After minutes…
The scoreboard blinked: 4–0, Vorpal.
The Harbor Kings didn't flinch. Their bench stood, voices sharp, and on the sideline, Coach Sora Nakamura clapped once loud, decisive, cutting across the gym's chaos.
"Jet, Clamps—initiate! Malik, crash the weak side! Brick, anchor!"
Jamal "Jet Step" Washington wasted no time. His sneakers squealed against the hardwood as he exploded forward, the ball slapping the floor in a blur. One dribble snapped left, another back right, his shoulders twisting so violently the crowd gasped.
Lucas Graves stuck to him like glue, knees bent, arms wide. His eyes never left Jet's hips.
(Stay low, Graves. Don't bite on the flash. Mirror the real step, not the fake.)
Jet smirked, a predator testing prey. Then came a lightning crossover behind his back. The ball vanished from left to right so fast Lucas's breath caught. His feet lagged by half a beat enough. Jet slashed through the seam, body weaving like smoke.
