Zeke Monroe reset his dribble, this time with a bit more force—his knuckles flexing as the ball snapped against the hardwood. His eyes danced across Lucas's frame, searching for any hitch, any flinch, any tell.
Nothing.
Lucas was still.
Balanced.
Patient.
Like he knew what Zeke would do next.
Zeke huffed through his nose.
"I admit you are good, tsk"
His voice was low, almost impressed—but edged with irritation.
Then he burst left—a move honed in street battles and silent courts like this one.
Lucas matched it. Instantly.
Pivot right.
Zeke tried to throw him off with a sharp Eurostep into a half-spin.
Lucas didn't react—he moved.
Before the shift even completed, he was already there, his feet mirrored, body balanced.
Zeke tried to fade back—
But Lucas read it.
Poke.
The ball popped free, bouncing once.
Lucas lunged low and snatched it clean, dragging it in with both hands like it was life or death.
Silence.
