The battle between the Falcons and the Phoenix grew even more intense.
Three minutes into the first quarter, and still, neither team had scored. The defense on both sides was suffocating — every pass contested, every drive blocked.
Then it happened.
As Drake took his shot, the whistle blew. Foul—on number 7, Dranred.
Dranred froze, disbelief written all over his face. There was no contact, none at all. But the call had been made, and Drake was already smiling as he stepped up for his free throw. He sank the three-pointer, then coolly scored the bonus shot — four points on the board for the Falcons.
As Drake walked past him, he leaned closer and murmured, "You're not the only one who knows tricks."
Dranred's jaw tightened, his hand curling into a fist. From the stands, Rosette saw the flash of anger in his eyes.
Please don't lose your focus, Red, she thought anxiously.
"It's okay," said Cal, patting Dranred's back. "Shake it off."
Dranred nodded slowly, forcing a breath. He knew what Drake was doing — baiting him, testing his control. But if Drake thought he'd get away with it, he was wrong.
Moments later, the tables turned. Dranred drove hard toward the arc, drew the contact — and this time, the referee's whistle blew on Drake. The crowd gasped.
A smirk flickered across Dranred's face. The same trick, reversed.
The same result.
"Foul? Are you kidding me?" Drake barked, throwing his arms up. The referee shot him a warning glare. "Question another call and you'll be ejected," he said flatly.
James stepped in, pulling Drake aside before he could say more. Across the court, Dranred calmly took his place at the free-throw line. The stadium quieted. He exhaled, released — and the ball slipped cleanly through the net.
Cheers erupted.
Just like that, the game was tied — four minutes into the first quarter.
And everyone knew this was only the beginning.
The intensity between the Phoenix and the Falcons only grew fiercer after the exchange of points between Drake and Dranred.
For the first three minutes, neither side could score — but once they broke the ice, the points came in waves. Every time the Falcons scored, the Phoenix struck back. With two minutes left in the first quarter, the score was tied, and the Phoenix had possession.
Dranred had the ball.
He scanned the court for an opening, but the Falcons' defense was relentless. Every teammate he looked to was blocked. He had no choice but to take the shot himself.
He drove toward the basket. Drake met him head-on. Just as Dranred launched for a layup, he felt a sharp tug on his leg — a trip. His balance faltered. For a split second, his body twisted midair, the court spinning beneath him.
And yet — the ball left his fingertips perfectly.
It hit the backboard and dropped cleanly through the hoop.
The arena erupted — but the cheers turned into gasps when Dranred crashed hard to the floor. His head struck the metal frame beneath the ring with a sickening thud.
"Dranred!" one of his teammates shouted, sprinting toward him.
From the stands, Rosette froze. Her hands flew to her mouth. For a heartbeat, she couldn't breathe. Then she was on her feet, eyes locked on the motionless figure on the court.
The referee's whistle shrieked through the noise.
The shot counted — and the foul was on Drake. His second of the game. An intentional foul, the ref signaled. Dranred had earned a chance at a free throw — a possible three-point play — and Phoenix would still keep possession afterward.
But no one cared about the points. Not right now.
"Dranred, are you okay?" his teammates called, kneeling beside him. He slowly sat up, dazed, forcing a smile. "I'm fine," he said hoarsely.
Then they saw it.
A thin stream of red slid down from his hairline, across his temple, and into his eye. The blood dripped onto the polished floor.
The crowd went silent.
From the giant screen above, the slow-motion replay showed the fall — the impact, the blood, and Dranred's dazed face. Rosette gripped the edge of her seat, her heart hammering.
He had scored…
But at what cost?
The medics rushed onto the court. One of them crouched beside Dranred, pressing a cloth against his forehead.
"You need to sit this out," the medic said. "You hit your head hard. You might have a concussion."
Dranred wiped the blood away with the back of his hand. "I'm fine," he muttered, his voice low but steady. He looked at the scoreboard—Phoenix was leading by three points, thanks to his shot. The crowd was still buzzing, chanting his name.
"Dranred, listen to him," said his coach, kneeling beside him. "We can sub you out for the rest of the quarter."
Dranred shook his head. "Coach, not now. Not this game."
"Your vision's blurry. You can't risk it."
He looked up, his eyes burning with determination. "If I walk off now, we'll lose more than the lead."
The coach stared at him for a moment, then sighed. "One sign of dizziness, and you're out. Got it?"
Dranred nodded. "Got it."
He stood up slowly, ignoring the wave of dizziness that washed over him. The crowd erupted into cheers again — louder this time, as if they could sense the defiance in his stance. His teammates helped him to his feet, and he gave a small wave to the fans before walking back toward the free-throw line.
From the stands, Rosette's eyes glistened.
"Red…" she whispered, her voice trembling. Estelle placed a hand on her shoulder, but Rosette couldn't look away. That determination, that fire — it was the same look Dranred always had whenever he made up his mind.
Drake watched from across the court, jaw tight. For a moment, guilt flickered in his eyes — but it vanished as quickly as it came.
Dranred bounced the ball once, twice. He exhaled, blocking out the roar of the crowd. Then he shot.
The ball sliced through the air and dropped cleanly into the hoop.
Phoenix 27, Falcon 24.
The crowd went wild.
As Dranred walked back to his side of the court, he caught sight of Rosette again. Their eyes met for a fleeting second. She smiled faintly, her tears glinting in the arena lights.
For the first time since his fall, Dranred smiled back.