The call came late in the evening.
Peter's voice was tight with concern. "Dranred, James wants to see you. He called the agency himself. Says he has something to tell you."
Dranred froze. He hadn't joined the practice that night; his head was still heavy from everything that had happened earlier in the day. For a moment, he just stood there, phone pressed to his ear, unsure how to respond.
"Did he say why?" he finally asked.
"No," Peter said. "But he's already on his way to your place."
Before Dranred could even process the words, the doorbell rang.
He ended the call and exhaled slowly, his chest tightening with unease. One of the house staff went to open the gate, and moments later, James stepped into the house.
Dranred met him halfway down the stairs. "James, I didn't—"
"I'm not here for pleasantries," James cut in sharply. His eyes were cold, his voice trembling with anger. "Tell me something, Dranred. Did you start playing basketball because I couldn't?"
Dranred stopped in his tracks. The question hit him like a punch. For a few seconds, he couldn't find his voice.
James gave a harsh laugh. "What, you thought that by doing this, I'd suddenly forgive you? That I'd forget what you and your grandfather did to my family? You think dropping baseball and chasing my dream would erase everything?"
"James, that's not what this is about—"
"Then what is it about?" James's voice rose, sharp with bitterness. "You want me to thank you? You want me to tell the world that I should be the one in your position? That's what you want, isn't it?"
Dranred took a step closer, his expression pained but steady. "You love basketball. I know that more than anyone. Maybe you're right — maybe part of me is trying to pay back what my family owes you. But I also—"
"Stop it," James snapped. "Don't make this about pity. Don't insult the game I gave my heart to. It's not your apology token. Just because you're good at it doesn't mean you can do whatever you want."
Dranred fell silent, his throat tightening.
James continued, his voice shaking with fury. "You think playing basketball for me will fix what's broken between us? You think I'll ever see you the same way again? No, Dranred. You've only given me another reason to hate you."
Dranred's lips parted, but no words came. Everything he wanted to say — every apology, every explanation — caught in his chest.
James's eyes burned with frustration. "I can't play basketball anymore, but don't you dare underestimate what it means to me. Don't you dare treat it like a debt to be paid. You'd better reach the finals — because when you do, you'll finally see what someone like me, someone who can't play, is still capable of."
He turned away before Dranred could answer. His footsteps echoed down the hallway, then faded as the door slammed shut.
Dranred stood there, frozen. The house felt impossibly quiet. The space between them — once filled with laughter and shared dreams — now felt like a chasm too wide to cross.
And for the first time, Dranred wondered if no victory on the court could ever make things right again.
It had only been a day since Dranred's last game in the quarterfinals, yet his name was all over social media — not because of basketball, but because of the punch.
Someone had filmed the scene outside the hospital, where James had hit him, and uploaded it online. Within hours, the clip had gone viral. The internet buzzed with questions: Who was the man who punched Dranred? Why did it look so personal?
And then someone remembered — James, the assistant coach of the Falcons, was the same man Dranred always dedicated his games to.
Things escalated quickly.
A popular vlogger posted a video connecting the dots, showing old college footage of their championship season — a smiling Dranred in a baseball uniform, and a young James standing beside the Falcons' current coach, the team's former MVP.
The revelation stunned everyone. Fans couldn't believe that the Falcons' assistant coach — the man who punched Dranred — was once his best friend, and the reason Dranred had switched from baseball to basketball in the first place.
Then came another bombshell. The same vlogger dug deeper, resurfacing an incident from ten years ago — the tragedy that had ended James's basketball career. According to the report, it was that very event that drove Dranred to take his friend's place, to live out the dream James had lost.
The comments section exploded.
Some fans began demanding a Phoenix–Falcons finals match. They wanted to see, once and for all, who would win — Dranred, who played for the dream of a friend, or James, who still chased his own, even off the court.
But not all the comments were kind.
Another influencer claimed that the tragedy that destroyed James's family was tied to the corruption of a powerful politician — one many suspected to be Dranred's grandfather, a sitting senator. Soon, an old article resurfaced, linking the senator's name to the same incident.
The narrative shifted.
People began calling Dranred a fraud — a man using basketball not out of love, but to atone for his family's sins.
He's only playing to pay off his family's debt to James's.
There's no heart in his game — just guilt.
The words spread fast. And as always, the internet divided itself — half condemning, half defending.
You don't have proof, one comment read. Dranred's playing speaks for itself. You can't fake passion like that.
But the louder the defense, the harsher the attacks became.
Peter sat beside Dranred in the living room, scrolling through his phone with growing irritation.
"When it comes to tearing someone down, people turn into experts overnight," he muttered, tossing his phone on the table. "Who even is this Celine Summer? She's everywhere now — like she's made it her mission to ruin you."
Dranred leaned back on the couch, his expression unreadable. "Who knows," he said quietly.
"'Who knows?' That's it?" Peter's voice rose. "They're destroying your name, Dranred! That video from the hospital's everywhere. People are saying you're messing with the family your grandfather ruined."
Dranred didn't answer. He stared at the dark television screen, his reflection faint against it — tired eyes, bruised cheek, and the weight of everything he couldn't say.
For years, he had carried the guilt in silence. But now, the world was screaming it for him.
"What do you want me to do, then?" Dranred asked quietly.
"This is exactly what I've been saying!" Peter snapped, frustration in his voice. "You never should've shown yourself to that girl. Look at what's happening now—you're ruining yourself because of—"
"Let them say whatever they want," Dranred interrupted, his tone calm but heavy. "It doesn't change—"
"Don't you care about your career?" Peter cut him off sharply.
"Career," Dranred murmured, his eyes distant. "I'm not even sure anymore."
Peter stared at him, speechless. There were moments when he simply couldn't understand the way Dranred thought.
News of the scandal quickly reached Senator Masterson. The circulating articles and vlogs linking him and his grandson to the death of a former police lieutenant spread like wildfire online. To stop the rumors, the senator paid a large sum to have the videos and posts taken down. Shortly after, he released a public statement, warning that he would take legal action against anyone who tried to damage his or Dranred's name without presenting solid evidence.
Rosette heard about the news later that afternoon on a popular radio show. The hosts were reading hateful comments from people angry at Dranred.
"He's living off someone else's dream."
"He used their friendship to steal James's future."
"He's playing only to redeem his family's guilt."
Rosette turned off the radio, her chest tightening.
"Why do they talk like that?" she whispered softly. "They don't even know him… they don't know the truth."