The first quarter buzzer was a merciless shriek that barely managed to puncture the stadium's deafening roar. Tristan's gaze shot to the scoreboard. Grey Wolves: 20, Black Mambas: 18. A two-point deficit that felt like a twenty-point chasm. His lungs burned, and his jersey was already soaked through, clinging to his skin like a second, heavier layer. They collapsed onto the bench, a circle of gasping chests and grim faces, the collective taste of salt and exhaustion in their mouths.
"Two points," Tristan said, his voice a low rasp as he leaned forward, locking eyes with each of them. "That's one possession. They got their run, now we get ours." He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "They're running everything through Aiden. He's looking to score or draw the foul.
Gab, stay on his hip, make him work for every inch. Felix, when he drives, force him to his left—his crossover is weaker going that way. Offensively, we keep the ball moving. Fast breaks. Don't let their defense get set."
"Let me take him, Tris," Marco growled, pounding a fist into his palm, his eyes blazing with competitive fire. "I can slow him down."
"No," Gab interjected, his voice a calm, steadying anchor in Marco's storm. "We stick to the plan. Discipline. We wear him down as a team, not one-on-one. We trust the system."
Tristan nodded at Gab, putting a hand on Marco's shoulder. "Gab's right. Your job is to run the floor and be our dagger on the break. Save your energy for that. Now let's go take back the lead."
The announcer's voice boomed as they walked back onto the court, their black jerseys stark against the brightly lit floor. "Second quarter action is underway! Get ready for more fireworks, folks!"
The referee's whistle was their starting gun.
Tristan took the inbound pass, the familiar feel of the pebbled leather calming the storm in his chest. Aiden was on him instantly, a long, suffocating shadow. He brought the ball up the court, his dribble low and controlled. He saw Gab sliding towards the right corner out of his periphery. Faking a drive to the left, Tristan planted his foot hard, crossed over, and felt Aiden's weight shift a fraction of a second too late. That was all the space he needed. Without looking, he whipped a one-handed bounce pass through the lane.
"Gab! Corner!"
The ball arrived perfectly in Gab's shooting pocket. He didn't hesitate. His form was a fluid, practiced poem—feet set, elbow tucked, a flick of the wrist. The muscle memory of a thousand practice shots took over. The ball spun through the air in a high, perfect arc, and the sound of it splashing through the net was the sweetest music in the world.
The crowd detonated. Tristan pumped his fist, yelling, "That's what I'm talking about!"
The scoreboard flipped: 21-20, Mambas.
The lead was a fleeting high. Aiden brought the ball up for the Grey Wolves, his expression unreadable. He wasn't just fast; he was patient. He used a screen from his center, Dan, forcing Felix to switch onto him.
Seeing the mismatch, Aiden didn't just drive wildly. He backed Felix down with two powerful dribbles, then executed a lightning-quick spin move, finishing with a soft, impossibly high-arcing floater that dropped cleanly through the hoop.
He's not just an athlete, Tristan thought, a shiver of grudging respect running down his spine. He's a surgeon.
The score was now 22-21, their favor. The war of attrition had begun.
The second quarter became a furious duel, a showcase of two opposing philosophies. Aiden was the solo artist, a whirlwind of individual brilliance. He hit contested jumpers, threaded impossible passes, and directed his team with the cool authority of a seasoned general.
But the Black Mambas were a symphony of controlled chaos. Tristan pushed the pace relentlessly, turning every rebound into a fast break opportunity. With five minutes left in the quarter and the score knotted at 30-30, he grabbed a defensive board and took off.
"Marco, run!" he screamed, already seeing the play unfold.
He dribbled past half-court, drawing two defenders. At the last possible second, he fired a no-look pass to the right wing. Marco caught it in stride, a blur of black jersey eating up the court in three massive strides before launching himself into the air. He laid the ball gently off the glass, and it fell through the net. 32-30, Mambas.
The Wolves, however, were relentless. Their next possession wasn't Aiden taking over, but something worse. He drove hard into the paint, drawing Tristan and Gab towards him.
Just as they collapsed on him, he leapt, and instead of shooting, he kicked the ball out to his shooting guard, Kevin Lim, wide open in the corner. The shot was up and in before they could even react. 33-32, Wolves. They were more than a one-man team.
With one minute left, the score stood at 38-38. Every muscle in his body screamed, but the adrenaline was a fire in his veins. The crowd was a single, roaring entity, living and dying with every possession.
The Wolves missed a jumper, and Felix ripped down the rebound, immediately passing it to him. Ten seconds on the clock. Tristan flew down the court, Aiden matching him step for step. There was no time for a play. It was him versus Aiden.
At the three-point line, he jab-stepped right. Aiden didn't bite. He dribbled hard left, then slammed on the brakes, pulling the ball back between his legs as his defender slid past him. He had a sliver of space. Four seconds left. He rose up, elevating off the floor, but Aiden recovered instantly, his long arm contesting the shot, his fingertips grazing the ball.
As he started his descent, Tristan adjusted in mid-air, leaning back, creating an impossible angle—a fadeaway jumper born of desperation and instinct. Three seconds. The ball left his hands, spinning towards the basket. The entire gymnasium held its breath. The world went silent and slow. He watched its arc, a perfect, hopeful curve against the harsh lights.
Swish.
The sound was immediately consumed by the final, deafening scream of the halftime buzzer. The scoreboard flickered, a beacon of hope in the chaos:
Black Mambas: 40, Grey Wolves: 38.
They didn't cheer. They didn't shout. They simply stumbled towards the locker room, leaning on each other for support. As they walked through the tunnel, their shoulders knocking together, Tristan looked at the exhausted, sweat-streaked faces of his brothers.
"That was a war," he gasped, his voice barely a whisper. "And we're still standing." He met their eyes, one by one. "That's one half. We've got another one to win."
A collective, determined nod was his only answer. It was all that was needed. They weren't just players; they were survivors, forged together in the crucible of a championship. The fight was far from over, but for now, they had the lead, and their will was unbroken.