Sora Nakamura, calm yet sharp as a blade, let the clip play twice before pausing.

"Eyes up here. What do you notice?"

Jamal "Jet" Robinson, the captain and point guard, leaned forward. His grin was quick, cocky.

"He sells the fake with his eyes. Defender bites left, but the pass goes right. He’s not just passing, he’s orchestrating. You cut one lane, he opens another."

Sora nodded.

"Correct. Ethan Albarado’s vision is their spine. He doesn’t rely on athleticism the way you do, Jamal, he bends tempo. If you want to break Vorpal, you must disrupt the head of the snake."

Jamal’s smirk sharpened.

"So press him. Smother him full court. Make him uncomfortable before he even crosses half."

From the back, Isaiah "Clamps" Lee raised a hand, his voice steady.

"That’s my job. Let me stick to him baseline-to-baseline. He won’t breathe without me there."

The room murmured approval, but Malik "Spin" Carter shook his head, spinning a ball idly in his hands.

"It’s not just about stopping Ethan. Look at the movement. The others shift like they already know where the ball will land. That’s chemistry, not just one genius."

Sora let it sink in before switching the footage.

Now came Lucas Graves. The room shifted immediately. Lucas wasn’t just playing, he was becoming. One possession he pulled a hesitation into a killer crossover, Iverson. Next possession, a high-arching fadeaway Kobe. Another, a quick-catch-and-shoot three with lightning release, Ray Allen.

Dante "The Sniper" Morales let out a low whistle.

"He’s a mimic. A Mimicry... damn. He’s like a walking highlight reel of everyone we grew up watching."

Corey Banks, the smooth bench shooter, muttered, half-impressed, half-nervous:

"You stop one move, he swaps to another. No rhythm to read. No habits to scout."

Sora’s voice cut through, precise.

"That unpredictability is dangerous. But don’t overthink it. Lucas is not those legends, he is a shadow of them. Shadows look real until the light hits. Force him into uncomfortable angles, deny him space, and his mimicry becomes imitation, not domination."

Terrence "Brick" Douglas, massive arms folded, grunted.

"Then put him in the paint with me. He won’t fade when he’s eating elbows."

Laughter bubbled around the room, but Sora didn’t smile.

"Discipline, Terrence. Controlled aggression. Do not foul him into confidence."

The clips kept rolling. Louie Davas, the streetball prodigy, pulling off wild improvisations. Brandon Young, the quiet center, anchoring the rim. Ryan Taylor’s sarcastic swagger but steady boards. Evan Cooper, steady at the point. Each Vorpal player had a role, and Sora made the Harbor Kings dissect every strength, every weakness.

DeShawn Rivers, their Skyline center, finally spoke. His voice was deep, commanding.

"Vorpal’s bigs don’t dominate. They’re steady, not overpowering. Brandon’s reliable, but he’s not explosive. Ryan’s strong, but not a freak athlete. That’s our edge."

He clenched a fist.

"In the paint, we own them."

Mrs. Sora’s eyes gleamed.

"Correct. That is our harbor. Their system shines in fluid motion and guard play. But if we control boards, control second-chances, we drag them into our game—fast breaks, alley-oops, chaos."

Malik leaned back, tossing the ball up and catching it behind his back with a grin.

"So basically, crash the glass, let me run, Jet pushes pace, Dante bombs threes. Sounds like a party."

"It’s not a party," Jamal shot back, though he grinned too. "It’s war."

The film paused again, frozen on Ethan’s calm expression after threading another impossible assist.

Sora looked around the room, her voice soft but weighty.

"Ethan Albarado is young, but his composure is unnatural. Pressure will test him, but don’t underestimate his adaptability. The same with Lucas, he thrives on attention. If you make this about star duels, you’ve already lost. What is our motto?"

Together, the team answered, voices overlapping, fierce and certain:

"Rule the Court, Rule the Harbor!"

The captain’s decision came next. Sora sat back, giving Jamal the floor. He was more than their point guard; he was their compass.

Jamal stood, stretching, pacing like the court was already under his shoes.

"Here’s how we play it: Full-court press, nonstop. Isaiah on Ethan, choke him out. Dante shadows Lucas, don’t give him clean air. Brick and DeShawn own the paint—nobody eats down there but us. Malik and me? We run. Every board, every steal, every loose ball, we’re gone. They like structure. We break it."

He slammed the table lightly with his fist.

"We turn their formations into chaos. Chaos is ours. Streetball is ours. Harbor Kings basketball is pressure, creativity, speed. If they can’t breathe, they can’t think. And if Ethan can’t think, he’s nothing."

The room buzzed with energy. Andre "Slick" Vasquez cracked his knuckles.

"Give me their bench guards. I’ll drop ankles. Let’s see if they can survive second unit heat."

Khalil "Wave" Johnson thumped his chest.

"And I’ll clean up the boards when DeShawn rests. Wave after wave, they’ll drown."

The team laughed, loud and confident, feeding off each other.

Sora let them ride that energy a moment before cutting in, her tone colder, deliberate.

"Confidence is good. But remember, Vorpal thrives on underestimated moments. Ethan will bait you. Lucas will adapt. Louie will improvise. If you play undisciplined, you play into their hands. Do not forget, our style is chaos, but our execution must be perfect chaos."

Her words cooled the fire just enough, sharpening it into focus.

As the projector shut off, Jamal clapped his hands.

"Then it’s set. We don’t fear Vorpal. We make them fear us. They’re the talk right now, sure—but we’re the storm coming from the harbor. And storms don’t warn you—they take everything."

Malik grinned, spinning the ball one last time.

"And if they blink—"

Dante finished with a smirk.

"They’ll already be on the other side."

DeShawn stood, towering over them, voice rumbling like thunder.

"Paint’s mine. Game’s ours."

The Harbor Kings broke, laughter and adrenaline spilling into the night as they headed to the gym for another late session. Somewhere, in another gym, Ethan and Lucas were preparing just as fiercely but here in Baltimore, the Kings sharpened their blades, ready to cut the genius and the mimic down.

And in the quiet, Sora Nakamura allowed herself one small smile.

"Vorpal Basket... let’s see if your brilliance can withstand the storm."

After that, the gym lights flickered above them, casting long shadows across the hardwood. Most of the team had already left, their laughter echoing faintly down the hallway, but Jamal stayed behind, dribbling slowly in place rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat.

Coach Sora leaned against the bleachers, arms folded, her sharp eyes following every bounce.

"Jamal..." her voice was calm but carried a certain steel, "this time—are you confident that we can win and move toward the final?"

The ball stopped. Jamal held it in both hands, gaze falling to the polished floor. His chest rose and fell, heavy with the weight of expectation.

After a pause, he muttered, "I don’t know, Coach."

He looked up, sweat still trailing down his cheek, and there was no arrogance in his eyes, only honesty.

"Ethan’s passes... they’re different. And that Lucas kid—he’s a problem. It feels like whatever we throw at them, they’ll find a way."

For a moment, the silence hung between them like the tension before tip-off.

Coach Sora’s lips curved into a knowing smile.

"That’s exactly why we prepare, Jamal. You don’t need certainty. You need hunger. Let Vorpal think brilliance alone can win... while we break them piece by piece."

Jamal’s grip on the ball tightened. The doubt in his voice didn’t vanish, but it sharpened into something else, resolve.

....

On Ethan side

The night air was cool, brushing against their skin as the city lights painted faint glows in the distance. Ethan leaned against the railing outside the gym, arms folded, his blond hair catching a flicker of the streetlight. Beside him, Lucas swayed on his heels, trying to hide the knot of nerves twisting in his stomach.

"Are you excited about the game, Ethan... are you not afraid?" Lucas asked, his voice carrying that usual sunshine brightness, though a trace of unease cracked through it.

Ethan glanced at him, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He didn’t answer immediately, just let the silence stretch, the hum of cicadas filling the gap.

"Afraid? Of course I am," Ethan finally said, his tone calm, steady. "You’d be stupid not to be afraid of a team like Harbor Kings."

Lucas blinked, caught off guard. "Then... how can you look so calm? Like it doesn’t bother you."

Ethan pushed off the railing, straightening. "Because fear’s not the problem. Fear means we’re alive. Fear means we know what’s at stake. The problem is what you do with it." He looked straight at Lucas now, his blue eyes sharp. "Me? I’m going to use it. Every bit of it. I’m not here to play safe, Lucas. I’m here to prove that we can rewrite the story."

Lucas let out a small laugh, shaking his head. The nervous energy in him felt lighter now, replaced by a spark that mirrored Ethan’s words. "Rewrite the story, huh? You make it sound like we’re in some manga."

Ethan smirked, almost knowingly. "Maybe we are."

And just like that, Lucas grinned wide, fear and excitement tangling into something unstoppable. The night didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

To be continue