The buzzer blared, ending the third. The gym swelled with stomps and chatter, but in the Vorpal huddle it felt like a storm bottled tight. Sweat dripped, lungs burned, eyes darted—every player waiting for Coach Mason.
But Mason just looked at Ethan. His voice cracked but carried:
"What are we going to do, Ethan?"
The circle went still. For the first time, the coach had admitted it—this wasn't his plan to give. This was Ethan's team to steer.
Ethan, hunched with the towel around his neck, raised his eyes. Calm, but fire simmered under them.
"Alright, listen up." His tone cut through the noise like chalk on glass. "They're riding Malik and Darius. We can't match their size or strength straight up… so we don't. We out-think them."
He jabbed a finger at the board Mason shoved into his hands.
