The scoreboard glared: Vorpal 31 – Harbor 29.
The gym buzzed with tension. Sweat clung to jerseys, breaths came heavy, but eyes burned sharp.
Coach Fred Mason clapped twice, trying to look composed. "Alright, boys, stay sharp. Defense first. Let's not get reckless." His words faded, the players already looking at one person.
Ethan Albarado.
He stood in the middle of the huddle, hands on his knees, gaze sweeping his teammates. His system was already calculating, Harbor's tendencies, their weak links, their energy flow. He had to pick the right group to open the next stretch.
"Listen up," Ethan said, voice firm. "We need balance. We need shooters, speed, and someone to anchor us inside."
He pointed around the circle.
"Aiden, you're in. I need your hustle on the wing."
"Lucas, you stay. We need your spark."
"Louie, you're starting. Keep moving, stretch their defense."
"Brandon, hold the paint. You're our anchor."
