The second game of the finals arrived, and the arena buzzed once again with roaring fans from both teams. But among the Phoenix supporters, the atmosphere was heavy with disappointment.
Dranred's seat on the bench was empty. His name wasn't even on the starting lineup.
Rumors spread quickly through the crowd — that he had finally quit basketball, that his unexpected appearance at the baseball exhibition was proof of a career shift. Some claimed he had lost his drive after the crushing defeat in the first game.
Even James sat in quiet confusion, staring at the empty bench. Deep down, he didn't want to believe that Dranred had simply walked away.
The entire match felt different. Where the first game was a storm of cheers and adrenaline, this one carried a strange stillness. The Phoenix fought hard, but their rhythm faltered without Dranred's presence. Every missed shot, every fumbled pass seemed to echo louder in the silence left behind.
When the final buzzer rang, the Falcons claimed victory once more — 90 to 85. The series now stood at 2–0. Another two wins, and the Falcons would be crowned champions.
Disappointment rippled through Phoenix's supporters. Social media exploded with questions:
Where is Dranred?
Why didn't he show up?
Has he given up on the game already?
Later that night, Charlie found him sitting in his living room, the glow of the television flickering across his face as he watched the replay of the game.
"Why didn't you show up?" Charlie asked, his tone more curious than accusatory.
"I don't know," Dranred murmured, switching off the TV. The silence that followed felt heavier than before. His eyes drifted to his phone on the table — the same phone he'd been checking all day. Still no call from Rosette. No message.
"You waiting for someone to call?" Charlie teased, glancing at the phone. "Ah, I get it now. You got back together with that childhood sweetheart of yours, didn't you? Did James approve of that?"
Dranred shot him a look. "You really talk too much, Uncle."
Charlie only grinned. "Well, since you're clearly not busy playing basketball anymore, I have something better for you." He reached into his bag and placed an envelope on the table — a plane ticket.
"The sponsors loved your performance during the exhibition," Charlie explained. "They want you to join another match — this time against Japan's national team. Since you don't seem eager to return to basketball, why not come with me?"
Dranred picked up the ticket but didn't speak.
"Face it, kid," Charlie continued softly. "You were born for baseball. You can't hide that. Forget those debts you think you owe, the mistakes you're trying to fix. You've spent ten years chasing something that doesn't make you happy anymore."
He paused, his tone gentler now.
"Give yourself permission to do what makes you feel alive again."
Dranred looked down, turning the ticket in his hand before his gaze returned to the silent phone on the table.
"What makes me happy…" he whispered. His voice trailed off, barely audible. Because he knew exactly what — or who — he was still waiting for.
"Are you sure about this?" Coach Rivera asked, his tone heavy with disbelief.
It was the morning after the second game. Dranred had come to the team gym where the rest of Phoenix was already practicing for tomorrow's third match. The sound of bouncing balls and sneakers on the hardwood filled the air — familiar, yet strangely distant to him now.
He gathered his courage and spoke.
"I know this is sudden," he began. "Maybe even selfish. But I've made up my mind. I'll be going with my uncle to Japan for the baseball exhibition match."
Silence followed. The coach's expression tightened, while his teammates exchanged uneasy glances.
"So you're saying… you need time?" their captain, Cal, asked gently.
Dranred nodded. "Yes. I need to figure out what I really want. Right now, I don't think forcing myself to play will help anyone — not the team, and not me."
"What are you talking about?" one of his teammates snapped. "We're in the finals, Dran! Our fans are furious because you didn't show up last game, and now you're leaving?"
Cal raised a hand to calm him down. "It's fine," he said firmly. "This is his choice — his life. Losing him will hurt, sure, but if he needs space to think, we should respect that." He turned to Dranred and added, "Just promise us one thing. Come back when your head's clear. Whatever you decide then, we'll accept it."
"You're too kind, Captain," another player muttered, shaking his head.
"He's right," Coach Rivera finally said. "I just hope you find your answer soon, Dranred. And… maybe you'll make it back before the fourth game."
Dranred gave a small nod, grateful for the understanding even as guilt pressed on his chest.
Before leaving that day, he joined the team's practice scrimmage. Every pass, every dribble, every shot — it all reminded him of how much he still loved the game. The laughter, the rhythm, the unity — it was still there, waiting for him.
But as the session ended and he watched his teammates huddle together, he realized something deeper:
He couldn't keep playing while pretending to know who he was.
He needed to step away — not to abandon basketball, but to finally find himself.
The gym had emptied out by late afternoon. The echoes of bouncing balls and sneakers had faded, replaced by the faint hum of the city beyond the tall glass windows.
Dranred lingered on the court long after practice ended. The lights above cast soft halos across the polished floor, reflecting his shadow — one that seemed torn between two worlds.
He dribbled the basketball once, twice, then stopped.
His grip loosened. The ball rolled slowly away until it hit the far wall and came to rest.
He exhaled, his chest tightening. This might be the last time I stand here for a while.
"Dranred."
He turned. It was Cal, still in his practice gear, holding a towel over his shoulder.
"Leaving already?" the captain asked.
"Yeah," Dranred replied quietly. "Charlie's flight leaves early tomorrow. I have to pack."
Cal nodded, then stepped closer and extended his hand. "Then don't say goodbye. Just promise you'll come back — when you're ready."
Dranred smiled faintly and clasped his captain's hand. "You'll still be here?"
"Of course," Cal said. "The court doesn't move."
They shared a quiet laugh, then Cal walked toward the exit, leaving Dranred alone again.
For a moment, he stood there — listening to the silence, to the memory of cheering crowds and echoing whistles. His phone buzzed in his pocket, but when he checked, it wasn't the name he was hoping for.
Still no call from Rosette.
He hesitated, typing her name on the screen, then stopped and locked the phone. Maybe some things can't be fixed right now.
As he walked out of the gym, he took one last glance over his shoulder. The empty court stretched before him — the lines, the hoops, the faint smell of resin and sweat — everything that had shaped him for the last ten years.
He smiled, bittersweet.
Then he whispered to himself, "I'll find my way back."
Outside, the air was cool, the sky streaked with orange. Charlie's car was waiting by the curb. Dranred climbed in without a word.
As they drove off, the lights of the city blurred past the window — a collage of memories and choices left behind.
And for the first time in years, he felt something lift from his chest — not freedom, but the first breath of clarity.