Jamie stood once again at the top of the arc, the ball rhythmically bouncing beneath his hand. Thiseas was right there in front of him locked in, focused, eyes burning with a desperate fire.
This… this was it.
"If I can't stop him now… it's over."
The gym was quiet in that split second. Even the air seemed to tense.
But Jamie didn't attack.
Instead, he passed.
A quick dish to the right wing, into the hands of his teammate.
And then Jamie moved.
A sudden burst of speed. He darted off the ball, cutting hard toward the paint.
Thiseas's eyes sharpened.
"Alley oop. He's going for it again!,"
He bolted after him, every muscle screaming, not willing to let history repeat itself.
But that's when it happened.
The real play.
Jamie's teammate calm and collected bounced the ball behind his back, then shifted into a smooth between the legs dribble. He stopped for a split second, just enough for a hesitation move, then exploded forward, driving past his defender with ease.
Thiseas, now realizing the misdirection, could only glance back as the action unfolded.
Jamie wasn't the finisher this time.
His teammate was.
And as he pulled up at the free throw line elevating like he'd done it a thousand times he let the ball float from his fingertips with a calm, calculated motion.
The shot flew.
A perfect arc in the air.
Silence.
Clang.
The ball hit the rim.
As the ball ricocheted off the rim, Thiseas reacted instantly.
"To my left come here, fast!" he shouted, voice sharp and urgent.
His teammate understood immediately. Sprinting in from the wing, they converged beneath the hoop Thiseas, his teammate, and Jamie, all launching into the air like springs unleashed.
It was chaotic, bodies clashing midair, hands reaching desperately toward the orange ball. But in that instant, Jamie stood out.
His posture never broke.
His balance never wavered.
While the others flailed for positioning, Jamie floated like a statue carved of stone solid, calm, and perfectly timed.
He secured the rebound.
As the trio hit the floor again, the ball tightly in Jamie's grip, Thiseas barked again without hesitation.
"Double team him! Don't let him shoot!"
His teammate reacted, closing in. Jamie now stood close to the baseline, cornered, both defenders tightening around him like a vice.
Even Jamie, for a moment, paused.
He couldn't pivot out.
He couldn't shoot from this angle.
But he didn't panic.
His eyes darted scanning the court in an instant.
And then he saw it.
On the far side of the court, a flash of movement his teammate, cutting inside behind the distracted defense.
Jamie didn't hesitate. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he threaded a lightning quick bounce pass between both defenders. The ball zipped past Thiseas's foot, grazing the hardwood.
Perfectly timed. Perfectly aimed.
His teammate caught it in stride and, without needing to gather, softly laid the ball off the glass and into the hoop.
Another bucket.
The scoreboard ticked upward.
The silence that followed was louder than any roar.
Thiseas clenched his jaw.
"We had him. We had him…"
But Jamie didn't even look back.
He simply raised a hand toward his teammate, calm and composed, as if saying:
"That's how we do it. Only one more."
The court had grown cold.
Not from the temperature…
But from the silence of hearts that had already given up.
Thiseas stood near the elbow, hands on his knees, gasping but not from exhaustion.
It was the weight.
The weight of defeat.
The weight of reality crashing down on him.
His eyes drifted toward Jamie, who calmly adjusted his jersey at the top of the arc, ball in hand, unbothered untouchable.
"This is it…"
That thought echoed in Thiseas's mind like a funeral bell.
They only needed one more point.
Just one.
"What's the point in trying…?"
His muscles, once coiled like springs, now hung loose slack with resignation.
There was no more fire.
No more belief.
Only the bitter taste of realization.
"I thought I had a chance. I thought I was special. But this guy... Jamie... he's not just better. He's levels above. He's the future. I'm just... a footnote."
He straightened up, slowly, as if even gravity was mocking him.
His teammates, too, had long stopped moving with purpose. Their steps were heavy, defense lazy eyes empty.
No communication.
No effort.
Just waiting.
Waiting for the final nail.
"I'll take that college offer... Division II. That's where I belong. I was arrogant to think otherwise. He showed me what a real pro looks like."
Jamie bounced the ball, calm, focused, and without drama. His eyes scanned the court one last time.
Thiseas didn't even call for help.
He didn't move.
He just stood there watching.
And that was the most painful part.
He was no longer being devoured by Jamie's greatness.
He had already been swallowed whole.
The last possession was nothing more than ceremony.
The ball bounced with calm rhythm against the hardwood.
Jamie began his drive.
Thiseas was in front of him technically.
But there was no tension.
No fire.
No resistance.
It wasn't a clash of wills this time.
It was a formality.
Jamie passed by him with effortless steps, like walking past an old poster of a rival long forgotten.
There was no need for tricks.
No need for power.
Only silence.
Jamie took two strides, rose into the air, and with a sharp twist of his body
SLAM.
A thunderous windmill dunk echoed through the gym.
The backboard rattled. The rim groaned.
And with that, the match was sealed.
Final score: 11 to 1.
The stats told their own story:
Jamie: 4 points, 4 assists, 2 rebounds, 2 blocks.
Thiseas: 1 point, 1 rebound.
The numbers were cold.
But the feeling was colder.
Jamie landed lightly and turned around, sweat glistening under the gym lights.
He approached Thiseas, extended his hand, and locked eyes with him just briefly.
"Good game," he said flatly.
Then, with a glance sharper than his crossover, Jamie added:
"Why did you give up?"
It wasn't shouted.
It wasn't cruel.
Just a rhetorical question dropped like a dagger in a soft voice.
He didn't mean to wound but the blade still cut.
Thiseas opened his mouth, unsure of what he even wanted to say.
But Jamie was already walking away.
He didn't wait for an answer.
Didn't look back.
Just made his way to the vending machine, grabbed a bottle of water, and twisted off the cap with a practiced flick.
The crowd had seen greatness.
But to Jamie?
It was just the first match of the day.