The camera cuts from the flashing scoreboard to a blur of microphones, bright studio lights, and restless commentators.
"The Falcons take Game One! And what a statement from the duo of Drake and James—dominating the court, shutting down Phoenix's golden boy, Dranred Masterson!"
"Zero points for the so-called Shooting Star. That's unheard of in his career. The internet's already calling James the Anti–Shooting Star."
A rapid series of clips flashes by —
screens filled with hashtags, tweets, and streaming clips:
#AntiShootingStar
#DranredDown
#FalconDominates
@courtvision22:I can't believe Dranred didn't even score. Is this the end of the Shooting Star era?
@hoopsanalyst:James reads him like a book. Maybe Phoenix needs a new hero.
@TeamPhoenix4Life:He'll come back. One bad game doesn't end greatness. Keep fighting, Dranred!
The tone shifts from cheering stadium echoes to the cold hum of online noise.
Clips of talk shows roll in, sports analysts dissecting every move.
ANALYST: "He wasn't just outplayed. He was out-thought. James got into his head—emotionally and strategically."
HOST: "You can see it in his body language. It's not physical exhaustion. It's something deeper."
Dranred, sitting alone in the locker room long after his teammates have gone.
The towel that once hid his face now hangs loose around his neck.
The muffled sound of the broadcast plays from a nearby monitor — his own name echoing like static.
He stares blankly at the floor as his phone vibrates beside him:
notifications piling up — headlines, mentions, even encouragement from fans.
He doesn't touch it.
He closes his eyes and exhales.
The crowd's roar, the commentators, the hashtags — all blend into a low, suffocating hum.
"Zero points…"
"Anti–Shooting Star…"
"…the end of an era."
For a moment, his reflection flickers in the metal of his locker —
the star everyone once cheered for, dimmed by doubt and noise.
He lifts his head, eyes weary but searching.
The echoes fade, leaving only his steady, uneven breathing.
And in that silence, something small and stubborn flickers within him —
not pride, not anger — but the faint spark of resolve.
Dranred was walking toward the parking lot when he saw them — James, Estelle, Bryan, and Rosette — coming from the other side of the corridor.
He had just left the locker room after changing, telling Peter and the coach that he'd head home early. Even his teammates could see it on his face — he wasn't feeling well, and all he wanted now was to rest, to disappear for a while.
But of all the people he didn't want to see tonight, fate had decided otherwise.
"Congratulations on your first win," Dranred said quietly, extending a hand toward James.
James looked down at it but didn't take it. His expression hardened.
"Are you really congratulating me?" he asked mockingly.
"James," Estelle and Rosette said at the same time. Bryan frowned at his sister, unsure what was going on.
Dranred slowly withdrew his hand. His eyes flicked briefly toward Rosette before settling back on James.
"I'm not a sore loser. I can admit defeat," he said calmly. "You're still as good as you've always been."
James's jaw tightened. "You didn't expect me to beat you, did you? After all these years of stealing the dreams that should've been mine."
Dranred sighed softly. "I'm not here to argue. It's been a long day. I'll go ahead. Congratulations again."
He stepped past the group without looking back. He couldn't bring himself to meet Rosette's eyes — not after the way the game ended. He had been so sure he could win, so sure he could silence the doubts. But everything had turned against him.
As he walked away, Rosette's chest tightened. He hadn't even spoken to her. Not a word. Not even a glance.
Was he angry? Did he think she'd known James would be playing in the finals and kept it from him?
The thought twisted painfully inside her.
"Let's go home," James said, his tone softening as he guided Rosette toward their car.
She didn't resist, but as they walked away, Dranred turned slightly, catching a glimpse of her face. There was sadness in her eyes — unmistakable, heavy, and real.
Why does she look so sad? he thought. She should be happy. James won.
A pang of guilt struck him, sharp and unexpected. He clenched his jaw. Stupid, Dranred, he scolded himself silently, opening the door of his car.
He tossed his bag onto the passenger seat and was about to climb in when he heard someone call out his name from behind.
"Red."
The baritone voice made Dranred turn sharply. Something flew toward him — a blur in the air — and his reflexes kicked in before his thoughts could catch up.
Whap!
He caught it cleanly. A baseball mitt.
"A mitt?" he murmured, frowning. His gaze lifted toward the figure a few yards away — a man holding a baseball.
"Charlie?"
The man grinned. "That's no way to greet your uncle."
Dranred blinked in surprise as Charlie walked closer, the familiar swagger still there. "When did you get here? What are you doing in town?"
"This morning," Charlie said. "Our team's here for an exhibition game. I heard tonight was the first game of the basketball finals." He smirked. "Honestly, I didn't expect that performance from you. You played like a high school rookie."
Dranred's jaw tightened, but Charlie went on. "What really surprised me was seeing him out there. James. Guess he's fully recovered?"
Dranred nodded slightly. "Looks like it. You saw how good he was."
"Was he?" Charlie's tone dropped, suddenly serious. "What I saw wasn't about talent, Red. I saw a so-called superstar — terrified of facing his own past."
Dranred's expression darkened. "And what's that supposed to mean?"
Charlie only smiled, tossing the baseball lightly in one hand.
"Since you don't look like you're in the mood for basketball," Charlie said, his tone half-teasing, half-serious, "why don't you come with me to the field tomorrow? It's just an exhibition match. I can bring whoever I want — that is, if you're not too rusty."
He placed the baseball into the mitt Dranred was still holding.
"It's my day off tomorrow," Dranred replied quietly. "Our second game's the day after."
"Are you sure you're in shape to play?" Charlie countered, folding his arms. "Maybe your body's trying to tell you something — that basketball isn't for you. Because of James, maybe you've forgotten why you started playing at all."
Dranred frowned.
"Relax for once," Charlie added. "Play the game you actually love. Maybe then you'll figure out who you're really doing all this for… and where your path is."
He turned, waved lazily, and started walking toward his car.
"Hey!" Dranred called after him.
Charlie raised a hand without looking back. "I'll text you the address. Get some sleep."
Dranred stood there for a moment, staring down at the mitt and ball in his hands. What good would baseball do for me now? he thought.
He sighed and muttered, "He always does whatever he wants. Didn't even ask about my father."
He opened his car door, tossed the mitt and ball onto his bag, and sank into the driver's seat — the quiet hum of the arena fading behind him.