Rodriguez was in Lucifer's face before the ball even went up for tip-off.
"Saw your video," he said, bouncing on his toes like a boxer. "Twenty-one to zero. Impressive. But that was one-on-one. This is basketball."
Lucifer said nothing. Just studied the kid—5'8" maybe, built like a whippet, with hands that never stopped moving. His jersey hung loose on his narrow frame, but his eyes held the kind of focus that made size irrelevant.
The ref tossed the ball up. Marcus won the tip, batting it back to Lucifer.
Rodriguez was on him instantly. Not just guarding—invading. Chest to chest at the baseline, hands constantly swiping, talking the entire time.
"Come on, superstar. Show me something."
Lucifer started his dribble. Rodriguez's hand shot out, nearly stripping it. Lucifer pulled back, reset. Rodriguez grinned.
"That's it? That's the famous handle?"
Ignore him. Run the offense.
But Rodriguez wasn't letting him run anything. Every step up court was a battle. Every dribble had to be protected. By the time Lucifer crossed half-court, eight seconds had burned off the shot clock.
He passed to Kevin. Rodriguez immediately jumped into the passing lane for the return pass, forcing Kevin to swing it to Jay instead. The offense stalled. Team C's defense set. Jay forced a contested three that clanged long.
Rodriguez grabbed the rebound himself—somehow out-jumping players six inches taller—and was gone. Full sprint, nobody catching him. He laid it in while looking back at Lucifer.
"That's how you push pace."
2-0.
Lucifer brought the ball up again. This time he tried to post Rodriguez up, use his height advantage. But the smaller guard was like trying to post up a hurricane—constantly moving, swiping, making it impossible to get comfortable.
The shot clock hit five. Lucifer forced a turnaround jumper. It rimmed out.
Rodriguez pushed again. This time he found his center on the break for an easy dunk.
4-0.
"Timeout!" Marcus called, looking at Coach Aaron who nodded approval.
The team huddled. Everyone was looking at Lucifer, waiting for adjustments, for that calm voice telling them exactly what to do.
"He's fucking annoying," was all Lucifer said.
The team exchanged glances. They'd never heard him frustrated.
"Want me to set some screens?" Marcus offered. "Get you free?"
"No. He'll just go under them. He's too quick."
"So what do we do?" Kevin asked.
Lucifer was quiet for a moment. Then: "We let him tire himself out. He can't keep this pace for twenty minutes."
Back on the court. Rodriguez picked him up at the baseline again.
"Nice timeout. Draw up a special play? Let me guess—high screen for you to get free?"
Lucifer walked the ball up slowly, deliberately. Rodriguez bounced around him, hands constantly moving, mouth never stopping.
"My cousins play at Lincoln High. Said you didn't even play middle school ball. Scared of competition?"
Pass to Jay. Rodriguez jumped the passing lane. Jay barely pulled it back in time.
"Or maybe you just knew you weren't that good?"
The possession ended with another forced shot. Another miss.
Rodriguez scored on three straight possessions. A floater. A three-pointer where he stepped back from NBA range just to make a point. An and-one drive where he bounced off Marcus's chest and still finished.
11-0.
The crowd was buzzing. An upset was brewing. The bench players who'd been humbled by Lucifer were starting to whisper among themselves.
"He's getting locked up."
"Rodriguez owns him."
"So much for the viral video."
Daphne, watching from the bleachers, had her hands clenched so tight her knuckles went white. She wanted to scream at them to shut up, but she knew Lucifer would hate that more than their comments.
With three minutes left in the first quarter, Lucifer had managed exactly zero points, two assists, and three turnovers. Rodriguez had twelve points and hadn't stopped talking once.
"You know what your problem is?" Rodriguez said during a free throw. "You think basketball is chess. All strategy and positioning. But sometimes it's just about who wants it more."
The free throw went in.
12-0.
Lucifer brought the ball up. Rodriguez was right there, as always. But something was different in Lucifer's posture. His shoulders were lower. His dribble tighter.
"Finally getting serious?" Rodriguez asked. "About time—"
Lucifer exploded forward. Not a move, not a crossover, just pure acceleration. Rodriguez, caught flat-footed from talking, was a half-step behind. That was enough.
Lucifer rose up from three. The ball hadn't even hit the net before he was back on defense.
12-3.
"Talk now," Kevin muttered, fired up by seeing Lucifer score.
Rodriguez brought the ball up, still chattering. "One lucky shot doesn't—"
Marcus stepped up to hedge the screen harder than before. Rodriguez tried to split it, but Jay was rotating perfectly, exactly where Lucifer had told him to be during yesterday's practice. The pass went to Team C's forward, but Ray was already closing out.
The shot was contested, rushed. It missed everything.
Kevin secured the rebound, found Lucifer on the outlet. This time Lucifer didn't let Rodriguez get set. He attacked immediately, using his shoulder to create space, finishing with a finger roll off the glass.
12-5.
Rodriguez's grin was still there, but something had shifted. He brought the ball up, went to his bread and butter—the high pick-and-roll. But Marcus showed higher this time, forcing him wider. When Rodriguez tried to turn the corner, Lucifer was there, having perfectly timed his rotation.
The strip was clean. Lucifer was gone before Rodriguez hit the floor.
The breakaway dunk was simple, two-handed, but the gym erupted anyway.
12-7.
"That's my best friend!" Daphne's voice cut through the noise, making several people turn and smile.
Rodriguez got up slowly. The smile was gone now. He demanded the ball, waved everyone clear. Iso ball. The same thing Vale had tried when desperate.
He crossed left, right, between the legs, behind the back—a full display of handles. But Lucifer stayed with him, not reaching, not biting on fakes. Just there.
Rodriguez pulled up for three. It looked good leaving his hands.
Lucifer's fingertips changed its rotation just enough. Front rim. Long rebound to Marcus.
The quarter ended with Team A down 14-11, but the momentum had completely shifted.
In the huddle, Lucifer was calm again. The frustration from earlier had transformed into something else—focus.
"He's already breathing hard," he told his team. "Second quarter, he'll be done. Keep pushing pace. Make him work on defense too."
"Want us to target him?" Jay asked.
"Every possession. Run him through screens. Post him up. Make him feel all five of us."
DeShawn, sitting nearby with the other benched players, found himself nodding along. This was basketball IQ. This was what they'd been missing.
Rodriguez was at the scorer's table, hands on his knees, chest heaving. His coach was saying something but Rodriguez wasn't listening. He was staring at Lucifer.
The second quarter was about to begin, and everyone in the gym could feel it—this wasn't going to be the blowout anyone expected.
This was going to be a war.