The corridor outside Rosette's room was dim, washed in the pale blue glow of night lamps. Estelle leaned against the cold wall, clutching her phone to her chest. She had waited until Dranred left before entering, but the image she'd seen through the half-open door refused to leave her —
Rosette's arms were around him, his hand gently resting against her hair.
She had no right to feel this way. Not anymore.
Estelle forced a shaky breath and walked toward the small waiting lounge at the end of the hall. The jasmine's scent still lingered on her hands. She had touched the petals earlier, pretending they didn't mean anything — pretending he didn't mean anything.
But now, alone, the pretense fell apart.
Her fingers trembled as she touched the delicate white flowers. "Why does it still hurt?" she whispered. Her voice cracked like thin glass. "Why can't I stop—"
She bit her lip before the rest escaped. But the tears came anyway — slow at first, then unstoppable.
She sank onto the couch, burying her face in her palms. The memories came uninvited: Dranred's laugh, the way he used to wait for her after class, the quiet apologies they never said when everything fell apart.
It wasn't anger that consumed her now — it was grief.
Grief for the woman she used to be when she was still loved that way.
Estelle pressed her hands to her chest, as if she could keep her heart from breaking further. "You were right," she whispered to no one. "Things can't go back to how they used to be."
After a long silence, she wiped her tears and looked down at the jasmine again.
It wasn't the flower's fault, nor Rosette's, nor even his. It was just life — cruel, inevitable, and beautiful in its own way.
Estelle took a deep breath, stood up, and fixed her hair in the reflection of the dark window. Her eyes were still red, but her voice was steady when she finally spoke again.
"Tomorrow, I'll be okay," she said softly. "I have to be."
And for the first time that night, she believed it — even if only a little.
The Phoenix and the Falcons faced each other once again in Game 6 of the finals. Falcons supporters hoped their team would end the series that night and claim the championship. But Phoenix fans — especially Dranred's — were just as loud, praying for another win that would force a decisive Game 7.
In a quiet hospital room far from the roaring arena, Rosette sat on her bed, the TV already tuned to the live broadcast. The nurse assigned to her sometimes slipped in before her shift ended, pretending to "check vitals" while really watching the game.
"Rosette, your phone's ringing," the nurse said as she entered. A cheerful ringtone echoed from the side table — Peter's smartphone, which he had left for her earlier.
Rosette tilted her head toward the sound. "Whose phone?"
"Peter's, I think. Oh—" the nurse gasped playfully, "Mr. Shooting Star is calling you!"
Rosette's pulse jumped. Of course. Dranred.
"Could you… answer it for me?" she asked.
"Gladly!" The nurse swiped the screen and handed the phone to her.
"Rosette!" Dranred's voice came through, rich and full of energy. "Why'd it take you so long to pick up?"
Rosette smiled faintly. "You left a smartphone with someone who can't see, remember? Lucky for you, my nurse rescued your call."
"Then please thank her for me later," he said with a laugh. "After I win this game."
"You're still not on the court? Shouldn't you be warming up?"
"I am. This is part of my warm-up — my recharge. Needed to talk to you first since you're not here."
The way he said it made her heart skip. She tried to sound casual. "Sure, keep flattering me. Just make sure you play well tonight."
"I will. But you better hurry and get well, because I expect you at Game 7."
"You keep saying that," she teased. "You'll have to win first."
"It's a deal," he replied, his grin almost audible through the phone.
Someone in the background called his name.
"Go," she said softly. "They're waiting."
"I'll talk to you later," he promised, and the line went dead.
The nurse sighed dreamily. "You're so lucky. If his fans knew how close you two are, they'd all be jealous."
Rosette chuckled. "He's… a family friend."
"Uh-huh." The nurse winked. "Some friendship that is."
Rosette only smiled and turned her attention back to the glowing TV screen. The players were being introduced — Dranred among the starting five for Phoenix, and Drake for the Falcons. James's name wasn't called. Her brother was still recovering, but if Phoenix won tonight, there was a chance he could return for Game 7. She wasn't rooting against him — never — but she wanted, more than anything, to see both Dranred and James play side by side on the same court again.
Phoenix did not disappoint their roaring fans that night.
Under the blinding arena lights of Game Six, Dranred led his team with unwavering focus. Every move, every pass, every shot carried the same intensity that had ignited their comeback in Game Four. His teammates followed his rhythm — fluid, confident, unstoppable.
When the final buzzer sounded, the scoreboard told the story: Phoenix 98, Falcon 88.
A ten-point victory.
The series was now tied at 3–3.
Cheers filled the stadium. Supporters lifted banners high, chanting Dranred's name. In just three games, the young star had transformed from a player clouded by doubt into the heart of Phoenix's resurgence. His relentless drive had pushed them to the edge of glory — one final match away from the championship.
But for both teams, the battle was far from over.
The upcoming Game Seven would decide everything.
At the Falcon camp, tension simmered.
Drake noticed how hard James was pushing himself during practice — the grimace on his face each time he planted his injured leg, the forced smile whenever someone asked if he was fine. They both knew what the doctors had said: one more wrong move could end your career — maybe even cripple you for life.
But James wouldn't listen. His pride burned too fiercely.
He refused to accept that his story might end before the championship.
Drake understood the risk but stayed silent. They needed James if they wanted any chance against Dranred. Together, the two of them had once been unstoppable — and Drake was willing to gamble everything on that memory.
Deep down, he also wanted to reclaim what Dranred had taken: the spotlight, the admiration, the glory.