The third quarter began, but Dranred was still on the bench.
His teammates were giving everything they had, but the Falcons' lead refused to shrink. Five minutes left in the quarter—still fifteen points behind. The starters looked exhausted, shoulders sagging, eyes darting toward the clock as if willing it to move faster.
The crowd had grown quiet. The "Shooting Star," once unstoppable, hadn't scored a single point. Even the fans who wore his jersey seemed to have lost faith.
Dranred's gaze flicked up to the scoreboard. Fifteen points.
He clenched his fists. He couldn't just sit there. Not anymore.
"Coach," he said, standing up. "Let me play."
One of his teammates looked doubtful. "What can you do out there? They've been triple—no, quintuple—teaming you since tip-off."
The team captain spoke up before Dranred could reply. "That's exactly why we need him. They're too focused on Dranred. If we move smart, we can use that against them. All we need is timing—one clean pass, and he'll make it count."
The coach looked between them, silent for a long moment. "You think you can break through their defense?"
Dranred met his eyes. "There are five of us on this team, Coach. And I believe five is better than one."
For the first time that night, the bench stirred with energy. The players nodded, fired up.
As Dranred pulled on his warm-up jacket, his thoughts flickered elsewhere—to James, watching from across the court.
I'm sorry, James. I can't drop the game. If it were you out there, you'd fight too. I'll win this match—not for pride, but so we can finally talk… and end this the right way.
He took a breath, then stepped toward the court as the buzzer signaled the start of the final quarter.
When the fourth quarter began, the coach finally sent Dranred back in.
The Falcons tightened their defense immediately—five men collapsing on him every time he touched the ball. But this time, the Phoenix had a plan.
Each time the pressure mounted, Dranred passed the ball to his teammate on the outside—one of their best long-range shooters.
And this time, every shot found its mark.
The crowd roared as the Falcons' lead dropped from fifteen to six.
On the next play, when the defense split between Dranred and the shooter, only three players moved to guard him. It was all the opening he needed.
Dranred faked left, spun right, and let the ball fly.
Three points.
The gym exploded in cheers, echoing off the rafters. His fans were on their feet, chanting his name. Then, with another perfect shot from beyond the arc, the score tied—all square with fifty-eight seconds left.
The tension in the air was electric. Every breath, every dribble, every second mattered. The Falcons shifted back to man-to-man defense. No one on the court could afford a mistake.
Dranred had the ball again, face-to-face with Drake. The two rivals locked eyes, the noise of the crowd fading into a hum.
Drake smirked, leaning in close.
"So, this is your comeback? Not much of a show tonight, Shooting Star. Basketball doesn't revolve around you anymore. The spotlight's big enough for both of us now."
Dranred said nothing—just tightened his grip on the ball, his heartbeat syncing with the ticking clock. This wasn't just about rivalry anymore. It was about redemption.
"Don't worry," Dranred said evenly, his gaze locked on Drake. "Basketball never revolved around me. I'm not playing alone out here—and you can't beat me, not until I finish what I came here to do."
He stepped back, rose into the air, and released the ball in a smooth arc.
Drake jumped to block it, but the shot was already gone—spinning high, silent, inevitable.
The entire gym seemed to hold its breath.
Then the ball dropped cleanly through the net just as the buzzer blared.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then the crowd erupted.
Drake stared in disbelief, eyes wide, as Dranred stood before him—one fist raised in quiet triumph while his teammates rushed the court, shouting his name.
"I told you," Dranred said, his voice barely audible over the noise. "You can't defeat me."
His eyes found James across the court—still, expression unreadable—and then drifted upward toward the stands, where Estelle sat beside Rosette. Rosette was clapping, her smile bright and proud.
James followed Dranred's gaze to his sisters, then back to his former friend. Something in his face hardened.
So this is your answer, he thought bitterly. You'd rather win a game than remember what we lost.
Without another glance, he turned and walked off the court, the Falcons trailing behind him.
Drake lingered a moment longer, his jaw tight.
"This isn't over," he muttered, eyes narrowing at Dranred, who was now surrounded by cameras and cheering fans. "Enjoy the spotlight while it lasts. Next time, it's mine."
Then he turned and followed James out of the tunnel, fists clenched, the echo of the crowd still roaring behind him.
The locker room was alive with noise.
Shouts, laughter, the hiss of showers, and the dull thud of hands slapping backs filled the air.
Phoenix had done it — a comeback that would be talked about for years.
But in one corner, away from the chaos, Dranred sat quietly on the bench. His jersey clung to him, damp with sweat, the cheers from the court still echoing faintly beyond the door.
Cal approached and tossed him a towel. "Man, that shot was insane! You saved us out there!"
Dranred managed a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Thanks," he said softly. "But it wasn't just me. You guys kept the game alive."
The teammate grinned, patted his shoulder, and left him alone again.
Dranred leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring down at the floor.
The noise around him faded.
All he could hear was the echo of James's voice — "Drop the game."
And then the coldness in his eyes when he turned away.
Dranred closed his eyes. I'm sorry, James. I couldn't lose this one — not like that.
He rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling slowly.
Outside, the reporters were probably waiting, fans chanting his name.
But none of it mattered right now.
What mattered was the friendship he'd lost — and the look on Rosette's face when she smiled at him from the stands.
That smile still lingered in his mind, warm and steady.
For a brief moment, it drowned out the bitterness.
He stood, tossed the towel into the bin, and looked at his reflection in the mirror — the tired eyes, the faint grin that didn't quite reach them.
"Redemption starts somewhere," he murmured to himself. "Even if it's just one game at a time."
Then he picked up his jacket, took a deep breath, and stepped out of the locker room — into the noise, the lights, and whatever came next.