The next possession felt heavier than the rest like the weight of the whole match had shifted onto Aleksandar's shoulders.
Francesco caught the ball at the top, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. There was no more banter, no arrogance just pure focus. He dribbled once with his left hand and then again, this time lower, harder, closer to his hip. He wasn't playing around anymore.
Francesco lowered his body and began to back Aleksandar down.
Each step he took felt like a small avalanche, dragging Aleksandar inch by inch toward the basket. Aleksandar tried to hold his ground, but Francesco's strength was like a wall made of iron and pride.
The paint felt like a cage now no space to breathe, no room to escape.
Thud. Another bump.
Thud. Another push.
And then... silence.
Francesco stopped.
With calm, mechanical precision, he spun his shoulder slightly and rose.
A high, arcing hook shot, right handed, textbook perfect, the kind you only see from players who have done this a thousand times in silence when no one was watching.
Aleksandar jumped but he knew, even mid air it was useless.
The ball rolled off Francesco's fingers with soft elegance, rising into the air in a slow curve...
Then gently kissed the backboard...
Swish.
7 to 4.
Francesco landed and didn't even look back. He simply turned and walked toward the top of the arc, already ready for the next possession.
Aleksandar stood under the basket, chest heaving, heart pounding.
"I can't stop him... not with strength. Not with height."
He gritted his teeth.
"So I'll need to use something else..."
"Think how do I stop him?"
The ball found its way back into Francesco's hands once again.
He dribbled once... then twice... a low rhythm that echoed through the gym like a heartbeat before battle. Without hesitation, he began backing Aleksandar down same tactic, same tempo, same brutal pressure.
"He's not even trying to hide it anymore," Aleksandar thought, bracing his feet. "He just wants to crush me..."
Francesco's shoulders twisted like gears in a machine, grinding into Aleksandar's chest. Every muscle in Aleksandar's body strained to resist, but the sheer power pressing against him was like trying to hold up a crumbling wall.
As they neared the painted area, Francesco bumped him once hard. Aleksandar stumbled half a step back. And that was all the space the veteran needed.
Still off balance, Francesco pivoted, leaned his shoulder into the air, and launched a high, awkward sky hook. His body was tilted, feet uneven, but the motion was smooth like it came from a place of repetition and quiet dominance.
Aleksandar leapt, arm extended...
But again too late.
The ball floated up, over, and down touched the inside of the rim and dropped through the net like it had eyes.
8 to 4.
Francesco landed and stood still for a moment, then turned his eyes toward Aleksandar cold and unwavering.
With a calm voice laced with quiet arrogance, he said:
"Now you see. There's a big difference between you and me."
"You're just like I said a one trick pony."
The words echoed louder than any crowd could.
Aleksandar clenched his jaw, the muscles in his face twitching slightly. He was pissed and Francesco knew it. But Aleksandar didn't bite.
He walked slowly to the top of the key, dribbling the ball once with sharp purpose. Then he looked Francesco dead in the eyes, and with a calm, deadly smirk, he said:
"Just focus on the next play..."
"...cause it might be your last chance to beat me."
Francesco gripped the ball tightly, sweat dripping from his temple. The gym echoed with the subtle creaks of sneakers and shallow breaths.
This time, he wasn't going to post up.
No, this time he'd finish it with speed.
With explosive energy, he burst to the right, dribbling hard and fast his steps thundered across the hardwood as he lowered his shoulder and charged toward the basket.
"He's too tired to keep up," Francesco told himself. "This will break him."
As he drove, he extended his off hand, brushing Aleksandar away just enough to disrupt his balance, to force hesitation.
But then
Aleksandar didn't fall behind
He stayed locked in, a half step behind, eyes burning with raw focus. Every muscle in his legs screamed, every breath felt like fire in his lungs but he pressed forward, chasing like it was the last play of his life.
They were neck and neck now.
When they reached the layup zone, Francesco gathered the ball with both hands, ready to rise for the finish.
Aleksandar's body couldn't stop in time.
He stumbled... drifting toward the baseline, nearly out of bounds.
Francesco went up for the layup confident, prepared to close the play with a clean finish
But the ball... never left his hands.
Because just before he could elevate, just before the shot could be born
A sharp poke came from behind.
Aleksandar's hand.
Perfectly timed. Perfectly placed.
Francesco's eyes widened in confusion, his body still going through the motion of the shot but the ball was gone, bouncing free toward the top of the arc.
He landed awkwardly, snapping his head around and there he was.
Aleksandar.
Standing at the top of the key, waiting. Calm. Composed. A quiet fire in his eyes.
He held the ball in his hand, gave Francesco a smirk, and said
"I told you..."
"...this was your last chance."
Francesco stood frozen, stunned not just by the play, but by the realization.
The tide had turned.
The court was quiet now.
All the noise the sound of bouncing balls, the scuffing of shoes, the sharp exhales of exhaustion had faded into a tense silence.
Aleksandar had the ball.
This was his moment.
The score was 8 to 4. The weight of the entire game rested in his hands, and the sweat on his skin felt like molten steel. His legs were numb, lungs burning but his eyes... his eyes were wide open.
Francesco stepped into his defensive stance. Calm. Still confident. His body ready to pounce, to shut this down before it could even begin.
"One last chance," Aleksandar thought.
He dribbled left.
Francesco mirrored him, step for step glued to him like a shadow under a burning spotlight.
Aleksandar slowed.
And then for no clear reason he turned his back to the basket.
Vinnie furrowed his brow from the sideline. "What is he doing...?"
Aleksandar dribbled low, controlled, each bounce a beat in his internal rhythm.
Then
A sudden behind the back dribble.
From his right hand to his left.
The move was smooth... too smooth. It wasn't flashy it was fluid, like water shifting in a glass. And before Francesco could adjust to the sudden switch
Aleksandar planted his left foot.
Turnaround. Right side.
His body spun with control, and as he rose into the air, his shooting hand aligned perfectly with the rim.
The movement wasn't rushed.
It wasn't panicked.
It was poetry.
Francesco saw it but he was one step too slow, one beat too late. His hand didn't rise in time.
At the pinnacle of his jump, Aleksandar released the ball.
Time slowed.
The ball sailed with a perfect arc, cutting through the air like it was drawn by fate itself.
Vinnie's eyes widened. His lips parted.
Francesco turned, hoping for a miracle bounce.
But there was no bounce.
Just
Swish.
The net snapped sharply, as if applauding the shot itself.
Aleksandar landed. Chest heaving. Eyes forward.
Vinnie cracked a slow, proud grin.
And Francesco?
He could only exhale, and stare at him.
Score: 8 to 5.
Aleksandar is far from done.