"Is this true?" the coach demanded as James limped into the gym. He'd just returned from the hospital, and word had already reached the team that the doctors had warned him not to play again.
"They told me you discharged yourself," the coach said, frustration creeping into his tone. "The doctor also said we have to stop you from playing before you do permanent damage. Your legs can't handle the strain anymore."
He turned to Drake. "Do you know anything about this? What am I supposed to tell management after we convinced them to keep you on the roster? You saw how Dranred played in Game Four — if the Phoenix wins Game Five and Six, Game Seven decides everything, and we can't afford—"
"Don't worry, Coach," James interrupted, his voice hard but steady. "I'm still playing. The doctor said I just need to rest my legs. If we reach Game Seven, I'll be there. I'm not letting my career end like this."
He knew it was pride speaking — but pride was all he had left. He'd worked too hard to back down now, not when Dranred stood on the other side of victory. Even if it meant risking everything, he wouldn't quit.
"You heard him, Coach," Drake cut in. "Besides, Dranred just got lucky in Game Four. I'll make sure the series doesn't even reach Game Seven. We'll take the championship next game."
"Before that," the coach said sternly, "you'd better learn to control your temper. Look what happened last time."
"Yes, Coach," Drake muttered.
"For now, James, help with the game plan. You're not cleared to play yet." The coach turned to leave.
"Yes, Coach," James replied, but before he could follow, Drake stopped him.
"I heard from your doctor that you saw Dranred at the hospital," Drake said.
"Oh, that," James sighed. "It's because of my sister, Rosette. You've met her, right? She had her eye surgery. Dranred covered all the expenses — he even found the eye donor."
Drake frowned. "And you let him do that?"
"It's not about permission," James answered. "He treats Rosette like a sister. His intentions were good. My problem with Dranred has nothing to do with her. She's been living in darkness for ten years — I can swallow my pride if it means she can finally see again."
Drake crossed his arms. "You're too naïve, James."
James forced a tight smile. "Maybe. But I'll see you on the court."
"Get well soon," Drake said, turning away. "We still have to beat him."
"Of course," James replied quietly, gripping his crutch a little tighter.
The next morning, the Falcon gym echoed with the sound of sneakers squeaking against polished floors. The smell of sweat, rubber, and determination hung thick in the air. The team was preparing for Game Five — the match that could crown them champions, or drag them into a final, decisive Game Seven.
James sat on the bench, a towel draped over his shoulders, his crutch leaning beside him. His leg still ached beneath the bandage, but he forced himself to ignore it. Every bounce of the ball, every whistle from the coach reminded him of what he was losing — the rhythm, the rush, the roar of the crowd.
"Take a rest, James," the coach called out from across the court. "You can help with strategy for now."
James nodded, but his eyes betrayed him — they followed every movement, every shot, every pass. It was torture to just sit and watch.
Drake jogged over, beads of sweat running down his temples. "You sure you're okay just sitting there?" he asked, smirking.
James forced a chuckle. "For now. I'll play when it matters."
Drake slapped him on the shoulder. "You'd better. I'm not winning this championship without you." He grinned before heading back into the drill.
James's smile faded the moment Drake turned away. He reached down, rubbing his knee gently, feeling the faint tremor beneath his skin. His doctor's words echoed in his mind — 'One wrong move, and you might never walk properly again.'
He clenched his jaw. So be it, he thought. If this is how it ends, I'll end it my way.
Across the city, Dranred was in the Phoenix gym, shooting three after three. Each shot sliced through the air and landed cleanly in the hoop. His teammates watched in silence, sensing something different in him — a quiet fire, no longer fueled by rivalry, but by purpose.
Peter tossed him another ball. "You're gonna burn out before Game Five at this rate," he said, half-joking.
Dranred caught the ball, spun it once in his hands, and smiled faintly. "If I do, then at least it's for something worth it."
Peter raised a brow. "You mean Rosette?"
Dranred's smile softened. "For her. And for James too."
Peter nodded slowly, understanding. "You think he'll still play?"
Dranred's shot missed for the first time that morning. The ball bounced off the rim and rolled away. "He will," he said quietly. "Even if it kills him."
That night, in the quiet of his house, James sat by the window with the game ball in his hands. The city lights shimmered below — a thousand tiny stars trapped in glass. His crutches leaned against the wall, his brace unstrapped, his leg trembling slightly from the day's secret exercises.
He knew it was reckless. He knew it could destroy him.
But for James, basketball wasn't just a game. It was his identity — the only thing that had ever made sense.
He glanced at a framed photo on the table — him, Rosette, and Estelle years ago, before the accident that took Rosette's sight. He touched the frame lightly and whispered,
"This time, I'll play for you."