The third period started with rotations again. Darius watched from the bench as Marcus and the backups took the floor. Across the court, Brandon sat too, that same analytical look in his eyes as he studied Lincoln Heights' offense.
Westfield's backup point guard brought it up and immediately turned it over. Marcus pushed in transition, finding Davis for an easy layup.
Lincoln Heights 54, Westfield 46.
The lead stretched to ten, then twelve. Marcus was cooking now, his experience showing against Westfield's second unit. But Darius noticed something else—Westfield's coach kept glancing at the clock, waiting for the right moment.
Three minutes into the period, both coaches made the call.
"Darius, Connor, Ty—you're in."
Darius checked in at the scorer's table. Brandon was there too, adjusting his headband. They didn't look at each other this time. Didn't need to.
The whistle blew.
Darius brought the ball up, and Brandon's pressure was different now. More calculated. Like he'd spent the entire break studying tendencies, looking for patterns. He was playing off Darius slightly, daring him to shoot but ready to recover if he drove.
He's got a plan, Darius thought.
Darius crossed half court and called for a screen. Connor came up to set it, and Brandon fought through—but this time, Westfield's center hedged hard, showing on Darius aggressively before recovering.
They're trying to take away my drives.
Darius stepped back and hit Connor on the roll. Connor caught it, took one dribble, and finished with a floater.
Lincoln Heights 56, Westfield 46.
Brandon brought it back with purpose. He crossed half court and waved everyone to clear out. Isolation time. His dribble was methodical as he sized Darius up.
The drive came hard—not trying to finesse, just using his body to create contact. Darius stayed in front, but Brandon was strong, creating space with his shoulder. He got into the paint and rose up through Jerome's contest.
The layup was tough, but it fell.
Lincoln Heights 56, Westfield 48.
"Sixteen," Brandon said.
Darius brought it up and immediately tested the new defensive scheme. He attacked off the dribble, and Westfield's center showed hard. Darius kicked it to Ty in the corner.
Swish.
Lincoln Heights 59, Westfield 48.
Brandon grabbed the ball and pushed immediately. This time he didn't waste time with isolation. He drove hard right, using his body to shield the ball. Jerome stepped up, and Brandon absorbed the contact, finishing with a tough layup through the foul.
And one.
Lincoln Heights 59, Westfield 51.
"That's how you do it!" Westfield's crowd roared as Brandon sank the free throw.
Darius brought it back up, and this time he felt the adjustment. Westfield was loading up on him, sending help from everywhere. They were daring his teammates to beat them.
Fine.
Darius swung the ball to Connor on the wing. Connor attacked the closeout and kicked it to Ty. Open three.
Swish.
Lincoln Heights 62, Westfield 51.
Brandon brought it up and went straight back to his game—that physical, punishing style that wore defenders down. He drove into the paint, using his body to create space. The layup went up soft.
Good.
Lincoln Heights 62, Westfield 53.
The next five possessions were a blur. Darius hit Marcus cutting baseline for two. Brandon answered with a mid-range pull-up. Darius drove and kicked to Connor for three. Brandon posted up Darius in the paint—yeah, posted him up—and finished with a baby hook.
Lincoln Heights 67, Westfield 57.
"Man, he's just bullying his way in there," Connor muttered during a dead ball.
"Let him," Darius said. "Long as we're hitting threes, we're good."
And they were. Because that was the math. Brandon could get his twos all night, but every time Darius hit a teammate for three, it was like getting a bucket and a half. The lead stayed comfortable even as Brandon kept scoring.
Two minutes left in the period. Darius brought it up and immediately felt the trap. Westfield was pressing full court now, desperate to create turnovers. He hit Connor with an outlet pass and sprinted ahead.
The ball found him on the wing, and suddenly he had space. Brandon was recovering, but he was a step late.
Darius rose up for three. The shot felt pure.
Swish.
Lincoln Heights 70, Westfield 57.
Brandon grabbed the ball and attacked with urgency. He drove hard into the paint, finished through contact.
And one.
Lincoln Heights 70, Westfield 60.
But Darius answered on the next possession. Motion offense, ball swinging, and suddenly Ty was cutting baseline. Darius hit him with a perfect bounce pass. Easy layup.
Lincoln Heights 72, Westfield 60.
Brandon brought it back and went straight into attack mode. Drive, contact, layup. He was relentless, using his body to create angles that shouldn't exist.
Lincoln Heights 72, Westfield 62.
Thirty seconds left. Darius brought it up and called for a quick hitter. Screen right, reject, screen left. The ball swung to Connor on the wing. Open three.
Swish.
Lincoln Heights 75, Westfield 62.
The buzzer sounded.
The fourth period became a highlight reel.
Darius brought the ball up and hit Marcus on a backdoor cut. Two points. Brandon answered with a tough layup through traffic. Darius swung it to Ty for three. Brandon drove and finished with a reverse layup. Darius pulled up from mid-range. Brandon posted up again and scored through contact.
Back and forth, but the math never changed. Twos versus threes. Physical dominance versus tactical precision.
With five minutes left, the score was 89-76, Lincoln Heights.
Brandon had thirty-two points, but he looked tired. All that physicality, all those drives—it was wearing him down. Meanwhile, Darius was moving the ball, getting his teammates involved, conserving energy.
"Motion!" Darius called, and the offense flowed. Three passes later, Connor had an open three.
Swish.
Lincoln Heights 92, Westfield 76.
Brandon tried to answer, driving hard into the paint. But this time Jerome was there, and the shot was blocked. Darius grabbed the rebound and pushed.
Fast break. Ty finished with a dunk that had Lincoln Heights' small cheering section going crazy.
Lincoln Heights 94, Westfield 76.
Westfield called timeout. When they came back, Brandon was still hunting. He scored on a tough layup. Then another. Then a mid-range pull-up.
Lincoln Heights 94, Westfield 82.
But every time Brandon scored, Darius had an answer. A three-pointer from the wing. An assist to Marcus for an easy two. Another three from the corner off Darius's drive and kick.
With two minutes left, the score was 103-86.
Brandon brought it up one more time, and Darius could see it in his eyes—pure respect mixed with frustration. He'd dropped thirty-eight points and they were still down seventeen.
Brandon drove one last time, finishing with a layup that brought his total to forty.
"Forty," he said to Darius. Not bragging. Just acknowledging.
Darius brought it up for the final possession of the game. The clock was winding down, and Coach Martinez was already pulling his starters. But Darius had one more play in him.
He crossed half court and pulled up from twenty-five feet. Deep three. The kind you only take when you're feeling it.
The ball arced through the air, spinning perfect.
Swish.
Lincoln Heights 106, Westfield 88.
The buzzer sounded. Game over.
The handshake line was quiet. When Darius reached Brandon, the junior held his hand for an extra second.
"What'd you end with?" Brandon asked.
"Thirty-two points, twelve assists," Darius said.
Brandon nodded once. "You're a problem, freshman."
"You too."
As Darius walked to the locker room, he heard Coach Martinez talking to Westfield's coach near mid-court.
"That Mitchell kid is special," Coach Martinez was saying. "Elite Eight caliber easy."
"So's your point guard," Westfield's coach replied. "How old is he?"
"Fourteen."
There was a pause. "You're kidding."
"Wish I was."
In the locker room, Connor was already pulling up the stats on his phone. "Yo, Darius dropped thirty-two and twelve! MVP for sure!"
The team erupted in celebration. Marcus dapped him up. Ty threw a towel at his head. Jerome was already talking about the next game.
But Darius was thinking about something else. About how Brandon had scored forty and still lost. About how being unstoppable as an individual didn't matter if you couldn't make your team unstoppable too.
His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
Good game. See you in the district tournament. - Brandon
Darius smiled and typed back.
Looking forward to it.
Because he knew something now. Something that six months ago, he wouldn't have understood.
Being a great player was about scoring.
Being an elite player was about winning.
And Darius was just getting started.