The scoreboard read 2-2, but the tension in the gym felt like overtime of a championship game. Darius brought the ball up court, Brandon's pressure immediate and suffocating. This wasn't the casual defensive stance most guards gave you. This was personal.
Darius crossed half court and immediately scanned. Connor was coming off a screen on the left wing. Ty was spacing to the corner. Marcus had his man sealed on the block. Brandon's hands were everywhere—not fouling, just making Darius feel him on every dribble.
The thing about pressure defense was that it always left something open. You just had to see it.
Darius hit Connor with a quick pass and relocated, cutting hard to the opposite wing. The ball swung back to him, and Westfield's defense rotated a half-second late. Brandon recovered, but Darius already had the read.
Marcus's defender had helped too far. Darius whipped a no-look pass to the block. Marcus caught it, took one power dribble, and finished strong through contact.
Lincoln Heights 4, Westfield 2.
"And one!" Marcus shouted as the whistle blew. He sank the free throw.
Lincoln Heights 5, Westfield 2.
Brandon grabbed the ball before it hit the ground and pushed. No huddle. No waiting. Just attack. He crossed half court in four dribbles, and Darius met him at the three-point line.
The move came quick—a hard crossover that created separation. Brandon rose up from mid-range, his form textbook perfect. The ball hadn't even left his hands before Darius knew it was good.
Swish.
Lincoln Heights 5, Westfield 4.
"That's two," Brandon said, backpedaling. Not loud. Just factual.
Darius brought it back up, and this time he felt it—that itch to answer. To prove something. Three months ago, he would've gone straight at Brandon, tried to match him bucket for bucket. But that version of Darius had lost to Jace Carter. Had watched his team fall apart against the Cascade Striders.
He called for motion, and the offense flowed. Connor set a screen. Darius used it, not to shoot, but to collapse the defense. The skip pass found Ty in the corner. Open three.
Swish.
Lincoln Heights 8, Westfield 4.
Brandon didn't flinch. He brought it up and went straight into his work. His dribble was controlled, purposeful, like he was conducting an orchestra. He probed left, then right, reading Darius's positioning. When Connor hedged on a screen, Brandon attacked the gap—not wild, just decisive.
He got into the paint, and Jerome stepped up. Brandon adjusted mid-air, floating it up and over Jerome's outstretched hand. The ball kissed the glass soft.
Lincoln Heights 8, Westfield 6.
"Three."
The next two possessions happened in a blur. Darius hit Marcus on a backdoor cut. Brandon answered with a smooth pull-up from fifteen feet. Connor knocked down a catch-and-shoot three off Darius's drive and kick. Brandon got into the lane again and found his shooting guard cutting baseline for an easy layup.
Lincoln Heights 13, Westfield 10.
Darius brought it up, and for the first time all game, he felt the defense give him space. Brandon was playing off him slightly, daring him to shoot. The message was clear: I don't think you're a threat.
The old Darius would've taken it personal. Would've jacked up a contested three just to prove a point.
But Darius had learned something over the past six months. Sometimes the best way to hurt someone wasn't by forcing your game. It was by playing yours.
He called for a clear-out and attacked. Not reckless. Controlled. His first step got Brandon on his heels, and suddenly the lane opened up. Westfield's big man stepped up, and Darius felt that familiar wall—the one that always made him second-guess.
Don't force it. Read it.
He rose up just inside the free-throw line, pulling up for the mid-range. The shot felt clean leaving his hands.
Swish.
Lincoln Heights 15, Westfield 10.
Brandon caught the inbound and locked eyes with Darius as he brought it up. No words. Just that look that said okay, I see you.
He crossed half court and immediately went to work. The isolation was beautiful in its simplicity—just Brandon, the ball, and space. He hit Darius with a hesitation move that would've cooked most defenders, but Darius stayed disciplined. Brandon countered with a quick between-the-legs that created just enough separation.
The mid-range jumper was automatic.
Lincoln Heights 15, Westfield 12.
"Five," Brandon said. "You counting?"
Darius didn't answer. He pushed the ball up court and immediately felt the trap coming. Brandon and Westfield's shooting guard were pressing full court, trying to speed him up. Darius stayed calm, hitting Connor with an outlet pass. The ball swung ahead before Westfield could reset.
Ty caught it on the wing and attacked the closeout. His floater rattled in.
Lincoln Heights 17, Westfield 12.
Brandon brought it back up with that same controlled urgency. He wasn't rattled by the deficit. If anything, he looked more locked in. The ball never stopped moving in his hands—between the legs, behind the back, crossover. Not flashy. Just purposeful.
He drove right, and Darius stayed attached. Brandon spun back left, creating separation with his body. The pull-up was quick, rising up before Darius could contest.
Swish.
Lincoln Heights 17, Westfield 14.
Darius crossed half court and called for a screen. Connor came up to set it, but Brandon fought through. The help defense rotated perfectly. Westfield's scheme was solid—no easy reads, everything contested.
Darius reset and tried again. This time he attacked off the bounce, his handle creating just enough space to get downhill. The paint opened up, and for a second, Darius thought about taking it all the way. His legs were ready to explode.
Not yet. Don't force it.
He pulled up from twelve feet instead. The shot was good, but it clanged off the back rim. Jerome grabbed the offensive board and put it back up strong.
Lincoln Heights 19, Westfield 14.
Brandon pushed immediately. He was in attack mode now, hunting. He crossed half court and went straight into his move—a hard drive that forced Darius to stay low. When Jerome stepped up, Brandon didn't hesitate. He Euro-stepped around the help and finished with a reverse layup that had the Westfield crowd on their feet.
Lincoln Heights 19, Westfield 16.
"Seven."
Darius brought it back up, and this time he felt the adjustment. Westfield was trapping harder on the screens, trying to force the ball out of his hands. He hit Marcus with a quick pass and relocated to the wing. The ball found him again, and suddenly he had space.
The three-pointer felt good the moment it left his hands. Perfect rotation. High arc.
Swish.
Lincoln Heights 22, Westfield 16.
Brandon grabbed the ball and pushed. No timeouts. No adjustments. Just pure competition. He crossed half court and pulled up from twenty feet without hesitation. The shot was quick, confident.
Swish.
Lincoln Heights 22, Westfield 18.
"Eight."
Back and forth. That's what this was becoming. Darius hit Ty on a curl cut for an easy two. Brandon answered with a smooth drive and dish to his center for a dunk. Connor knocked down a corner three. Brandon pulled up from mid-range again.
Lincoln Heights 27, Westfield 22.
Darius brought the ball up with forty seconds left in the period, and this time he felt it—that moment when you stop thinking and just play. Brandon was right there, hands active, but Darius's handle was tight. He crossed over once, twice, building rhythm.
The lane opened up for just a second, and Darius attacked. His first step was explosive, getting him past Brandon's initial contest. Westfield's help rotated, but Darius was already rising.
Not quite in the paint. Not quite safe. Right in that space where he usually hesitated.
Just go. Trust it.
The contact came as he released—Westfield's center getting a hand on his arm. The whistle blew, but Darius had already seen the ball drop through.
And one.
The Westfield crowd groaned. Darius stepped to the line and sank the free throw.
Lincoln Heights 30, Westfield 22.
Twenty seconds left. Brandon brought it up slowly, milking the clock. The gym was loud now, both sides trading chants. He crossed half court and immediately went into isolation mode.
Darius met him at the three-point line, ready. Brandon's dribble was hypnotic—left hand, right hand, between the legs. He was setting something up.
With eight seconds left, Brandon made his move. A hard drive right that forced Darius to commit. Brandon spun back left, creating just enough space for the pull-up.
Darius's hand was right there. So close he could feel the ball leave Brandon's fingertips.
The shot hung in the air, spinning perfect.
Swish.
Lincoln Heights 30, Westfield 24.
"Nine," Brandon said as the buzzer sounded. He looked at Darius directly. "Just getting started."
As both teams walked to their benches, Darius caught Coach Martinez's expression. The coach was nodding, but his eyes said something else.
.