The gym at Lincoln High was suffocating with pressure. Bleachers packed. The crowd roared like a tidal wave crashing against the court. Cell phones were out. Scouts lined the sidelines. This was more than a game; it was the beginning of something big.
Lincoln vs. Westside. Two undefeated schools. One city. One shot at dominance.
Dante King stood at the free-throw line, bouncing the ball with a calm rhythm that betrayed the storm in his chest. His eyes were steady on the rim, but his thoughts raced, Coach Hale's words echoing in his mind: "They'll come at you like wolves. Don't feed them your fear."
Swish. First one down. The gym erupted.
He glanced at Westside's bench. Their point guard, CJ Mills, sat smirking, mouthing something Dante couldn't hear, probably trash talk. CJ was flashy, loud, and arrogant, but he could hoop. The city called him "Showtime."
But Dante? Dante was different. Silent, surgical.
Second free throw. Bounce. Breathe. Release.
Swish.
Lincoln up 2.
As they jogged back on defense, Rico slapped Dante's hand. "Let's go, bro! Lock in."
Westside inbounded the ball. CJ brought it up with swagger, his handle tight, head on a swivel. He waved off the screen; he wanted Dante one-on-one.
The crowd stood up. Everyone could feel it.
CJ juked right, crossed over left, then spun, only for Dante to be right there, not biting on a single fake. CJ hesitated, pulled up midrange.
Clank. Miss.
Rebound Lincoln.
Dante took it coast to coast. No hesitation. He glided past the half-court line, shifted gears, and exploded to the rim, two defenders trailing. With one smooth motion, he euro-stepped through traffic and laid it in with his left.
Timeout Westside.
The gym blew up.
Coach Hale pumped his fist on the sidelines. "That's what I'm talkin' about."
On the bench, players slapped towels and screamed. Dante, still patient, just nodded once.
But inside, he was feeling it.
Back in the huddle, Coach Hale didn't waste time. "We're doing good, but Mills is gonna keep trying to bait you. Don't let him drag you into his show."
Dante nodded. "We won't Coach."
Coach continued, "They're rotating to zone when you drive. So next time, kick to Jamal on the wing. He's hot. Rico, crash the boards harder. They're weak on second chances."
Everyone echoed a collective "Let's go!" before breaking the huddle.
Third quarter. Lincoln up 7.
CJ came out firing, hitting a deep three from the hash mark that silenced the home crowd.
Then a steal. Then a lob.
Westside was back in it, just like that.
Momentum shifted.
Lincoln was stumbling. Turnover. Missed assignments.
Timeout.
Dante sat, towel over his head, breathing hard. Hale crouched in front of him. "You're the anchor, son. You break, we all break. Get us back."
No rants. No yelling. Just trust.
Dante stood. "We got this."
Final quarter.
Score: 61-60. Lincoln up by one.
Every dribble echoed like thunder.
CJ had the ball with 30 seconds left. He waved for an iso again. The crowd buzzed. He danced with it, crossover, step back, pump fake, Dante stayed low, focused on his hips.
CJ launched a three.
Front rim.
Dante snagged the rebound.
Coach yelled, "Hold it!"
But Dante saw the lane open.
He didn't hesitate.
The moment slowed. His sneakers screeched as he shifted gears. He pushed the ball up court, slicing through defenders. One last man met him at the rim.
Too late.
Dante went up, body twisted in mid-air, and kissed it off the glass as the whistle blew.
And-one.
The bench exploded.
Crowd? The crowd exploded as if there was an earthquake happening.
He flexed, chest rising, as his teammates mobbed him.
He knocked down the free throw. Lincoln up four. Ten seconds to go.
Westside scrambled, launched a desperation three.
Airball.
Final buzzer.
Lincoln wins.
In the locker room, the boys celebrated like champions, but Dante sat quietly in his corner, sipping water.
Coach Hale walked over, hand on his shoulder. "That was a statement."
Dante looked up. "Still got a season left."
Coach smiled. "That's what makes you dangerous."
From across the room, Rico shouted, "They're gonna be talking about that and-one all week!"
Jamal chimed in, "Naw, it was the clamps D put on CJ. He couldn't breathe."
Dante cracked a rare smile.
But as the room erupted into another round of cheers and shoulder bumps, his phone buzzed.
A text from a number he didn't know.
"Keep hoopin'. You're on the radar now."
He stared at it for a second before locking the screen.
Whatever came next, Dante knew this was only the beginning.
Coach Hale ran a hand through his hair and looked out over the court one last time before locking eyes with Dante.
"You still got your head down, King?"
Dante straightened up. "No, Coach."
"Good. Because this ain't the end. It's the beginning. You think Oakwood's the peak? Nah. They're just another checkpoint on the climb."
Rico nodded beside him. "We got more in the tank. That was just the preview."
Coach smiled faintly. "That's the energy I want. Now listen, Monday's practice? Ain't gonna be soft. You got bruises? Ice 'em. You got egos? Check 'em. We've got Kennedy next. They press harder than Oakwood. They trap every possession. And they got that sophomore guard who led the district in steals last season."
"Tremaine Ross," Dante said quietly. "I watched his tape last night."
Coach's brows rose. "You did?"
Dante nodded. "He's quick. Smart. Jumps the passing lanes like a veteran. I'll need to change my angles, maybe slow up the tempo sometimes."
Coach Hale grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. "That's what I'm talkin' about."
As the rest of the team filed out, Coach lingered behind with Dante and Rico.
"You two are the soul of this team, whether you like it or not," he said. "When you lead, they follow. So lead with poise. Lead with purpose. Got it?"
Rico gave a firm nod. Dante said, "Got it, Coach."
Outside, the city night wrapped Lincoln in its familiar mix of chill and noise. Streetlights flickered over cracked sidewalks. Students walked home with their backpacks slung low, a few still talking about the game.
As Dante and Rico made their way out of the gym, they spotted a group of younger boys shooting at the rusted rim near the edge of the school's parking lot. No net, half a backboard, and still they played like it was the NBA Finals.
Dante slowed his pace, watching them. One of the kids, maybe ten or eleven, tried to do a spin move and lost the ball out of bounds.
"Yo!" Dante called. "Tighten that handle!"
The kid froze. His eyes widened when he saw who it was. "D-Dante King?"
Rico laughed. "You famous already, D."
Dante stepped onto the court. "Mind if I show you something real quick?"
The boys crowded around. The one who had fumbled the ball nodded eagerly.
Dante bent low, dribbled slow and controlled. "The trick ain't to be fast at first. It's to be balanced. See this?" He shifted his weight with each bounce, maintaining perfect posture. "Now spin," he turned sharply, switching hands mid-spin and stopping on a dime, "but keep your body tight. You lose the ball when your arms fly out."
The kid tried again, mimicking his move, and this time, the ball stuck.
"Yeah!" Rico cheered. "That's what I'm talkin' about!"
One of the younger boys turned to Dante. "Are you going to the NBA?"
Dante smiled faintly. "That's the goal."
"You're gonna make it," the kid said confidently. "You play different. Like a movie."
Rico chuckled, nudging Dante. "Told you you had fans."
They stayed a few minutes longer, laughing and playing, letting the tension of the night ease off. For Dante, it was a grounding moment. These kids weren't scoreboard watchers. They didn't care about rankings or turnovers. They just saw someone who looked like them making it, and that was enough.
Later, as they walked home in the glow of the streetlights, Rico finally said, "You know, this game… it ain't just about ball. It's about responsibility. When they look at you, they see hope."
Dante nodded, the weight of that truth settling over him. "And I'm not gonna waste it."
They reached the block where their streets split. Rico paused. "You locked in for Monday?"
"Locked in," Dante replied.
"Then let's give Kennedy hell."
They bumped fists and split ways, the hum of the city quiet around them now. Dante walked the rest of the way with his hood up, hands deep in his pockets, his mind already rewinding plays from tonight and fast-forwarding through the possibilities of what came next.
Inside his apartment, his mom was asleep on the couch, a half-finished mug of tea on the coffee table. Dante turned off the TV for her, pulled a blanket over her shoulders, and sat for a moment.
He looked down at his calloused hands.
They weren't just made for scoring.
They were made for building.
And he wasn't done yet.