The locker room felt heavy, even in silence.
"Sorry, Coach," James said quietly, running a hand through his hair. "We couldn't pull it off."
The head coach turned to him with a faint smile. "You did a good job, James. Who would've thought we'd hold the 'Shooting Star' scoreless until the fourth quarter?" He patted James on the shoulder. "We underestimated his teammates, that's all. Phoenix isn't a one-man team — they proved that tonight."
He paused, voice firm but calm. "The season's far from over. If we win the rest, we'll see them again in the finals. Wouldn't it be satisfying to take them down then?"
James nodded slowly, though his jaw tightened.
Drake approached, tossing his towel onto the bench. "He's good — I'll give him that," he said, his tone laced with both frustration and admiration. "But with you coaching us, we almost had them. Next time, we'll finish it."
Then, after a beat, Drake added quietly, "If you weren't injured, James, you could've gone head-to-head with him. Maybe things would've ended differently."
James didn't reply. His gaze lingered on the floor, replaying the image of Dranred's final shot — the effortless arc, the sound of the crowd erupting, the quiet confidence in his eyes.
A muscle in James's jaw twitched. If only I'd been out there.
He clenched his fists, hiding them in his pockets.
"This isn't over," he murmured under his breath.
"Good work today! You sure you don't want to join us for dinner?" Drake called out as they stood in the parking lot. The rest of the team was piling into the bus, laughter echoing in the cool night air.
"Maybe next time," James replied. "My sisters are waiting."
Drake followed his gaze and spotted two young women standing a short distance away.
"You're a little overprotective, aren't you? They look old enough to take care of themselves."
James's expression softened. "Maybe. But they're all I've got left."
Drake chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. "Fair enough. Next time, no excuses—Coach." He grinned before heading onto the bus.
James watched the vehicle pull away, its red taillights fading into the distance, before walking toward his sisters.
"Sorry I kept you waiting," he said with a tired smile.
"It's fine," Rosette replied brightly. "Your teammates seemed nice."
"They are." He exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders. "It's your birthday—let's grab dinner before we head home."
Rosette's face lit up. "Really?"
Estelle grinned. "I won't say no to that. I'm starving."
"Then let's go," James said, taking Rosette's hand. But just as they turned to leave, a familiar voice called out behind them.
"Good—I caught you."
All three froze. James's hand tightened around Rosette's.
Dranred was walking toward them, still in his warm-up jacket, eyes fixed on James.
"Were you leaving? Let me give you a ride," Dranred said, breathless but smiling. "Or better yet—dinner's on me. It's been years, James. We could at least—"
"What makes you think I'd sit and eat with you?" James's voice cut through the air. "I thought I made it clear—I don't want anything to do with you."
Dranred flinched but didn't back down. "Just listen. Let me explain what happened—years ago, you wouldn't even—"
"Can you forget your grandfather's crimes that easily?" James snapped. "My parents are dead, and your family—your grandfather—walked away clean. Now he's a senator, and you're a star. You climbed to the top after destroying mine."
"James, please. If you'd just—"
"I don't want your excuses," James said coldly. "Talk to me when you're brave enough to expose the truth about your grandfather. Until then, we have nothing to say to each other."
Dranred's voice trembled. "We were friends. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
James's eyes hardened. "I don't have friends who betray me."
The silence that followed was heavier than any roar from the court.
"James? Dranred? Why are you arguing?" Rosette's voice trembled as she reached for her brother's arm, trying to calm him. She couldn't understand what they were fighting about, but she caught fragments—something about Dranred's grandfather and their parents' deaths.
Did they know something she didn't?
"It's nothing," James said firmly, taking her hand. "Let's go."
"James—" Dranred called after them, but Estelle stepped between them before he could move closer.
"Stop this, Dranred," she said sharply, her eyes steady. "You have to accept that some things can't be undone. You made your choice the moment you sided with your grandfather instead of telling the truth."
Her words hit him harder than any physical blow.
Estelle took a breath, voice trembling now. "You can't blame James—or me—for not wanting anything to do with you."
Dranred swallowed hard. "Tell me this," he said quietly. "Does Rosette even know what really happened back then? How your parents died?"
Estelle froze. Then, with quiet fury, she said, "We couldn't tell her. She's already suffered enough. She lost her sight that night—do you understand that? It's a trauma she'll carry for the rest of her life."
She stepped closer, her voice lowering to a near whisper. "Rosette still sees you as someone good, someone she once admired like a brother. If she ever found out what your family did, it would destroy her. So if there's even a shred of kindness left in you, stay away from us. Stay in your world—and leave ours alone."
Estelle turned away, her hand finding Rosette's as James led them toward a waiting taxi. None of them looked back.
Dranred stood there in the quiet parking lot, watching as the cab disappeared down the road. His fists clenched at his sides. The sound of their voices still echoed in his mind, each word striking deeper than the last.
"Was that your long-lost friend?" Peter asked as he approached, watching the taxi disappear down the road.
"Yes," Dranred said quietly.
"It didn't look like things went well between you two."
Dranred let out a slow breath. "He still won't talk to me about what happened. And I can't blame him. After everything my grandfather did… after everything I failed to do."
He paused, his eyes still fixed on the empty street. "Even if I say I'm trying to make things right, it won't reach him. His hatred runs too deep—and maybe I deserve that."
Peter glanced at him, unsure what to say. "We should go. Coach has been looking for you." He gave Dranred's shoulder a light pat before turning toward the parking lot.
"Peter," Dranred called after him. "What about the thing I asked you to arrange?"
"Oh, that." Peter turned back. "I set up an appointment with a specialist—a good one. Friend of a friend. But who's it for? I doubt it's you. Your eyesight's fine."
"It's not for me," Dranred replied, his voice soft. "It's for someone who needs it more." He started walking back toward the arena, his figure fading into the dim lights of the parking lot. Peter watched him go, shaking his head slightly. After all these years, his friend was still a mystery—one that kept growing deeper with every secret kindness he tried to hide.