Chapter 27: Chapter 27

The gym was alive with energy—the sound of sneakers screeching against the hardwood, the deep echoes of the ball bouncing, the roaring crowd reacting to every play.

But Noah White barely heard any of it.

His eyes were glued to the court.

To his little brother.

Or rather—the empty spot where Aiden White should have been standing.

Noah clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palm.

He tried to focus on the game. He tried to just watch. But the pain—that old, familiar pain—never left him.

"(If only I didn't have this stupid injury back then... perhaps I could be like them.)"

A deep, aching regret swirled inside him.

Noah had once been one of the best. More of a prodigy than Alec Storm himself.

But fate didn't care about talent.

It didn't care about dreams.

The moment his ACL snapped, everything changed.

His entire basketball future—gone.

Now, he could only watch.

His gaze landed on Ethan Albarado.

A player he had never heard of.

Noah's green eyes narrowed.

"This guy... he's different."

There was something about the way Ethan moved.

His ball-handling. His court vision. His passes.

Noah had seen elite passers before. But this?

This wasn't ordinary.

Noah leaned forward slightly, eyes flicking toward the scoreboard.

[3rd Quarter – 1:00 Remaining]

He exhaled, gripping the railing in front of him.

Not even for Vorpal Basket.

Noah may not have been able to continue his basketball dream.

And if he couldn't be out there—

Then at the very least, he wanted his brother to win.

Even if it was just this one game.

[Ethan Albarado's POV]

The ball bounced rhythmically against the polished hardwood as Ethan dribbled up the court.

His movements were smooth—controlled—but his mind was racing.

His blue eyes scanned the floor, taking everything in.

He didn't need to look at the scoreboard.

"(We can't surpass their score. Not yet.)"

But winning wasn't the goal of this quarter.

"(We can stop them from scoring until the 4th. If I just play my cards right...)"

He sucked in a sharp breath.

The five players in front of him—Orlando's bench squad—weren't weak.

Even their reserves were a level above most teams' starters.

They were quick. Strong. Disciplined.

Ethan clicked his tongue.

"(Even their bench is strong...)"

He stole a quick glance at his own teammates.

Sweat dripped from their brows.

Their jerseys clung to their bodies.

They were still standing.

Ethan exhaled slowly, his lips curling into a small smirk.

"(Well, it's not like we're not that good either...)"

He locked eyes with Coonie Smith, who was watching him with a confused expression.

He already had a countermeasure.

He had been waiting for this moment.

One minute left in the third quarter.

The perfect time to shut Orlando down.

And when the fourth quarter came—

They wouldn't just defend.

[3rd Quarter – 0:40 Remaining]

Coonie Smith felt his breath hitch for a second.

Ethan Albarado had just passed the ball to Jeremy Park, one of the lesser-used bench players.

Ethan wasn't the type to make random plays.

There was always a reason.

Coonie narrowed his eyes, but before he could say anything—

Ethan turned toward him.

(What the hell? Why is he looking at me?)

His body tensed instinctively.

Did he do something wrong? Did Ethan expect him to move?

Before Coonie could figure it out, Ethan walked up to him.

Coonie blinked. "Yes? I mean—what?"

Ethan's voice was steady, calm, but there was something in his tone.

"I have a plan... only you can do."

Coonie's brow furrowed.

Ethan nodded, his blue eyes filled with confidence.

Something about those words made Coonie feel strange.

Like, for the first time, someone expected something from him.

Like someone actually believed in him.

Ethan's gaze flickered slightly.

His system screen was up—the translucent window only he could see.

[Clutch Instinct] – (Locked Ability)

A hidden talent only activated under high-pressure situations.

Boosts reaction speed, decision-making, and shot accuracy in critical moments.

Ethan's eyes glowed with determination.

(Time to unlock his ability!)

He needed Coonie to step up.

Because right now, only he could pull this off.

Ethan inhaled sharply, looking at the game clock.

He clenched his fists.

They had one last chance before the fourth quarter.

And he was going to make it count.

[3rd Quarter – 0:35 Remaining]

Jeremy Park—Vorpal Basket's Power Forward, number 42—dribbled up the court.

His eyes locked onto his defender.

A tall, muscular power forward standing in front of him.

Dark skin, sharp eyes, an intimidating presence.

Jeremy's fingers gripped the ball tighter.

But before he could even process the thought—

"But talented than you."

Jeremy's body stiffened.

He didn't react outwardly, but inside?

He felt a spark of irritation.

Ralph wasn't just talking.

Jeremy could see it in his eyes.

Like he was already convinced that he was better.

That this wasn't even a competition.

Jeremy's jaw tightened.

He wanted to say something.

To throw something back at Ralph.

He let his actions talk instead.

Jeremy lowered his stance, dribbling aggressively with his left hand.

A hard pound dribble.

The ball bounced off the polished floor with a sharp thud, the sound echoing in the gym.

Ralph Freeman didn't move.

"(Tsk. He's testing me.)"

Jeremy took a quick jab step forward, selling the drive—

Jeremy's eyes flickered.

"(He's patient... but I'm not stopping here.)"

Jeremy shifted his weight, pushing off his right foot—driving hard to the basket.

Ralph reacted instantly.

His body moved before Jeremy even took his second step.

His footwork was sharp.

His lateral movement? Perfect.

He cut off the drive effortlessly.

Jeremy nearly stumbled.

Ralph smirked again, his voice low and taunting.

"That all you got, number 42?"

Jeremy gritted his teeth.

Then pivoted back toward the baseline, trying to shake Ralph off.

He didn't even flinch.

He stayed locked in, arms wide, stance strong.

Jeremy suddenly felt suffocated.

Like no matter what move he made, Ralph had an answer.

Jeremy's heart pounded.

"(Fuck... he's strong.)"

His teammates were shouting for him to pass.

But he didn't want to.

Not against this arrogant bastard.

He clenched his teeth, switching the ball back to his right hand.

He had one more move left.

Jeremy planted his feet—

The ball soared through the air.

For a second—just a second—Jeremy thought it might go in.

A massive hand slapped the ball mid-air.

Ralph Freeman had anticipated it.

Had read it perfectly.

The ball flew toward the sidelines.

Jeremy landed hard, his breath ragged.

He stared at Ralph, disbelief in his eyes.

He didn't even look surprised.

"You're not on my level."

The gym buzzed with murmurs.

The Orlando bench clapped.

Coach Corson gave a satisfied nod.

He gritted his teeth.

Ethan Albarado watched the whole thing from the three-point line.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

(Damn it. That was rough.)

Brandon, standing beside him , clicked his tongue.

"That guy... he's on another level."

Ethan didn't disagree.

At the way his fists clenched.

At the way his eyes burned with frustration.

(Good. Get mad, Jeremy. Use that anger.)

Because the game wasn't over yet.

[3rd Quarter – 0:17 Remaining]

The gym was electric. The atmosphere tense.

Every second on the clock felt heavier.

Ethan Albarado's sharp blue eyes flickered toward the scoreboard.

"(Seventeen seconds left.)"

Just one more possession.

One last shot before the quarter ended.

Ethan turned his gaze toward Coonie Smith.

Coonie was panting, tense. His fingers twitched.

(I'm counting on you, Coonie.)

Coonie's heart pounded hard in his chest.

The weight of the moment crashed down on him.

He wasn't the star player.

He wasn't the go-to scorer.

The ball was going to come to him.

And he had to make it.

He remembered Ethan's words.

"Coonie, if I pass you the ball, you need to shoot it. No hesitation. No overthinking. Just shoot."

Coonie had scoffed at first.

"So that's your plan?"

Ethan had nodded, his voice steady.

"Yes. Just leave it to me. I guarantee you can shoot it without fail."

Coonie's fingers curled into a fist.

Back in the present, he swallowed hard.

He glanced at the game clock.

(No more doubting myself.)

Ethan dribbled up the court, eyes scanning the floor.

Lucas Graves was on the bench now, he loves to stand and watch the game. A basketball addict.

Evan Cooper? Resting for the fourth quarter.

The starters were out.

The Orlando Hoops bench unit wasn't weak.

They still had athletic, capable players.

But they weren't Alec Storm, Mason Hayes, or Julian Cross.

They could be exploited.

Ethan kept his dribble steady as he moved toward the right wing.

His defender, Terrance Woods, a long-armed shooting guard from Orlando's bench, shadowed him tightly.

Ethan bounced the ball low, waiting.

The defense was overcommitting.

They were anticipating a drive.

With 0:12 seconds left—

A sudden explosive first step toward the left, forcing Terrance to shift.

Then—a quick spin back to the right.

Terrance's body tensed—he was half a step too late.

Ethan had created just enough space.

Now—he just needed to draw them in.

With 0:08 seconds left—

He drove hard into the paint.

Orlando's backup center, Darnell Fox, a bulky 6'6" player, stepped up to contest.

But he didn't go for the layup.

He whipped a no-look pass behind his back.

The ball shot straight toward the left wing.

Right into Coonie Smith's hands.

Coonie's eyes widened.

The clock ticked down.

He could hear the crowd. The footsteps. The shouting.

His mind screamed at him—Shoot. Now.

Coonie sucked in a sharp breath.

Orlando's defenders lunged toward him.

Jared Wallace, a scrappy defensive forward, was closing in fast.

Coonie released the shot.

The ball soared through the air.

The gym fell into a hushed silence.

Every eye was locked onto the spinning ball.

For a split second, he didn't move.

He just stared at the rim.

The ball had gone in.

He hit the buzzer-beater.

Ethan, still standing at the top of the key, grinned.

Lucas punched the air from the bench.

Kai Mendoza grabbed Coonie's shoulders, shaking him.

"Holy shit, you hit that!!"

Brandon Young rushed over, grinning.

Coonie staggered back, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

He pumped his fist in the air.

Even the Orlando Hoops players were caught off guard.

Jared Wallace clenched his jaw.

"Tch. That was lucky."

But deep down—he knew.

Coach Corson's lips pressed into a thin line.

Meanwhile, Ethan Albarado?

He just wiped the sweat from his chin.

"(I told you I'd guarantee it.)"

The scoreboard updated.

[End of 3rd Quarter – Score Update:]

Vorpal Basket was back in the game.