An unexpected accident happened as James tried to stop Dranred's shot. When he jumped to block him, he seemed to lose his balance and crashed hard to the floor after colliding midair with Dranred. They had both leapt at the same time to contest the dunk—but Dranred's strength won out. The referee blew his whistle. "Offensive foul!" The dunk didn't count.
As Dranred landed, he immediately noticed his friend writhing on the ground in pain.
"Hey!" he called out, panic flashing across his face as he ran toward James.
But Drake quickly stepped in front of him, shoving him away. Dranred froze, staring as James clutched his knee, grimacing in agony.
From the stands, Estelle shot up from her seat, her heart pounding. Rosette's face went pale beside her. Without thinking, Estelle grabbed her sister's hand and guided her down the steps toward the court.
The Falcons' coach waved urgently for the medics. Within moments, a stretcher was brought in to carry James to the hospital.
From the tunnel where the Falcons exited, Dranred caught sight of Rosette and Estelle huddled together, their faces tight with worry. His fists clenched instinctively.
"Wasn't it enough that you stole his dream?" Drake hissed, glaring at him. "Now you want to cripple him, too? Is this what basketball means to you?"
Dranred met his stare but said nothing, fighting to keep his composure. He knew James wasn't okay—the way his leg twisted when he fell told him everything. James had been playing on a weak knee from the start, pushing through the entire game. Of course, the strain would catch up to him.
"You two, cut it out!" their Phoenix captain barked, stepping between them. He turned to Dranred. "Let's go." He pulled him back toward the bench.
A timeout was called while everyone waited anxiously for news. Minutes later, word came that James had been taken to the hospital for a full examination. The medics suspected his old injury might have caused the collapse.
"You holding up?" the team captain asked quietly, glancing at Dranred. He was worried the incident might shake his player's focus.
Since returning to the bench, Dranred hadn't spoken a word. He sat with his head down, a baseball—someone's lucky charm—rolling slowly between his hands. His teammates exchanged uneasy glances, afraid that the fire in him had just gone out.
The buzzer sounded, signaling the resumption of the game. Everyone was stunned when Dranred suddenly stood, placed the baseball on top of his jacket, and said quietly,
"Let's finish this."
He walked toward the court before anyone could respond.
"O-okay…" his four teammates replied uncertainly, exchanging worried glances.
When the game resumed, everyone expected Dranred's energy to fade after what happened to James. But they were wrong. Nothing had changed in his fiery form—if anything, his intensity had grown sharper. Every pass that reached his hands turned into a score. He played like a storm, pouring all his anger into each shot. The crowd gasped again and again as the ball swished cleanly through the net, shot after shot, without a single miss.
When the final buzzer echoed through the arena, the scoreboard flashed Phoenix's victory—three wins to one over the Falcons. The gym erupted in cheers. Still, the championship wasn't over yet; one more game remained, and the Falcons could still turn things around. But for now, Phoenix celebrated wildly, their fans chanting Dranred's name.
He was named Best Player of the Game, a recognition no one could dispute. Spectators couldn't stop talking about his blazing performance—his unstoppable rhythm, his focused eyes, and those hands that never seemed to miss. In this finals match, it felt as though Dranred had redeemed every mistake from the earlier games.
During the post-game interview, a reporter asked about his recent absence and how it felt to play again.
"I'm sorry for worrying everyone," Dranred said sincerely. "There's no excuse for it. But sometimes, people need to step back—to think, to breathe. I'm here now, and I'll give everything I have for my team."
Another question followed—one that caught him off guard.
"What does it feel like to face your friend on the court—the one many say inspired you to play basketball in the first place? Was tonight's victory still for him?"
Dranred fell silent for a moment, his gaze dropping to the floor. The noise of the crowd faded in the background.
Finally, he smiled faintly. "Some things don't change," he said. "And some things… we still play for, even when they're gone."
"I'm very thankful to that friend," Dranred said, his voice calm but full of emotion. "It was overwhelming to face him on the court. Honestly, I've never beaten him in basketball—not once. And that hasn't changed. My win is his."
He paused for a moment, then added softly, "Most especially, this victory is also for that very special person who gave me new strength." When the reporter asked who that person was, Dranred simply smiled and said nothing.
"Will we see the same Dranred in Game Five?" the reporter pressed.
Again, he only smiled in reply.
Peter, one of his teammates, leaned in and whispered something to him. Dranred nodded, then turned back to the reporter. "Excuse me," he said politely. "I need to check on my team."
With that, he walked away, leaving behind the hum of cameras and curious glances — and a quiet sense that there was more to his story than he was willing to say.
At the hospital, Estelle was watching Dranred's interview on TV. When he mentioned the "special someone" who gave him new strength, she instinctively turned to Rosette, who sat silently beside her. They were still waiting for the results of James's check-up. Neither of them had been able to finish watching the game after rushing him to the hospital.
After Dranred's segment, the reporters interviewed Drake and the Falcons' coach next.
When asked about Dranred's performance and his own, Drake sighed. "I want to apologize for how I acted during the game," he said honestly. "I let my temper get the best of me, and that cost us. Dranred played great—he deserved the win. I should've stayed calm and focused."
He admitted that he'd run out of patience with Dranred's tricks, which kept drawing fouls on him. "But that's not his fault," Drake added. "It's mine. I lost my cool."
The coach, when asked about James's condition, said they still hadn't received updates. "We're hoping he can return for Game Five," he said. "He's a key part of our team—not just for defense, but offense too. His shooting average is almost the same as Drake's. We'll prepare hard for Game Five and fight for that championship."
After his own team meeting, Dranred rushed to the hospital where James had been taken. He hadn't even changed out of his team jacket and jogging pants.
The moment he walked through the hospital doors, heads turned. Nurses and patients recognized him instantly—after all, they'd just watched his fiery performance in Game Four. A few of the nurses froze, starstruck, as he approached the counter.
"Mr. Superstar," a familiar voice teased.
Dranred turned and saw Bryan, the young doctor who had treated the team before.
"Let me guess," Bryan said with a smirk. "You're here for James? You actually beat his team here."
"How is he? Is he okay?" Dranred asked anxiously.
Bryan raised an eyebrow. "Worried, are you?"
"Crap," Dranred muttered under his breath, embarrassed by the question.
Bryan chuckled. "Come on, follow me."
Dranred nodded silently and followed him down the hall. Around them, nurses and patients snapped quick photos of the basketball star, their excitement buzzing in the air—but Dranred barely noticed. His thoughts were fixed only on the friend lying somewhere behind those hospital doors.