The rhythm had shifted.
The storm that was Francesco's dominance had finally been interrupted its momentum snapped by one shot. Aleksandar could feel it. The silence after the swish was different this time.
Now everything rested in his hands.
"If I lose from here... it's on me," he thought, sweat trailing down his temple like a ticking clock. "Not because he's stronger. Not because he bullied me. Just... because I wasn't good enough."
He bounced the ball a few times at the top of the arc, his fingers guiding each dribble with precision.
Francesco lowered into his stance. Focused. Alert. But there was hesitation in his eyes now a seed of doubt the same kind Aleksandar had battled just minutes ago.
Then
Boom.
A sudden, explosive first step.
Aleksandar darted forward, his body leaning into the drive. Francesco reacted, but he was a few milliseconds late just enough.
Still, the veteran's recovery was fast, and within seconds he was again at Aleksandar's side.
But then Aleksandar stopped on a dime.
His heels dug into the court, sending a slight echo through the gym as Francesco, still carrying momentum, stumbled forward by just half a step too much.
That was all Aleksandar needed.
He rose.
Arms aligned. Body square. He jumped, smooth and sharp.
"I only get three more chances..." he thought mid air, "...so I better make this one count."
At the peak of his leap, he let go.
The ball soared with a clean backspin, arching like it had been practiced a thousand times. Francesco turned, helpless to contest.
Swish.
Again.
Vinnie's arms folded across his chest, but even he let out a quiet exhale through his nose.
Aleksandar didn't celebrate.
He didn't pump his fists.
Instead, he just walked. Slowly. Calmly. Back to the arc.
His body was screaming, muscles aching from the full training earlier. His legs felt like they were wrapped in sandbags.
But
"Three possessions left," he told himself.
"Three threes. That's the only way. That's all the gas I've got left."
Score: 8 to 6.
Aleksandar stood once more at the top of the arc, the weight of fatigue now dragging behind every motion like invisible chains. His chest rose and fell rapidly, lungs begging for air, but his eyes those eyes still burned.
Francesco squared up again, a seasoned look on his face. Calm. Calculated.
Aleksandar dribbled low. First, a jab to the right. Quick. Sharp.
Francesco didn't flinch.
Then another jab. This time with more intent followed by a sudden rise.
A pump fake.
Francesco bit just a little.
And that was enough.
With what felt like the last drops of explosive energy in his legs, Aleksandar drove right, taking one hard dribble forward. Francesco lunged to cut him off but that was the trap.
Aleksandar crossed the ball to his left hand, spinning out and stepping back into open space near the midrange.
Francesco slipped, just slightly, his shoes squealing against the polished court.
Now! I've got him! Aleksandar's instincts screamed.
He rose up for the jumper, the motion burned into his muscle memory. But as he lifted off the ground
His legs screamed back.
There was no power left. His body sagged in the air like a half deflated balloon, and his release lacked its usual snap. The ball floated forward
Short. Way short.
It didn't even graze the rim.
Clunk. Out of bounds.
Silence followed, heavier than before.
Aleksandar landed and stayed still, shoulders slumped. The shot wasn't even close. Not because the defense had stopped him... but because his body had.
"Damn it... I don't have many shots left..."
Francesco casually walked over and retrieved the ball, then gently tapped Aleksandar on the back.
"I'll finish this quick," he said with a quiet smirk, not even trying to hide the confidence in his voice.
"You're just a one trick pony. A shooter who doesn't care about other aspects of the game..."
Francesco turned, walking toward the top of the arc for his possession.
"You were never going to beat me."
Aleksandar didn't reply.
He couldn't. His chest was tight. His limbs, trembling.
Francesco held the ball again at the top of the arc.
This time, there was no need for showmanship. No need for tricks or mind games. Aleksandar was spent and Francesco knew it.
With the cold, efficient precision of a seasoned predator, Francesco jabbed once to the right. Just once.
Aleksandar tried to react, but his body lagged behind. His legs were heavy. His lungs burned. His arms, once sharp and quick, now moved as if underwater.
Then Francesco exploded forward.
The court echoed with the squeal of shoes, but Aleksandar couldn't keep up. Not this time. Not with his feet dragging, breath wheezing, and vision slightly blurred from fatigue.
Francesco blew by him like a gust of wind brushing past a statue.
"He's gone..." Aleksandar realized, the words dull in his mind.
As Francesco neared the rim, he didn't hesitate. There was no soft layup. No smooth finish. He jumped powerfully, cleanly and dunked the ball with both hands, the backboard shaking under the force.
Boom.
9 to 6.
Francesco landed gracefully and turned to look at Aleksandar who was still catching his breath, hands on his knees, face flushed and glistening with sweat.
There were no words this time. None needed.
The scoreboard said enough.
Francesco wasn't just winning.
He was dominating.
And Aleksandar? He was left wondering if he had anything left to give.
The match wasn't over...
But the hill just became a mountain.
Francesco stood once more at the top of the arc, his eyes focused, his hands steady.
The ball was like an extension of his will calm, composed, unshakable.
He backed down slowly, each step into the post echoing like a countdown.
Aleksandar's body responded, but barely. There was no resistance.
His legs screamed. His lungs burned. His will remained but his body... was breaking.
As they reached the paint, Francesco rotated his shoulder ever so slightly. A motion practiced a thousand times.
He rose, graceful yet deliberate, and released a sky hook that arced perfectly through the air.
The ball kissed the backboard and dropped into the net with a soft swish.
10 to 6.
A cold, brutal number.
Aleksandar stood there, unmoving. His head slightly bowed. Sweat falling freely.
There was no crowd. No cameras. Just the empty gym, the heavy silence, and a scoreboard that didn't care about exhaustion or effort.
"This is it," he thought. "Next point and it's over. I lose."
His eyes drifted toward Vinnie, who stood silent by the wall arms crossed, unreadable expression.
Aleksandar clenched his jaw.
"No... I can't let it end like this."
Even as fatigue crushed every inch of his frame, something deep inside him flared.
A stubborn flame.
A silent defiance.
"I need to do something now... or this match will end with me on the losing end. And I'll have no one to blame but myself."
As Francesco walked back, casually bouncing the ball, Aleksandar straightened his back.
His legs trembled.
But his eyes his eyes burned with dedication.