Los Angeles | 2009
Caleb's POV
My brain couldn't process what my eyes were seeing. The scoreboard was a joke, an insult. 14-6. These were the same runts who had defeated me by a fluke a few months ago, the same kids whom I had crushed with ease just last week. Now they were standing taller, moving faster, and that scoreboard looked like an insurmountable mountain. What the hell is happening here!?
"Yo, Caleb, dude, what the hell is up with these guys?" Ricky said, tension lacing his voice as we huddled up. "This is nothing like last week."
"Yeah, it's like they failed against us on purpose last week," Liam chimed in, wiping sweat from his face.
"Nah, it's just a fluke," I snapped, my voice a low growl. My pride wouldn't let me admit they were better. "We were not coordinated in the first quarter. We went in thinking we could win like last week, and that was a mistake on our part. We gotta take it seriously." I looked at Ricky. "Copy their fast pass. We'll use their own trick against them. I'll catch it."
"Sure, I can play like that, though it might take some time to get used to," he said with some hesitation.
"I don't care. You just do it," I commanded, my tone leaving no room for argument. "I'll handle the rest." I turned to Liam. "And you. You foul that little shooting guard of theirs, the one with the big mouth. But be discreet about it. We need to win, no matter what."
"You got it, dude," Liam said with a hard grin.
We headed back on the court for the second quarter. It was time to punish them for their arrogance.
The second quarter was going to be different. It was going to be a street fight.
I made my presence known immediately, getting more physical with David and Bradley. I used my body to shove them under the rim, clearing space, my elbows finding their ribs. On one drive, David went up for a layup and I made sure my knee connected with his thigh on the way up, a little gift that the ref conveniently missed.
Our new strategy worked, at least at first. Ricky flunked a few of the fast passes initially, zipping them too hard or too wide, but he finally got the hang of it, decreasing the power a little. I started getting the ball deep in the paint where no one could stop me, using my height advantage to score multiple times.
"You're just a post-up dummy, big man!" Bradley yelled after I scored on his precious center. "That's all you got?"
"It's all I need, pretty boy," I snarled back, bumping him with my shoulder as I ran back on defense. "Enjoy the view from down there."
But for every basket we scored, they seemed to have an answer. That little punk Leo was a blur, and David, the quiet giant, was playing with a new, nasty edge. Then came that damn screen play again. I watched Bradley's hands closely this time. And I saw it. Just before the play started, his right index finger slid under his left hand, his thumb up, and met his left hand with the left pinky extended. A secret code. A tell.
Got you, I thought, a predatory grin spreading across my face.
On their next possession, I saw him make the sign. I didn't wait. I tried to anticipate when they would use that abusive screen, shouting at Ricky to switch and get in front of the cut. But the screen never came. Instead, David just rolled to the basket and Bradley hit him with a perfect bounce pass for an easy score.
Then I saw it. Bradley was looking right at me, a cold, condescending smirk on his face.
"You really think I would make it easy for you to read me, you dumb monkey?" he said, his voice dripping with contempt. "You were only seeing what I wanted you to."
I felt a hot surge of pure rage. He had played me. The hand sign was a decoy. A damn ghost. My frustration started to boil over. Their gameplay, so fluid and unpredictable, was starting to get in my head.
And then he started shooting.
It didn't matter that Ricky was in his face, that I was screaming at my teammates to close out. He rose up from three-point range, contested, and drained it. Back-to-back three-pointers, each one a dagger that seemed to suck the air out of our lungs. The shots were impossible, arrogant, and they were perfect. I could feel the momentum of the game slipping through my fingers, a growing sense of fear mixing with my anger.
We were putting up a better fight, but for every tough basket we scored, they answered with a play that felt smarter, faster, more in sync. We weren't just being outplayed; we were being dismantled.
The buzzer for the half blared a merciful end to the beatdown. I looked up at the scoreboard, the numbers were the nail to our humiliation.
End of First Half: Knights 30, Bears 25
I walked to the bench and sat down, slamming my water bottle onto the concrete next to me. The plastic groaned in protest. Liam and Ricky approached me hesitantly, their expressions a mix of frustration and apology.
"I'm sorry, man. I'm trying, but it's like they know what to do and when to do it. Brad is just too good at reading our plays," Ricky said. The apology in his voice was like fuel on a fire; I couldn't control the vitriol building up in me.
"Well then, try harder, damn it!" I raged, getting to my feet. "We beat them seven days ago! They can't be this good! It's us! We've lost the edge!"
"Dude, chill out," Liam said, trying to calm things down. "It's just a tournament. Even if we lose, we'll be second overall."
"Second?" I repeated the word, my voice a low, dangerous growl. "Second?!" I got right in his face, my fury boiling over. "You think I came here to be second? You think I'd be satisfied with that, losing to these assholes? The very same ones who humiliated me in front of my family just some months ago? You think I want second against them, Liam?!"
He flinched, taking a step back. "S-Sorry, man," he whimpered. "I didn't know it was such a big deal to you."
"Now you do," I snarled, my voice dropping to a cold, hard command. "And you best believe that I will not accept second against them. You guys have to do better. Way better." It wasn't an expectation; it was a fact.
I walked back onto the court, my jaw tight with anger. The time for games was over.
The Knights got the ball first, and they started running some peculiar new offense. The big kid, David, abandoned Brad and crashed the paint from the top of the key, while the loudmouth, Leo, did the same from the wing. It left Naird all alone at the three-point line. Idiot, I thought. He's isolated himself. He was going to take a three, and I was going to be all over it. I slid into the passing lane between him and David, signaling for Liam to block him and contest the shot.
But he didn't shoot. He pump faked, and then did something so ridiculous, so arrogant, that my brain couldn't even process it for a second. He fired the ball straight at the backboard, a hard, angled pass that shot down perfectly into the hands of the waiting David, who rapidly collected the ball and scored an easy mid-range basket.
I just stared. What the hell was that?
Naird turned and looked right at me, a smug smirk on his face. "You keep trying to understand my moves," he taunted, his voice dripping with condescension. "What you don't get, you dipshit, is that one can never uncover infinity."
That was it. The rage in my chest exploded. "Fine!" I roared as Ricky inbounded me the ball. "I give up trying to play smart!" I dribbled the ball furiously down the court, building a head of steam. I didn't see teammates; I only saw a path. I lunged for the layup, pushing past David mid-air, using my body like a battering ram, and muscled the shot in.
"I'll beat that smugness out of you with my power!" I screamed at Naird. "Let's see you beat that, you tiny punk!"
I turned my attention to David, who was looking at me with that same, infuriatingly calm expression. "You robot!" I sneered. "You always follow whatever that little shit tells you, or you got a brain of your own to play with?"
The third quarter continued like this. It wasn't about strategy anymore; it was a war. I abandoned all pretense of finesse and went into full bully mode, trading jabs and scoring on them through sheer force. I was going to break them physically. And it was working. I felt like I was able to check the previous momentum of the Knights. For every one of their "unreal plays," I answered with a brutal drive to the basket.
But as the buzzer sounded to end the quarter, a cold, unreal fact hit me. The adrenaline faded, and I was left with the ragged, burning reality in my lungs. I had used up my entire stamina. I looked over at Ricky and Liam; they were just as gassed, hunched over, hands on their knees.
Then I looked at them. The Knights, all laden with sweat, were tired, but they were still standing tall. They were as strong as ever, not even remotely close to as much as I was exhausted. The little punk Naird was just calmly sipping his water, his eyes on the scoreboard. This truly shocked me. And for the first time all day, a cold dread began to creep into my gut. I began to fear how I would last the final quarter if this was my condition now.
End of 3rd Quarter: Knights 42, Bears 39.
I walked back on the court for the fourth quarter feeling my low stamina reserves, a cold dread sitting heavy in my gut. My legs felt like lead, my lungs burned. I looked over at Ricky and Liam, and I could see the same exhaustion in their slumped shoulders. We were running on empty. And the Knights knew it.
They started playing with us. It wasn't just basketball anymore; it was a cruel, calculated game of keep-away. We'd rush them, trying to force a turnover, and they'd just pass the ball away at the last second, forcing us to change direction, further exhausting our tired legs. It was a slow, agonizing death. When we tried to conserve energy by staying in one position, dropping back into a zone, Bradley would just calmly launch a three-pointer that was pure silk.
"You can't stop him!" Leo yelled at Ricky, a triumphant grin on his face.
Frustrated, we tried to launch a two-on-one against Bradley, trapping him near the sideline. But the second we committed, he fired a bullet pass across the court to an open Leo, who scored an easy layup.
It was hopeless. David leveled up his game, becoming a monster in the paint. He wasn't just getting rebounds anymore; he was a predator. He blocked a clumsy attempt from Liam, sending the ball flying, and then stared him down, demoralizing him. A possession later, Ricky drove the lane, and David erased his shot, too. I tried to post him up, to use my strength, but he was a wall, and my tired body couldn't move him. He even managed to block one of my shots, a humiliating moment that made my blood run cold.
The ultimate humiliation came midway through the quarter. I was exhausted, dribbling down the court, my movements slow and clumsy. Out of nowhere, Leo appeared and stole the ball from me, clean. But he didn't sprint for a fast break. He slowly dribbled away to score a smooth, uncontested layup, looking back at me the whole time with a pitying smirk. It wasn't a basket; it was a statement. You're done.
The game devolved into a one-man show. Brad scored two successive three-pointers, each one a perfect, soul-crushing dagger. I felt the last of my fight just drain out of me. We were being toyed with.
The final act of finishing the game came with one minute left on the clock. They had the ball, and they were just passing it around, running out the time. Then, Naird did something so arrogant, so utterly dominant, that my brain couldn't even process it. He dribbled slowly up to me, and he literally passed the ball to me.
"Go on," he said, his voice quiet, devoid of any emotion. "Go take a shot."
I just stood there, the ball in my hands, frozen. I looked into his eyes, and I saw nothing. No anger, no rivalry. Just a calm, absolute certainty. He wasn't just a player anymore. He was an executioner. He was terrifying. He was ruthless. And I was completely and utterly afraid of him.
I didn't move. I couldn't. After a few seconds of me just standing there, paralyzed, Leo came over, casually took the ball from my hands, and passed it back to Brad. He didn't even look at me. It was like I wasn't even there.
Naird caught the pass, took one step back, and launched a final three-pointer that dropped through the net as the final buzzer sounded.
The game was over. We hadn't just lost. We had been humiliated.
Final Score: Knights 64, Bears 49
The final buzzer was a mercy, but the roar of the crowd for the other team was a fresh wave of torture. David was right; after the mockery that was made of me, I couldn't even look them in the eyes. I just stared at the scuffed toes of my sneakers, my whole body numb. I just wanted to go home and lie down and forget about all this. It was too cruel.
Yet I wouldn't be allowed to. I had to wait and watch the awards ceremony, a fresh hell designed specifically for me. I would have to stand next to that monster as he enjoyed his triumph while the people clapped and celebrated. The humiliation was only just beginning. I am never going to live this down, am I?
A hand was placed on my shoulder. I turned and saw Ricky.
"It's okay, dude. I'll be with you," he said, trying to force a supportive smile that was already faltering. "We will get better and get back at these monsters someday." Even he did not believe what he was saying, but he said it anyway. I didn't say anything. I had nothing.
His hand dropped from my shoulder. The noise of the celebration faded into a dull, meaningless buzz. All I could imagine was the look on my Dad's face, the quiet disappointment when he heard I didn't just lose, but that I gave up while the fight was still going. I was disappointed in myself, but underneath the anger and the shame, I was also just a kid wanting the comfort of my mom hugging me, telling me that it'll all be okay again.
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And there you have it the huge payoff I have been building towards for over two weeks. I hope you like it and show some love by dropping Powerstones. Review, share and comment.