The score was tied 4 to 4.
Sweat dripped like rain beneath the dim gym lights. Aleksandar wiped his palms on his shorts, the rubber scent of the basketball grounding him in the moment.
Francesco stood a few feet away, calm and unshaken, like a lion waiting to pounce.
Aleksandar took his position at the top of the arc. The ball bounced rhythmically against the floor thump… thump… thump.
He stared into Francesco's chest, not his eyes.
Don't show him anything. Just move.
Suddenly he exploded forward.
His pace changed sharply one hard dribble, then another.
He glided into a smooth pull up at the top of the midrange, just inside the arc. It was a move he'd drilled hundreds of times balance, rhythm, rise, release.
But Francesco reacted instantly.
Quick on his feet, he closed the space just in time, a long arm extending into Aleksandar's shooting window.
Aleksandar fired anyway.
But his balance was off. The shot came out a split second too soon, the contest forcing him to rush.
The ball arced high… and clipped the front of the rim with a hollow clang.
It bounced forward, and before Aleksandar could react
Francesco had already boxed him out.
The veteran's footwork was clinical, textbook.
With one shove of the hips, Aleksandar found himself behind the play, watching helplessly as Francesco grabbed the rebound with both hands.
Francesco didn't even look at the ball.
He looked straight into Aleksandar's eyes.
His gaze was cold, calculating.
And then he spoke low, almost growling:
"I'm not gonna let you score anymore… one trick pony."
Aleksandar froze.
Those words meant to cut.
But more than anything… they lit something inside him.
A fire that was no longer just about proving himself to Vinnie.
Now, it was about proving something to this self centered brat.
Francesco took the ball to the top of the key. Francesco held the ball again.
Aleksandar planted his feet, lowering his stance. His heartbeat was steady… but his legs were already screaming.
Then boom Francesco attacked.
It wasn't flashy. It wasn't fast.
It was just… real.
A controlled drive, angled perfectly, with Francesco using his off hand not to push, but to subtly brush Aleksandar's wrist away, keeping the ball protected like a veteran shielding a precious secret.
Aleksandar gritted his teeth.
He knew this trick.
But knowing and stopping it were two different things.
As Francesco neared the pain, he picked up the ball his body lowered, coiled, like a spring.
"Tch…" Aleksandar barely reacted in time.
BUMP.
A solid shoulder hit Aleksandar's chest. Not dirty. Just strong. Deliberate.
It shifted Aleksandar just enough half a step and that was all Francesco needed.
In one fluid motion, he elevated, releasing a smooth bank shot at a perfect angle off the glass.
The ball kissed the backboard and dropped in with a whisper.
Aleksandar didn't even jump.
He couldn't.
He was locked out of the play before he even saw it unfold. Francesco's move had been timed to perfection too strong, too smart, too seasoned.
5 to 4.
Aleksandar exhaled sharply, eyes still on the rim, watching the ball drop through the net.
Francesco turned back slowly, already walking toward the top of the key.
He didn't say a word this time.
He didn't need to.
That shot… said everything.
Aleksandar bent forward slightly, hands resting on his knees, sweat dripping from his chin like a leaky faucet. His chest rose and fell with each labored breath slow, heavy, burning.
His legs… felt like stone.
His lungs… like fire.
"Damn it…" he thought, watching Francesco casually spin the ball in his hands at the top of the key, waiting for the next play. "If this keeps going like this, I'm done. He's too strong… every drive, every bump it costs me twice as much energy just to stay in front of him."
His fingers clenched into a weak fist.
He hated the feeling.
Being powerless.
Being dominated.
Francesco wasn't just skilled he was efficient. Ruthless. Built like a tank and playing like a surgeon.
"If I try to outmuscle him, I'll lose. I've already burned through a full workout before this. I'm slower, weaker, and barely hanging on…"
Then his eyes drifted to the sideline.
To Vinnie.
Leaning against the wall. Arms crossed. Eyes like stone.
Aleksandar suddenly remembered a conversation just a few days ago.
"You're not that good at thinking," Vinnie had told him with a smirk. "So stop overthinking. Just hoop."
The words echoed louder than his heartbeat.
His lips curled into a weak, cocky smile, the kind only someone at their breaking point could wear.
"You know what…?"
"Screw thinking."
He stood tall again, ignoring the weight in his legs, the burning in his chest. His thoughts cleared not because he had a plan, but because he didn't need one.
"I'm just gonna hoop," he muttered under his breath, eyes locked on Francesco.
"And show this brat… he ain't that tuff."
The ball slapped against the hardwood as Francesco bounced it twice and got ready.
Aleksandar's body may have been on empty.
But his will?
Overflowing.
Francesco dribbled slowly at the top of the arc, eyes locked in, calm as ever. Aleksandar braced himself, shifting low into his stance, arms out wide but deep inside, he already knew what was coming.
Same drive. Same pressure. Same pain.
Francesco wasn't trying to outsmart him anymore.
He didn't have to.
He was taller. Stronger. Heavier. And worst of all he knew it.
One explosive first step and Francesco was already at the elbow, body leaning forward like a train picking up speed. Aleksandar slid to cut him off, but it was like standing in front of a moving wall. The collision wasn't violent it was controlled. A master at work.
Francesco made his way into the paint.
Back to the basket.
Calm. Patient. Deadly.
Aleksandar gritted his teeth. "I know this… back down, shoulder feint… he's gonna spin."
Francesco rolled his shoulders, faking left.
Aleksandar flinched.
He faked right.
Aleksandar twitched again.
Then it came the smooth, practiced turn to the right.
A pump fake.
Aleksandar bit. He jumped.
Too early.
Too desperate.
In midair, he realized it. "No he tricked me."
Francesco pivoted left with grace that shouldn't have belonged to a man his size. One long step, a cradle of the ball in both hands, and a simple, quiet finish off the glass.
A move straight out of Hakeem's book.
6 to 4.
The ball kissed the backboard and dropped through the net.
Silence.
Aleksandar landed, his shoes barely making a sound. His arms hung at his sides, his chest heaving. He turned, eyes following Francesco walking back to the top of the key with ease, like nothing had happened.
He had no words.
Only thoughts.
"He's not beating me with tricks. Just strength. Just control."
"As long as he keeps making those shots…"
"…I'll never touch the ball again."
And in that moment, staring at his own reflection on the glossy court sweat dripping from his chin, lungs burning, legs trembling Aleksandar realized the cold truth.
He wasn't going to overpower Francesco.
He wasn't going to outmuscle him.
He wasn't even going to outlast him not after the training, not with his gas tank on empty.
The only way he had a chance…
was if Francesco missed.
That was it.
His only door to survival.
A single crack in the armor.
"He has to miss. That's the only way I get the ball back."
It wasn't a strategy.
It wasn't even a plan.
But it was enough to keep him standing.