When Dranred returned to the court, the third quarter had already begun. The scoreboard showed the Tigers ahead by five points—and it was only three minutes into the game. He glanced toward the stands; his fans still looked subdued, their banners drooping, their cheers silent.
Taking a deep breath, Dranred walked toward his coach.
"I'm ready to play," he said firmly.
The coach studied him for a moment, searching his eyes. Something in Dranred's expression had changed—clear, steady, and sure.
"All right," the coach said, nodding. "You're in."
As the substitution was called, the crowd murmured in surprise. Some fans perked up slightly, but most still watched with cautious eyes. Dranred didn't blame them. Who could believe in a player who'd seemed lost only minutes ago?
"You've got this," said his teammate, meeting him halfway and raising a fist.
Dranred smiled and bumped it. "Count on it."
He stepped onto the court.
"What difference will you make?" sneered one of the opposing players. "You're not even in the right headspace to play."
Dranred met his gaze, his tone calm but sharp. "Everything," he replied.
The ball came his way. Without hesitation, he caught it and surged forward. The defender reacted too late—Dranred had already slipped past him, cutting through the lane like lightning. The crowd leaned forward, breathless.
Then, from the three-point line, he stopped, jumped, and arced the ball toward the rim. Time seemed to slow.
A heartbeat later—swish.
For a moment, silence. Then the entire stadium erupted, roaring his name. Fans shot to their feet, the sound shaking the rafters. Dranred didn't smile, not yet. He simply jogged back to position, eyes blazing, pulse steady.
He was back.
Because of that single three-point shot, the entire stadium came alive again. The crowd erupted in thunderous cheers, and the banners that had earlier drooped in disappointment were raised high once more.
That was only the beginning of Phoenix's comeback. Before the third quarter ended, they had turned the tables—now leading by ten points. The opposing team was in disbelief. Moments ago, Dranred had been out of rhythm—his passes off, his shots missing the mark. But after halftime, something changed. The old Dranred was back—the one who ruled the court with confidence and fire.
When the final quarter began, Phoenix rose even higher. It wasn't just Dranred scoring this time; the entire team moved as one. Every pass, every defense, every shot flowed in perfect harmony. The commentators could barely contain their excitement, calling it the best performance Phoenix had shown all season. It was no longer a one-man show—it was a united force.
As the buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the game, the gymnasium exploded with sound. Phoenix had claimed victory by ten points—a powerful comeback and a ticket to the semifinals.
Far away, Rosette sat by the speakers, listening intently to the live broadcast. Her heart leapt with joy when she heard Dranred score his first basket, and tears welled in her eyes as the crowd's cheers grew louder. He had kept his promise—the gym roared as if it were the championship itself. The commentators' voices carried the excitement, praising his remarkable performance.
Rosette smiled, whispering softly to herself, "I know you can do it."
The coach frowned when he realized Dranred wasn't in the locker room.
"Where's Dranred?" he asked, scanning the players. Everyone had returned after the game, except him. The coach had seen reporters interviewing the best player of the match — not Dranred, despite his crucial role in their victory.
"Has anyone seen him?" he asked again, turning to Peter, Dranred's assistant.
"I've been looking for him too," Peter replied.
The coach sighed.
He had a lot to say about Dranred's sloppy first-half performance, but tonight, he'd let it go. After all, the kid had turned the game around.
Meanwhile, Dranred sat inside his car, still in his jersey, the night air cool against his skin. He couldn't help smiling as he dialed Rosette's number.
"Hey," he greeted cheerfully the moment she picked up. "Did you hear the crowd earlier?"
Rosette laughed softly on the other end. "I did. Loud and clear."
Even without seeing her, Dranred could feel the warmth in her voice. It amazed him how much lighter he felt just talking to her.
"The semifinals start next week," he said, excitement flickering in his tone. "Think you can come watch live?"
"I'm not sure," Rosette answered. "James might not allow it."
"Yeah… there's that," Dranred sighed, his voice dropping a little.
"But I'll still be listening," she assured him. "Of course, I won't miss the semifinals. If you win, you're going straight to the finals."
Dranred chuckled. "Your brother's team is playing too. If they win, they'll reach the semifinals as well. There's a chance we'll face each other in the finals." He paused, teasingly. "If that happens, I guess you'll be cheering for them instead of me."
Rosette giggled. "James will probably get mad—but he already knows whose team I'm on."
Dranred smiled, his heart swelling. "Is it safe to say you mean my team?"
"Who else would it be?" she replied.
"Well, I don't know… maybe you have another idol somewhere—"
"You're the only one I look up to," she cut in gently.
Dranred froze, then laughed softly, his chest tightening with something warm. For someone who rarely liked phone calls, he could talk to Rosette all night. Her voice was his calm after every storm.
"Careful, Rosette," he teased. "You're going to make me smile all night."
"Good," she said lightly. "You should be smiling."
When the call ended, Dranred didn't move right away. He simply sat there, the phone still in his hand, his smile lingering even as the line went silent. For the first time in a long while, the noise in his head was gone. No echoes of criticism, no weight of expectations — just her voice. Soft, steady, and full of belief.
He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. You're the only one I look up to. The words replayed in his mind, weaving warmth into every tired muscle in his body. It wasn't the cheers of the crowd or the flash of the cameras that fueled him tonight — it was her. Rosette.
He chuckled to himself, shaking his head. "You're really something," he murmured. Then, for no reason other than joy, he let out a small laugh — the kind that came from somewhere deep and unguarded. Outside, the night was quiet. Yet in his chest, everything felt alive again. On the other end of the city, Rosette was still holding her phone to her chest, a smile tugging at her lips.
She could still hear his voice — bright and teasing, full of life. Every word he spoke carried warmth that reached her even through the static of the call. Her heart was still racing, the same way it always did whenever she heard him laugh.
She sat on the edge of her bed, fingers brushing the music sheets spread across her lap. "You're the only one I look up to," she whispered to herself, realizing only now how bold the words had sounded. Her cheeks flushed at the memory, but she didn't regret saying them. She wanted him to know that he wasn't alone. That even when the crowd's cheers faded, someone was still there — listening, believing. Reaching out, she felt for the phone again and smiled.
"Next time," she murmured softly, "I'll be there to watch you play."
Her fingers brushed the small mark on her wrist — the spot where the doctor had placed the identification tag for her upcoming surgery. The thought of seeing Dranred again, truly seeing him, filled her chest with both excitement and fear.
Soon, she would be able to see the light again And when that day came, she wanted the first thing she saw to be him — under the glow of the court lights, smiling back at her.