Second quarter. Fresh start. Except nothing about Rodriguez looked fresh.
He was still bouncing, still talking, but Lucifer noticed the subtle changes—deeper breaths between words, sweat darkening his jersey at the chest and back. The manic energy from the first quarter had shifted into something more calculated.
"Smart," Rodriguez said, picking Lucifer up at three-quarters court instead of full. "You're trying to tire me out."
Lucifer said nothing. Just started walking the ball up, forcing Rodriguez to backpedal.
Then he stopped. Planted. Rodriguez's momentum carried him back another step before he could recover. That gap was all Lucifer needed. He rose up from twenty-five feet and buried the three.
14-14.
"Fuck," Rodriguez muttered, the first crack in his constant chatter.
Team C brought the ball up. Rodriguez called for a screen, but instead of using it, he waved his center away. He wanted Lucifer one-on-one. Pride over strategy.
The crossover was quick, but Lucifer read it. Rodriguez spun back the other way. Lucifer was there. Pull-up jumper. Lucifer's hand affected the shot just enough.
The rebound went long to Kevin, who immediately found Lucifer on the outlet. But Team C was back, set. Rodriguez was guarding him again, crouched low despite his heavy legs.
Lucifer did something unexpected. He turned his back to the basket, posting Rodriguez up.
"Oh, we're doing this now?" Rodriguez tried to front him, but Lucifer just backed him down, using his height and weight advantage. Rodriguez's teammates started to help, but their coach screamed, "Stay home! Don't help!"
The baby hook was soft, easy. Rodriguez could only watch it drop.
14-16.
Next possession, Team C adjusted. They hid Rodriguez on Jay, their weakest offensive player. Rodriguez sagged off, playing free safety, trying to rest while still being involved.
Lucifer saw it immediately. He walked over to Jay during a free throw.
"Every time you touch it, shoot."
"But I'm not—"
"Shoot."
The next four possessions, Lucifer force-fed Jay. The first shot was ugly, short. The second rattled in. The third was pure. By the fourth, Rodriguez had to close out hard, and Jay pump-faked and drove past him for a layup.
14-22.
Team C called timeout.
In the huddle, Rodriguez was heated. "Just let me guard him!"
"You've got three fouls," his coach said.
"I don't care!"
"I do. You foul out, we're done."
From Team A's huddle, DeShawn's voice surprised everyone. "Yo, Lucifer."
Lucifer turned. DeShawn hadn't said anything strategic all day.
"Rodriguez keeps going left on his drives. Every time. Even his crossover, he always finishes going left. Force him right."
Lucifer studied DeShawn for a moment, then nodded. "Good catch."
DeShawn tried not to look pleased, but his chest puffed out slightly.
Back on the court. Rodriguez had the ball, Lucifer guarding. The crowd was on its feet. Rodriguez started his move—right to left crossover, exactly as DeShawn had called.
Lucifer slid right, cutting off the left drive completely. Rodriguez tried to adjust, go right, but his handle wasn't as tight that direction. The ball hit his foot, bounced out of bounds.
"Fuck!" Rodriguez slammed his hand on the floor.
Marcus scored inside. Jay hit another three. The lead stretched to 14-28.
Six minutes left.
Rodriguez was bent over during a dead ball, hands on his knees, chest heaving. Lucifer was barely sweating.
"Tired?" Lucifer asked quietly as they lined up for a free throw.
Rodriguez looked up, something between respect and frustration in his eyes. "You're better than the video."
"You're better than I expected too."
"Yeah?" Rodriguez straightened slightly. "Not good enough though."
"Not today."
The free throw went in. 14-29.
Rodriguez demanded the ball. No more jokes, no more talking. He came off a screen hard, creating just enough space. The three-pointer was perfect form, perfect rotation, perfect result.
17-29.
He pressed full court, forced a turnover from Kevin. Another three in transition.
20-29.
"Not done yet," Rodriguez gasped.
Four minutes left.
Team C shifted to a zone, trying to rest Rodriguez while keeping him in the game. But zones had gaps, and Lucifer knew them all. He stationed himself at the free-throw line, the zone's weakness, and became a surgeon.
Pass to Marcus for a dunk. Skip pass to Kevin for three. Drive and dish to Ray for a layup.
20-35.
Two minutes.
Rodriguez had nothing left but will. His legs were gone—his shots were all arms now. His speed was gone—Lucifer blew past him twice for easy scores.
But he kept fighting. Drew a charge on Marcus. Hit a miracle bank shot. Found his center for an and-one.
27-39.
One minute.
Team C pressed desperately. Rodriguez was everywhere and nowhere, trying to be five players at once. He stole the ball from Jay, had a clear path to the basket, but his legs betrayed him. The layup rolled off the rim.
Marcus grabbed the rebound. Found Lucifer.
Thirty seconds.
Rodriguez fouled immediately. His fourth. One more and he was gone.
"Smart play," Lucifer said at the line.
"Learned from watching you," Rodriguez replied, then added, "This was fun."
"Yeah."
"Next time I'll be ready."
"Next time you'll be on my team."
Rodriguez blinked. "What?"
"You're making varsity. So am I. We'll be running this together."
The free throw went in.
27-40.
Fifteen seconds.
Rodriguez brought the ball up one last time. His team was beaten, he was exhausted, but his eyes still burned with that competitive fire. He pulled up from thirty feet, a prayer more than a shot.
It went in.
30-40.
But it was over. Lucifer dribbled out the final seconds, and when the buzzer sounded, Rodriguez was the first to offer his hand.
"Good game, superstar."
"Good game."
As they walked off, Rodriguez stopped. "Hey. That thing about varsity—you serious?"
"Coach is watching everything. You think he's letting either of us play JV after this?"
Rodriguez grinned, exhausted but genuine. "Guess I'll see you at practice then."
From the bench, DeShawn watched them shake hands again. He'd contributed. His observation had mattered. Maybe there was room for him in this new system after all.
Coach Aaron closed his notepad, decision made.
The future of East View basketball had just announced itself.