The scoreboard flashed 45–42. Ten minutes left.
The crowd was already standing when the whistle blew for the start of the fourth. You could feel the heat rolling off the court, the smell of sweat and rubber hanging thick in the air. Every bounce of the ball hit like a heartbeat.
Southpoint inbounded first. Ray Hale dribbled up slow, chin up, eyes scanning like he was solving a puzzle only he could see.
"Watch the cut," Ethan warned, voice tight.
Ray crossed half court, motioned to his center. The screen came high. Jaden ducked under it, but Ray stepped back, the ball snapping off his fingertips before Jaden could reset.
Swish.
45–45.
The crowd fell silent for half a second, then erupted again.
Jaden caught the inbound from Ethan and walked it up. His jaw was tight, eyes locked on Ray. He didn't rush it. He let the noise fade, waiting for the right rhythm.
"Motion two," he called.
Tank came up. Tyler slid baseline. Ethan shifted into the corner. The movement clicked together like gears.
Jaden hesitated, jabbed left, then burned right. He crossed once, twice, then spun. Ray cut him off, but Jaden bounced off the contact and floated a pass to Tank.
Tank caught, turned, and bullied his way through two defenders. He threw up a hook shot that kissed the glass and dropped in.
47–45.
Coach Hale clapped once on the sideline. "Stay sharp!"
Ray brought it back, unfazed. He wasn't loud. He didn't posture. He just moved with purpose. He faked the drive, then kicked to the corner for another shooter.
Ethan rotated late.
Splash.
47–48.
Tyler slammed his fist against his thigh. "We gotta switch faster!"
"Talk more," Ethan said, already running back.
The next few minutes turned into a blur of motion. Southpoint hit another jumper. Ironwood answered with Tyler draining a three from deep. The gym felt like it was pulsing with every score, every whistle.
Eight minutes left.
52–50 Ironwood.
Jaden wiped his forearm across his face. "Keep movin', keep movin'," he told his team, his voice low but steady.
Southpoint came back down. Ray attacked off the screen, slipped past Jaden, and drove straight into the paint. He rose for a layup, but Ethan was waiting.
Smack.
Clean block off the glass.
The ball bounced loose. Tank dove, sliding across the floor, and tipped it to Jaden. The crowd lost it.
Jaden caught, pushed hard, sprinting down the court with Ray right on his hip. Tyler trailed wide left, calling for it.
"Here!"
Jaden faked the pass, planted hard at the free-throw line, and rose into the air. Ray jumped with him, hand inches from the ball.
Jaden twisted, switched to his left, and dropped a hanging layup right over him.
54–50.
The sound was deafening. The Ironwood section started chanting his name. "Silk! Silk! Silk!"
Ray caught the inbound, his jaw tight. He didn't look at the crowd. He looked straight at Jaden. The game wasn't over, and both of them knew it.
Seven minutes left.
Ray slowed it down, using the full shot clock. Southpoint ran a long set, passing through four hands before Ray got it back. He dribbled twice, stepped back, and fired a deep three.
Bang.
54–53.
Coach Hale shouted from the sideline, voice sharp. "Hands up! Don't give him air!"
Tyler slapped his chest, frustrated. "That's on me."
Jaden motioned to calm him. "Forget it. Next one."
Ironwood's next possession was chaos. Southpoint's press hit like a wall, cutting off every lane. Jaden swung the ball to Ethan, who swung to Tyler, who tried to drive but got cut off.
"Clock!" Ethan yelled.
Five seconds.
Jaden called for it, caught near the arc, stepped back, and launched.
The ball arced high and dropped clean through.
57–53.
The gym shook. Even Coach Hale cracked a smile.
Time ticked down.
Six minutes left.
Every play felt heavier now. Each possession stretched longer, slower, more deliberate. Sweat poured off every player, jerseys clinging tight, shoes squealing against the hardwood.
Ray attacked again, blowing past the first defender. He went up for a floater. Tank met him midair, body to body, and swatted the shot straight out of bounds.
The gym exploded. Tank roared, fists clenched, veins bulging in his neck. "Not in my house!"
Ray landed hard, looked at him once, then walked back to the baseline without a word. Calm, but colder.
The ref tossed the ball in. Five minutes left.
Southpoint missed the inbound shot. Ethan grabbed the rebound, pivoted, and launched an outlet pass full-court to Jaden. The ball cut through the air like a bullet.
Jaden caught it in stride, one defender trailing, one in front. He gathered, rose, and hammered it home with both hands. The rim rattled. The gym exploded into noise that rattled the rafters.
59–53.
Coach Hale shouted over the chaos. "Keep your heads! Finish strong!"
Ray picked up the ball, his breathing heavy now. He brought it across half court and pointed for another set. His team moved, screens clashing, sneakers scraping, bodies colliding. Jaden stayed glued to him, shadowing every motion.
Ray's eyes narrowed. He drove left, spun, stopped.
Jaden was still there.
Ray hesitated, forced to pass. The ball swung, Southpoint's shooter caught it, fired, missed.
Tank grabbed the rebound. Ethan yelled, "Slow down!"
Jaden held out his hand. "I got it."
He walked it up this time, chest rising and falling, sweat dripping from his chin. The crowd was screaming his name again, but he didn't hear any of it.
He looked at Ray.
And smiled.
"Time to close this out."