The game had officially started.
Crimson Crest versus Moonveil.
The tournament opener.
And if you thought it was just basketball, some friendly, squeaky-shoes, balls-bouncing kind of thing, you'd be wrong.
These boys moved like predators disguised in polyester jerseys, every shift of muscle sharp and calculated, every glance an unspoken threat.
You'd think the court was a gladiator's arena and the ball some sacred relic, judging by how life-or-death they all looked about it.
And to be honest it was.
The thunk-thunk-thunk of the ball against the varnished wood echoed like a second heartbeat in my chest.
Elias had it first. Get it.
He drove forward, green Moonveil jersey clinging to his shoulders, and for a split second, I forgot to breathe.
He moved fast, sharper than I'd seen him inside this court. One defender. Gone.
Another pivot. Another spin.
He was doing great.
But then there was Scott Tyler.
