Team D never had a chance.
From the opening tip—Marcus winning it clean, tapping to Lucifer—it was systematic destruction. Not the desperate, clawing comeback of the first game. This was something else. This was what basketball looked like when five players shared a brain.
Lucifer brought the ball up, eyes scanning. Kevin was already moving to his spot. The twins had switched sides without a word, confusing their defenders. Marcus sealed his man deep in the post.
The ball moved. Not just passed—moved. From Lucifer to Jay, Jay to Kevin, Kevin back to Lucifer who was already cutting. The defense scrambled, always one rotation behind. Lucifer caught it in stride, no-looked to Marcus who was suddenly alone under the basket.
The dunk rattled the rim.
7-0 before Team D called timeout.
By halftime, it was 28-12. Team D's coach kept screaming plays that his players couldn't execute. Their point guard had turned the ball over six times trying to match Lucifer's pace. Their center had fouled out trying to match Marcus's newfound aggression.
Lucifer walked to the bench during a free throw. "Put them in."
Coach Aaron raised an eyebrow. "The second unit?"
"We're up sixteen. They need reps."
DeShawn and the others looked up from the bench, surprised. After the last game's humiliation, they'd expected to ride pine all day.
"Run the plays," Lucifer told them as they stood. "Move the ball. That's it."
DeShawn opened his mouth—to argue, to make excuses—then closed it. Something in Lucifer's tone suggested this was a test, not a punishment.
The second unit took the court like defendants approaching a judge. DeShawn brought the ball up, that same unnecessary between-the-legs dribble, but this time his eyes were up, scanning.
Tony cut from the corner. Open.
DeShawn's hand twitched toward the shot, muscle memory demanding he pull up. But Lucifer's words echoed. He passed.
Tony caught it clean, surprised, almost fumbled it from shock. His shot was ugly but it went in.
"Holy shit," Tony muttered, jogging back. "That actually worked."
Next possession: Big Mike set a screen. A real screen. Feet planted, arms tucked, absorbing contact without moving. The defender ran into him like hitting a wall. Jerome came off the screen free, caught DeShawn's pass, knocked down the jumper.
They were still sloppy. DeShawn threw one pass into the stands. Big Mike got called for a moving screen. But between the mistakes were glimpses of actual basketball. Team basketball.
On the bench, Lucifer watched without expression. When Big Mike made a perfect box-out and grabbed a tough rebound, he nodded once. When DeShawn found Jerome on a backdoor cut, the slightest smile touched his lips.
Final score: 44-28.
The second unit had actually extended the lead.
On the adjacent court, chaos.
Team B should have been destroying Team C. Aaron Vale had every advantage—height, skill, experience. But Team C's point guard, a kid named Rodriguez who looked like he weighed maybe 140 pounds soaking wet, was everywhere.
Vale would post up. Rodriguez would strip him from behind.
Vale would call for a screen. Rodriguez would slip under it, still attached to Vale's hip.
Vale would try to pass. Rodriguez would tip it, disrupt it, turn everything into a scramble.
"Get him off me!" Vale shouted at his teammates, but they were watching, not helping. They'd gotten used to Vale doing everything. Now, with him neutralized, they didn't know how to respond.
Team C ran the same play over and over—high pick-and-roll with Rodriguez—and Team B couldn't stop it. Rodriguez would come off the screen, and if they helped, he'd find the roll man. If they didn't, he'd pull up for a floater that barely disturbed the net.
With ten seconds left, Team C led by one.
Vale demanded the ball. Iso. Everyone knew it was coming. Rodriguez knew it was coming. He crouched lower, hands active, feet dancing.
Vale jabbed right, crossed left, pulled up for his fadeaway—the shot that had been money against Lucifer.
Rodriguez's fingertips grazed the ball. Just enough.
The shot fell short. Team C's center grabbed the rebound, was immediately fouled. He made both free throws.
Three seconds left. Vale brought the ball up, launched a desperate three.
It hit the side of the backboard.
Team C erupted. Vale stood at center court, staring at nothing, his perfect record shattered by a kid half his size.
The announcement came over the gym's speakers: "Championship game in fifteen minutes. Team A versus Team C, Court One."
Lucifer gathered his squad. They formed a tight circle, still riding the high of their dominance.
"Listen up," Lucifer said. "Their point guard, Rodriguez—he's their engine. Quick hands, quicker feet. He'll pressure full court."
Marcus nodded. "Want me to set screens to get you free?"
"No. Let him pressure me. I want him tired by the second quarter. Kevin, when I pass out of the pressure, be ready. He gambles on steals, leaves his help position."
"What about their bigs?" Jay asked.
"Soft. They don't box out. Crash the boards every possession."
The team nodded, absorbing instructions like they'd been doing this for years instead of hours.
Across the gym, Rodriguez was bouncing on his toes, talking to his teammates, gesturing wildly. The upset had given them life. They thought they could do it again.
Lucifer watched him with the detached interest of a scientist observing a specimen. Not disappointed about missing his rematch with Vale. Not concerned about the upset.
A new puzzle was just as interesting as an old rival.
"One more thing," Lucifer said as they broke the huddle. "Have fun out there. We've already won the real game."
Kevin looked confused. "What real game?"
"The one where we learned to play together."
DeShawn, standing nearby with the other benched players, heard this. Something shifted in his expression. Not quite understanding yet, but closer.
The teams took the court for warmups. Rodriguez immediately made eye contact with Lucifer, grinning wide, all confidence and adrenaline.
Lucifer nodded back, professional acknowledgment between competitors.
The final was about to begin.