Stafford High School. Allie Casas is her coach's right hand. But due to his poor health, she must step in despite the challenges ahead.
Osborne High School. With a sharp eye and a natural talent for shooting three-pointers, Robbie Sparks is the star...
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She's so tense. Maybe my act and my words come as too forward.
The referee shoots a menacing glare at us and the match goes on. My rivals' cocky poses don't surprise me. After all, for as long as they play fair, it's not considered a fault.
We push and pull, figuratively speaking. The atmosphere is tense, and Coach Whittaker is glaring at me with those killer eyes of his.
My teammate Davis passes the ball to me. When it's in my hands, time slows down.
I smirk.
I dribble twice, light and quick, feeling the rhythm of the game pulsing through my fingertips. My defender, a step too close, thinks he's got me locked. I breathe evenly. I can feel it—the hesitation in his stance, the slight lean forward. He's about to bite.
I jab hard to my left, selling it like I'm driving the lane. His feet shift just enough. That's all I need.
I pull back, quick, and rise up for the three. My legs coil like springs, releasing with perfect form. The ball rolls off my fingers, a clean flick. I'm already feeling it. This one's good.
Landing softly, my eyes are glued to the hoop as the ball arcs perfectly.
Swish.
The movement is neat. The net barely moves, and I'm jogging back down the court before it even drops through.
"Well done, Sparks!" Prince, another teammate, exclaims.
Coach Whittaker claps with enthusiasm.
My rivals bring it up fast, trying to push the tempo, but I see the point guard's eyes—Gilbert, he's anxious because I just broke their momentum. But they're rushing, forcing it.
He makes a lazy pass to his forward, Baldwin, and I read it like a book. I explode into the passing lane, cutting off his angle. My fingers graze the ball, tipping it just enough to throw off the catch. It bounces loose, and in a blink, I'm diving—my knees scrape the court, hands reaching. I feel the rough leather under my palm.
I'm back on my feet in a flash, scanning the floor. Teammates are moving, filling lanes, but I already know what I want. I push the ball ahead, racing past half-court. My opponents' defence is scrambling, but I can see them hesitate, waiting to collapse on the paint.
I smirk again. They think I'm driving.
I pull up just beyond the arc, feeling the adrenaline surge through me. My body knows what to do before I even think it—feet set, shoulders square. I release the shot, and it's like muscle memory taking over. Everything clicks.
My teammates watching from the bench gasp as the ball sails through the air. For a second, time freezes again. My breath catches as it drops, clean as the first one.
Another three.
Someone curses behind me.
They're stunned. I hear their coach, their beautiful female coach, barking out orders, but I tune it out, already back on defence. I might find her intriguing and hot—with those lovely and passionate eyes, that unspoken defiance in her pose, that slender body of hers—but a match is a match.
