Peter froze the moment he opened the car door and saw Dranred still sitting inside, phone pressed to his ear and a quiet smile tugging at his lips.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Peter asked, half-laughing, half-exasperated. "Coach has been looking for you everywhere."
Dranred ended the call and set his phone down, still smiling faintly. "It's fine. They don't need me there."
Peter slid into the passenger seat, narrowing his eyes in mock suspicion. "Let me guess—that was Rosette on the phone? James' sister?"
Dranred shot him a look. "And if it was?"
Peter grinned. "Nothing. I just never thought I'd see the day when Dranred Masterson, the man who barely cracks a smile even after a championship, is grinning like a fool because of one phone call."
Dranred shook his head, amused despite himself. "Rosette's like a sister to me. I told you before—she's been there since my baseball days. My number one fan."
Peter leaned back, crossing his arms. "Yeah, sure. A 'sister.' Keep telling yourself that."
Dranred gave him a side-eye glare but didn't answer. For a brief moment, silence filled the car—until Peter's tone turned more serious.
"By the way, the doctor called. They've finally found a cornea donor for Rosette. The operation can be scheduled soon. They just need her consent."
Dranred's eyes flickered with relief. "That's great news."
"Yeah," Peter agreed, but his expression was uncertain. "But you know her brothers. Especially James. He might not make it easy."
Dranred's jaw tightened. "James may hate me, but he's not cruel. He won't stop her from getting the surgery. Whatever differences we have, we both want the same thing—for Rosette to be happy."
Peter shrugged. "I hope you're right."
He glanced toward the gym's exit. "So, what now? Coach is still looking for you. You going back in?"
Dranred leaned his head against the seat and exhaled. "No. I've had enough for one night. Let's just go home."
"Knew it," Peter said with a chuckle as he climbed out and slid into the driver's seat.
When they drove out of the parking lot, a crowd of fans was already waiting outside the gymnasium. They waved banners, screamed his name, their faces glowing with excitement under the stadium lights.
Dranred rolled down the window, smiling as he waved back. The fans erupted into delighted cheers, chasing the car for a few steps before fading into the distance.
Peter glanced at him from the driver's seat. "You've got quite a following, man."
Dranred said nothing. He simply looked out the window, watching the sea of waving hands disappear behind them. For the first time in a long while, he didn't just feel the rush of victory—he felt something warmer. Something that reminded him there were still people, like Rosette, who believed in him.
Drake and James met with the team manager and coach to request that James be accepted as a new player. At first, the manager refused, worried that the team owner would disapprove. But after persistent persuasion from both Drake and the coach, he finally agreed—on one condition.
James would have to undergo a full evaluation from the therapist before any formal approval could be given. Only if the results were promising would he convince the owners to let James join the roster.
True to his word, Drake accompanied James to see the same therapist who had helped him recover from his own career-ending injury years ago. After examining James's legs, the therapist gave a measured response.
"You can begin therapy," he said. "But I can't promise you'll be ready by the finals. Recovery takes time—Drake's took three years."
The words didn't discourage James. If anything, they strengthened his resolve.
He only had two months before the finals—two months to prove that he could still stand on the same court as Dranred. He didn't care how long it took, how painful the process would be.
He would make it. He would face Dranred again—not as a friend seeking forgiveness, but as a rival reclaiming what was his.
He didn't need Dranred to live his dream.
He never did.
James's therapy and rehabilitation had begun.
He told no one—not even his sisters. He wanted to surprise them on the day he would finally step back onto the court. He wanted them to see that he, too, could chase his dreams... and win.
Every time Drake visited the center, he couldn't help but admire James's determination. The man trained past exhaustion, pushing himself until his muscles trembled and sweat soaked through his shirt.
Drake often caught himself thinking, If he'd started this sooner, he might have surpassed even me.
He knew James's potential—the way he read the court, how sharp his instincts were. Once James was back in form, their team would be unstoppable. Together, they could take down Dranred. Drake could already imagine it—the Shooting Star's light finally fading under their rise.
That evening, Estelle was setting the table when she noticed something different about her brother.
"Do you know why James comes home so late these days?" she asked as Rosette joined her in the kitchen.
"He's probably busy with practice," Rosette said lightly, smiling. "They're already in the semi-finals, right? The finals are close."
Estelle froze. She remembered that Dranred's team had also made it to the semi-finals—and that he'd been playing exceptionally well since the quarter-finals. Just hearing his name again sent a quiet ache through her chest.
"Dranred's team is also in the semi-finals," Rosette added innocently. "One more win and they're in the finals."
"Why are you telling me that?" Estelle snapped, setting down the utensils a little too hard.
"I thought… maybe you wanted to know," Rosette said softly.
"I don't care about him," Estelle muttered and sat beside her sister. "Come on. Eat."
Rosette hesitated. "Ate, are you sure you don't want to talk to him?"
"There's nothing to talk about," Estelle replied sharply. "I'm getting married soon. What we had—it's over."
Rosette studied her for a moment, hearing the faint tremor in her voice. "Is that really what you feel, or just what you think you should feel?"
Estelle didn't answer. She only handed Rosette a spoon. "You talk too much. Finish your dinner. I still have work."
But even as she tried to ignore her sister's words, she couldn't silence the truth in her heart.
Dranred was still there—he had never really left. He was her first love, and perhaps the saying was right: first love never dies.
But loving him now would be a betrayal—to James, to Bryan, to herself. So she would bury it, as she always did.
Marrying Bryan was her way of running away from what still burned inside her.
"You know," Rosette said softly, her hands folded on her lap, "I think Red still loves you. If you ignore what your heart is telling you… You might regret it one day."
Estelle sighed. "You really sound like an old woman sometimes."
Rosette only pressed her lips together, choosing silence over argument.
In the following days, James threw himself into training. Between the grueling practice sessions and his therapy, he barely had time to rest. But the results were undeniable—his strength was coming back faster than anyone expected.
Even so, the doctor remained cautious. "You're improving, James," he said, "but you can't push too hard. Play for short minutes, or you'll risk damaging your legs again. You'll need months of therapy if you want a full recovery."
James only nodded, his jaw tight. He didn't care how long it took—as long as he could stand on the court during the finals.
Because of his progress, Drake and the coach finally convinced the team owner to officially include James in the Falcons' roster.
News spread like wildfire. The Falcons had a new player—one rumored to be the "anti–Shooting Star." Fans could barely contain their excitement. Everyone knew what that meant: a coming clash between Dranred's Phoenix and Drake's Falcons.
The sports world was buzzing. The defending champions, Phoenix, had swept three straight wins with ease. The Falcons, after losing their first two games, came roaring back with consecutive victories that shocked everyone.
If they won their next match, the Finals would be set—Phoenix versus Falcons.
The king against his challengers.
The Shooting Star versus the man who swore to eclipse him.
And somewhere in the crowd, Rosette silently prayed that both the man she believed in and the brother she loved would make it through—not as enemies, but as two dreamers chasing the same light.