The gymnasium was packed to the rafters.
Opening night of the basketball season — and every fan wanted to witness it live. The Phoenix and the Falcons were facing off, and the buzz only grew louder when word spread that this would be the comeback game of Dranred's longtime rival after a three-year hiatus.
Even though Rosette couldn't see the court, she could feel the energy pulsing through the air — the floorboards vibrating under thousands of stomping feet, the roar of fans echoing in her chest. When Drake's name was called, the crowd erupted. And when the announcer shouted, "Dranred Masterson!" the volume doubled. The whole gym seemed to shake with it.
Rosette smiled, clutching her cane tightly. She could almost picture it — Red stepping onto the court, confident and calm, the light catching his jersey number. Her heart raced with pride.
From the Phoenix bench, Dranred's gaze swept across the stands. That's when he saw them — Estelle and Rosette seated together near the upper section. Rosette's expression, even from afar, was pure joy.
He smiled faintly. My number one fan is watching. I can't fail tonight.
The buzzer sounded.
The game began.
After the jump ball, the ball landed in Dranred's hands. But before he could make a move, five Falcons closed in on him — a wall of defense. He tried to pass to a teammate, but Drake intercepted it cleanly. Within seconds, Drake was sprinting down the court. A quick pass, a perfect layup — two points.
The crowd roared again, this time for the Falcons.
For a moment, the entire stadium seemed to fall silent on Dranred's side.
He clenched his jaw. This was no ordinary defense. In the first ten minutes, he barely got a clean shot. Every time he moved, someone was there — reading him, blocking him, cutting off every angle.
By the end of the first quarter, the scoreboard read:
Falcons – 25 | Phoenix – 10.
Even the Phoenix coach looked rattled. The commentators buzzed with excitement, calling the Falcons' improvement "miraculous." They credited Drake's addition to the lineup for the team's new strength.
But Dranred knew better.
There was something else driving them tonight — something personal.
And as he glanced across the court at James, standing calm beside Drake on the Falcons' bench, he finally understood what it was.
Dranred glanced across the court at James.
He was in his element—energetic, sharp, directing his team with the precision of a general. Dranred almost smiled. That was the James he remembered from high school—the one who never entered a game without doing his homework first.
He knew James too well. Every player's strength, every tactic, every weakness—James studied them all. He was more than a strategist; he was a man who lived and breathed basketball. If it weren't for the old injury, Dranred was certain James would've been one of the best in the pros by now.
And tonight, that same brilliance made him dangerous.
The thought sent a thrill through Dranred's chest. Facing James again wasn't something to fear—it was something to rise to.
Meanwhile, in the stands, Rosette adjusted the headset connected to the live game broadcast. The commentators' voices echoed in her ears, fast and excited.
Ten minutes into the first quarter, and Dranred still hadn't scored.
Her heart ached. She wanted to cheer for both of them—her brother and her friend—but the tension in the commentator's tone told her things weren't going well.
"This isn't the game I imagined from him," she murmured.
The second quarter began, and the Falcons tightened their defense even more. Every time Dranred caught the ball, two or three defenders closed in.
They knew what he was capable of—every shot he took could mean a basket.
But tonight, nothing came easy.
With five minutes left in the quarter, the coach finally pulled him out.
From the bench, Dranred sat motionless, jaw clenched, watching the Falcons gain momentum. Drake led both offense and defense with terrifying control. Every point they scored felt like a blow landing squarely in Dranred's chest.
When the halftime buzzer sounded, the scoreboard told the story plainly:
Falcons – 45 | Phoenix – 30.
Dranred: 0 points.
Even the crowd felt it. The cheers dimmed.
In the stands, Rosette held her headset tight, heart heavy.
Down on the bench, Dranred's hands curled into fists.
He had never felt so useless.
The locker room was thick with the smell of sweat and defeat. The scoreboard's harsh numbers—40 to 30—flashed in everyone's mind like a taunt.
No one spoke. The only sounds were the hiss of the shower pipes and the steady drip from someone's water bottle hitting the floor.
Then the coach exploded.
"What the hell was that out there?" His voice cracked through the silence. "The Falcons! The team everyone said couldn't win a single match—and you let them walk all over you!"
He slammed his clipboard against the bench. "You're all waiting for Dranred to save the game again, is that it? What happens when they shut him down? You freeze. You panic. You forget how to play."
No one met his eyes. One player shifted uncomfortably, muttering, "Coach, their defense—"
"Don't you dare blame defense!" the coach snapped. "Basketball isn't a one-man show. If all we've got is Dranred, then we don't have a team—we have a dependency."
The words hit harder than the noise of the crowd outside.
Dranred sat at the far end of the bench, his towel draped over his head. His palms were still slick with sweat, but his mind wouldn't stop replaying every missed shot, every blocked drive, every look of disappointment from the stands.
Rosette's face flashed in his thoughts—smiling in the crowd, believing in him.
He clenched his fists. You can't fail her again.
"Dranred," the coach said, his tone softening just slightly. "You okay, kid?"
Dranred looked up. "I'm fine," he said automatically, though his chest felt tight.
The coach sighed. "Then find your rhythm. Because when you lose focus, they all lose focus. You're not just playing for stats anymore—you're leading."
That word—leading—stung. He'd been a star for years, but a leader? That was different. Stars played for glory; leaders played for everyone else.
"I need some air," Dranred muttered, standing.
The coach just nodded, too tired to argue.
Dranred stepped out into the corridor, the roar of the crowd muffled behind the concrete walls. He leaned against the cool tiles and closed his eyes.
He thought of the promise he made ten years ago—to never let pride destroy what mattered again.
This isn't about revenge, he told himself. This is about redemption.
When he opened his eyes, the noise from the arena seemed different—less pressure, more purpose. He took one steadying breath, rolled his shoulders, and walked back toward the light of the court.