No matter how many times Dranred told himself he wasn't affected by the rumors — by the videos, the articles, the endless noise on social media — the truth showed on the court.
He was distracted.
It was in the way his passes fell short, the way his focus drifted every time the crowd roared. Even Peter noticed it. Especially after the confrontation with Celine earlier that day, his thoughts kept circling back to Rosette.
Was she all right?
Had that vlogger upset her too?
His chest tightened each time her name crossed his mind.
The first half of the game was a disaster. Turnovers piled up. The opposing team capitalized on every mistake, racking up points while Phoenix fell apart. In the first five minutes alone, the coach pulled Dranred off the court — a rare humiliation for their star player — after the deficit ballooned to fifteen points.
He sat on the bench, jaw tight, watching his teammates struggle without him. But deep down, he knew they had struggled even more with him on the floor. He wasn't really there — not in body, not in mind.
The guilt was suffocating.
He'd always told himself he didn't care what people said online. But this time… they weren't entirely wrong. Maybe Celine had a point — even if she'd said it cruelly. He had chosen basketball not for love of the game, but as a way to cover his family's sins.
To pay for what his grandfather had done.
To live the dream James no longer could.
He thought it would make things right. Instead, it only deepened the wound. James hated him more than ever, and the public saw him as a fraud — a man playing with skill but without a heart.
The worst part? They were right.
When the buzzer signaled the end of the first half, Dranred blinked, almost startled. The game had slipped by him entirely. The scoreboard glared back — they were down by ten. Around him, the air was heavy with disappointment. His teammates trudged toward the locker room, shoulders slumped, faces blank.
Dranred rose slowly from the bench.
In the stands, the fans who once screamed his name sat in silence. The banners that had proudly waved his number now drooped in tired hands. Their silence stung more than any insult.
"Let's head back," Peter murmured, patting his back before walking ahead.
Dranred followed, his mind still spinning, when two familiar figures appeared at the end of the corridor. Drake — and beside him, James.
The two had just arrived for the next game. If James's team won their match tonight, they'd face Phoenix in the semifinals.
But for that to happen, Dranred first had to pull his team out of the mess he'd made.
He met James's eyes briefly as they passed — and in that wordless moment, the weight of ten years pressed down on his shoulders again.
The noise of the arena dimmed. The lights felt too bright.
And all Dranred could think was that maybe he didn't deserve to play at all.
"You look dead on your feet, Mr. MVP," Drake said with a mocking grin. "You're not allowed to lose tonight, because I'm the one who's supposed to beat you. Don't go soft on me — my victory won't taste as sweet if I don't get to crush you myself."
"You talk too much," Dranred muttered, brushing past him.
But before he could take another step, Drake caught his arm.
"Go ahead," Drake said quietly, his smirk fading into a cold, sharp look. "Let the guilt eat you alive. But I'm not stopping until I take back what's rightfully mine."
He was talking about the spotlight — the glory of being the league's MVP, the star player everyone admired. Years ago, it had been his. But after his injury, Dranred had risen in his place, dominating the court, basking in the fame that used to be Drake's.
Dranred's jaw tightened. "Then do it. If you can."
He ripped his arm free and walked off without looking back. He didn't even glance at James, who stood beside Drake, silent and unreadable.
"I still can't believe it," Drake said, turning to James. "You were really friends before?"
"That was a lifetime ago," James replied evenly. "Now we're just strangers."
Drake's grin returned. "Strangers or not, I know you still want to face him. To take back what he stole from you."
"I can't play basketball anymore," James said flatly.
"That's what I thought too, ten years ago, when I got injured." Drake took a step closer. "But I found a way back. There's a therapist who helped me recover. You should see him — maybe he can help you too."
"You don't have to—"
"Just accept it," Drake cut him off. "If we're going to bring Dranred down, we'll need both of us at full strength. Your mind for the game, my power on the court — that's how we'll win. We've got months before the finals. If you start therapy now, you might be ready by then."
"That's impossible. I'm not even on the team," James said.
"That's easy to fix," Drake replied. "I'll talk to the coach and the manager myself. They've been chasing a championship for years. Once they know what you can do, they'll make room for you. Two superstars on one team — enough to knock Dranred off his throne."
James stared at him, a flicker of something dangerous in his eyes — hope, maybe. "I don't know what to say."
"Say you'll do it," Drake said with a grin. "Say you'll stand beside me — not for me, but for yourself. I'm not doing this out of kindness. I just want to watch him fall."
James's lips curved slightly — not quite a smile, but close. "Then set up that meeting with your therapist."
"Good." Drake's grin widened. "Let's bring down the golden boy together."
As James walked toward the locker room, he could already hear the faint echo of bouncing basketballs from the court beyond. For the first time in years, the sound didn't hurt — it called to him.
And this time, he wasn't going to run from it.