The scoreboard glowed: 80–67. Four minutes left.
Vorpal still held control, but the Piedmont starters weren't going down without bleeding every drop of pride on the court.
Lucas dribbled across half court, Malik in his face, jaw tight, sweat flying from every jab step. He probed, jabbed left, then kicked the ball out, Ethan was waiting at the wing.
The pass snapped into Ethan's hands, and as he turned, Darius Coleman was there, squared up, chest heaving. His jersey clung to him, his breathing heavier than before, but those eyes — calm, calculating, locked in.
Ethan bounced the ball lightly, eyes scanning Darius.
"You've been out here since tip-off," Ethan said, tone almost casual, though his chest was rising fast too. "I'm impressed… five starters still grinding."
Darius grinned through the sweat dripping from his chin.
"Heh… we've been doing this since last year. We don't break easy."
