The ball was back in Francesco's hands. Again.
This time, he didn't rush.
He slowed the tempo, as if daring Aleksandar to breathe… then punishing him for it.
Francesco dribbled inside the arc, dancing on the edge of the paint like a predator waiting for a slip.
Then two hard dribbles left.
Aleksandar tried to slide in time, feet shuffling, arms wide, but Francesco's body control was something else entirely. He stopped on a dime, pivoted off his right foot, and with a single graceful motion
he faded.
A smooth, calculated fadeaway off his left shoulder just high enough to arc over Aleksandar's outstretched fingertips.
Aleksandar leapt, but it was like reaching at a shadow.
Swish.
3:0.
Francesco landed softly, almost disinterested, like this was just another drill. No smile. No taunt. Just cold, efficient dominance.
Aleksandar exhaled sharply. His heart was pounding. Legs slightly heavier. Mind screaming.
No more watching. No more reacting. Time to act.
As Francesco checked the ball and began his next drive low, powerful, attacking with his left Aleksandar saw his opening.
It was barely a crack. A half second.
But that was all he needed.
Aleksandar lunged from behind a lightning quick swipe.
Tap.
The ball popped loose.
Francesco's eyes widened.
Aleksandar was already moving, snatching the ball in stride, pushing off toward the top of the key. He gathered, planted pulled up.
The shot left his hands. It felt… off.
Too fast. Too much adrenaline. Not enough balance.
Clang.
The ball hit the front rim and bounced hard.
"Dammit," Aleksandar muttered under his breath.
Before he could react, Francesco was already there like a shadow grabbing the rebound with one hand, securing it like a beast claiming its territory.
Then he turned.
Eyes locked.
Aleksandar barely had time to brace.
Francesco bulldozed forward shoulder into chest, backing him down with the quiet force of someone who had lived in the paint for years.
Aleksandar gritted his teeth, holding his ground with all the strength he had.
But it wasn't enough.
Francesco spun on the last dribble, rose up with both hands
And slammed it through.
A dunk.
The rim shook. The air left Aleksandar's lungs.
4:0.
The gym fell quiet for a moment.
Francesco landed, calm as ever, walking back to the top of the key like nothing had happened.
Aleksandar stood beneath the rim, fists clenched, chest heaving.
He wasn't just being beaten.
He was being shown the gap.
Not just in strength or skill but in experience. In control.
But something in him something deeper refused to give in.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead, looked at Vinnie on the sideline…
…and then back at Francesco.
"It's not over."
His voice was low. But steady.
Because Aleksandar finally understood
This wasn't just a game.
It was the battle for the version of himself he wanted to become.
And he wasn't done fighting yet.
Francesco checked the ball at the top of the key, a flicker of focus still in his eyes but now, there was a hint of irritation.
He dribbled once… twice… methodical, deliberate.
But something had shifted.
Aleksandar wasn't moving frantically anymore. He wasn't second guessing or reacting late.
He was just there.
His stance lowered, his hands light and fast, his eyes sharp like a blade honed under pressure.
I see it now… his rhythm.
Every bounce Francesco made, Aleksandar mirrored it half a second faster in his head.
He didn't need to guess anymore.
Francesco tried to drive left.
Aleksandar slid instantly.
Francesco hesitated crossed over but it was sloppy, rushed.
Too late.
Aleksandar saw the gap, like a door swinging open just a crack
Swipe!
The ball was loose again, and this time Aleksandar didn't hesitate.
He burst forward like a bullet, the hardwood echoing beneath his sneakers as he stormed toward the rim.
Francesco tried to recover, but Aleksandar was already in motion his body low, eyes locked on the hoop.
Just as he reached the paint, Francesco lunged to cut him off
But Aleksandar spun.
A perfect 360 fluid, tight, practiced.
In that spin, time seemed to slow.
Aleksandar turned his back to the basket and, like Tracy McGrady in his prime, he rose
fadeaway.
The ball arced beautifully through the air, soft, poised
Swish.
4:1.
The silence was broken only by the sound of the net whispering.
Francesco raised an eyebrow, visibly surprised.
Aleksandar? He didn't smile. Didn't even blink.
He just walked to the top of the key and checked the ball again.
Now it was his possession.
And something inside him had awakened.
It wasn't just adrenaline.
It was clarity.
His body moved without delay. No wasted motion. No fear.
Only instinct.
He dribbled once, slowly. Then between the legs. A quick hesitation. Another crossover.
Francesco shifted, falling for the bait.
That's when Aleksandar snapped his body backward
step back.
Three point line.
He rose.
His form clean. His balance perfect. His release silky smooth.
Francesco lunged, but he was too late.
The ball left Aleksandar's fingertips and soared, spinning tightly in the air.
Splash.
4:3.
Vinnie's eyes widened just slightly from the sideline. His arms folded, but inside, he was grinning.
Aleksandar stood still, watching the ball drop through the net like it belonged there.
There was no more doubt in his eyes.
This wasn't the same Aleksandar who woke up groggy and confused days ago.
This was someone who had walked into the zone and was ready to leave everything on the field.
Aleksandar had the ball again.
Sweat traced lines down his forehead, his chest rising and falling with steady but deep breaths. But inside his mind was still.
One more basket… I can tie it.
But Francesco wasn't shaken anymore.
He crouched low, his eyes no longer underestimating.
This time, he respected Aleksandar and he guarded him like a man with something to prove.
Aleksandar took a dribble toward the right, but Francesco cut it off instantly.
He tried left nothing. Francesco mirrored him like a shadow.
So Aleksandar drove hard toward the middle, forcing his way just inside the paint.
But Francesco didn't fall for it. He used his strength, his frame, and his defensive instincts to cut Aleksandar off, forcing him to turn his back to the hoop.
Aleksandar held the ball tightly, his back against Francesco's chest.
No more dribbles. No space. No window.
His body was caged in.
But his spirit?
It burned.
He didn't panic.
Instead, he began to shift his weight, subtly right, then left, his shoulders twitching with each faint.
Francesco didn't bite, but even the smallest hesitation was enough.
Aleksandar felt it the split second slack in Francesco's stance.
That was his opening.
In a single fluid motion, he spun on his left foot, his body separating just enough.
Back still to the basket, he rose
fadeaway.
There was no sight of the rim. Just feeling.
Just trust.
The ball flew high, kissed the gym lights, and fell with delicate rotation.
Nothing but net.
4:4.
Aleksandar landed and froze.
The gym was silent again until the echo of the ball bouncing away broke the stillness.
Francesco turned toward him, this time with the faintest smirk.
Aleksandar didn't look cocky. He didn't even smile.
He just stared ahead, shoulders steady, eyes sharp.