Francesco stood tall at the top of the arc, dribbling with that same confident rhythm he'd shown all game.
Aleksandar, hunched and barely holding himself upright, looked more like a shadow of a player than the one who'd put up a fight just minutes ago. His chest heaved, arms limp at his sides, legs trembling like reeds in the wind.
To Francesco, it seemed over.
With no urgency, he made his move one dribble to the right, then another, initiating his signature drive.
But this time... something was missing.
There was no off hand pushing Aleksandar away. No shield. No care.
Too cocky... Aleksandar realized in that split second. Too sure of himself.
That's when it happened.
The sweat soaked ball slipped just barely from Francesco's palm. A single moment of overconfidence, of underestimating the opponent.
And a single hand Aleksandar's hand lashed out like a dying spark refusing to be snuffed.
Tap.
The ball was free.
It rolled... slowly, tauntingly, toward the far edge of the court like it had all the time in the world.
Francesco's eyes widened. "Tch!"
He broke into a full sprint, his sneakers screeching across the floor like knives against metal.
Aleksandar didn't move. Couldn't move.
He simply stood under the rim, hands on his knees, breath like fire in his lungs. He had no energy to chase the ball.
But he understood something in that moment:
"If Francesco misses... I can take the game back."
Francesco reached the ball just as it began to tip toward out of bounds.
With a desperate twist of his body, he launched himself into the air fading away from an impossible angle, legs tangled beneath him, body falling sideways.
The ball arced.
Hung.
Dropped.
Clang.
It hit the rim.
And standing there, as if fate had placed him perfectly in that spot
Was Aleksandar.
The ball fell into his hands like a gift from the gods. Heavy. Real. Alive.
"I'm not done yet," he whispered, gripping it with everything he had left.
Aleksandar's hands closed around the ball like a reflex firm, sure, desperate. For a moment, the world blurred. His breath was still jagged, his legs felt like stone, and every heartbeat rang like thunder in his skull.
But his eyes...
His eyes were sharp.
He scanned the court and saw him Francesco, still sprawled on the hardwood, catching his breath, arms sprawled, chest rising and falling rapidly. For the first time in the match, the titan looked... mortal.
"Now... this is my shot."
Aleksandar turned, clutching the ball, and began to jog no, shuffle toward the left corner of the three point line.
His steps were sluggish, forced. Every muscle screamed, every joint begged for mercy. He wasn't sprinting. He couldn't. But he moved anyway.
The corner was calling to him.
"That spot. That's the one. I've shot from there a thousand times this week. Even when my legs were gone. Even when my soul was tired."
Behind him, Francesco stood up, suddenly realizing the danger. Like a lion jolted awake from a nap, he roared back to life and sprinted toward the corner, fury burning in his chest.
But it was too late.
By the time Francesco reached out to contest the shot
The ball was already in the air.
Aleksandar had launched it with the poise of a man who'd practiced this very scenario, over and over, in silence and sweat.
No wasted movement. No hesitation.
Just calm.
Pure.
Effortless.
The arc was beautiful. High. Perfect. Time seemed to stop as the ball soared through the air, kissed the ceiling of the gym with its invisible grace, and
Swish.
That sound.
That sweet, sharp swish echoed louder than any crowd.
Francesco halted, staring blankly at the net.
Aleksandar exhaled, not even smiling. He just turned and slowly walked back to the top of the arc.
10 to 8.
"Two more. Just two more shots. And this entire game flips. Let's see if he's really ready to stop me..."
Aleksandar stood at the top of the arc, the ball in his hands, his thoughts louder than the sound of his own heartbeat.
"What do I do...? Should I try and beat him with the dribble? Fake him out? Create space and launch the three?"
It would've made sense. A three pointer. The cleanest path to tying the game. But something inside him said no. Something reckless. Something stubborn.
"No... I'll drive. I'll force it. I'll crash into the storm. Even if my legs don't carry me. Even if my lungs give out. If I'm gonna go down... it'll be swinging."
He squared up.
His dribble was heavy, each bounce echoing like a war drum.
He jabbed left, then crossed right. Normally, his first step would've left defenders scrambling. But now?
Now he moved like a shadow underwater.
Francesco didn't even flinch. He saw it coming from the first bounce.
"Predictable," he muttered, eyes locked in, legs spring loaded.
Aleksandar kept pushing anyway. He was running on heart, not on strength. His body screamed at him to stop but his pride, his fire, refused.
He reached the edge of the arc.
Francesco slid perfectly into position and walled him off.
Aleksandar jumped anyway.
It wasn't elegance. It wasn't strategy. It was desperation.
He lifted the ball above his head and released it a midrange jumper fueled by sheer willpower. But Francesco's hand was already there.
Smack.
The shot didn't even rise. Francesco's fingers met leather at the peak, slapping the ball down with the weight of inevitability.
The ball shot off like a bullet toward the opposite side of the court.
Francesco turned instantly, chasing it down.
But behind him... Aleksandar didn't move.
His legs buckled beneath him, as if all strength had finally been spent. He crumpled to the floor, his back hitting the cold hardwood with a dull thud.
And then just breathing.
Heavy.
Desperate.
Broken.
His chest heaved, pulling in every ounce of oxygen it could steal. His arms laid out to his sides, motionless.
"This... this might be it," he thought, staring at the lights above. "this is... really the end."
The gym was quiet now.
Just the sound of a ball bouncing in the distance, and the ragged, honest breath of a fighter who had given everything.
Francesco's footsteps echoed across the half court like the sound of inevitability.
The ball had bounced away loose, wild, untamed but he corralled it effortlessly, scooping it up in stride like a predator chasing down prey. His eyes flicked back once... just once.
And there sat Aleksandar.
Collapsed at the top of the arc, his body slumped, hands gripping his knees, breath ragged and soul aching. His jersey clung to him, drenched with sweat. His chest rose and fell like waves crashing in a storm. But he didn't rise.
He couldn't.
Francesco didn't need to say anything. There was no need for taunts now. The scoreboard was already etched in fate.
"This match... it's mine."
Without breaking stride, Francesco accelerated toward the rim. There were no theatrics. No dunks. No roars. Just one final motion simple, clean, absolute.
He laid the ball in with a gentle flick off the glass.
It kissed the backboard and fell through the net with a soft swishhhh like a curtain being drawn on a stage performance.
11 to 8.
Silence followed. No cheers. No applause. Just the quiet weight of reality settling in.
Francesco turned, breathing hard, sweat dripping down his brow. He stared at Aleksandar still on the floor, eyes cast downward, shadowed by defeat.