The Waiter and The Chef

Chapter 1: Hoops and Rivalry

The basketball bounced on the concrete court as Jonathan dribbled, his eyes focused on the hoop ahead. Malik stood in front of him, arms spread wide, ready to block any attempt at a shot.

"Come on, rich boy," Malik taunted with a grin. "Show me what those fancy private coaches taught you."

Jonathan faked left, then quickly pivoted right, but Malik was too quick. He matched his friend's movements, staying between him and the basket.

"You're gonna have to do better than that," Malik laughed.

Jonathan backed up a few steps, considering his options. "Maybe I'm just lulling you into a false sense of security."

"Yeah, right. You're just stalling because you know you can't get past me."

With a burst of speed, Jonathan darted forward, managing to slip past Malik's outstretched arm. He jumped, the ball leaving his fingertips in a perfect arc. It sailed through the air, hitting the backboard and bouncing off the rim.

Malik snatched the rebound, already dribbling towards the other end of the court. "Nice try, but not good enough!"

Jonathan sprinted after him, determined not to let him score. They weaved back and forth across the court, the sound of their sneakers squeaking against the pavement.

"You know," Malik said between breaths, "for a guy who grew up with his own indoor court, you're not half bad at streetball."

Jonathan lunged, trying to steal the ball. "Maybe that's because I snuck out to play on real courts whenever I could."

Malik spun away from Jonathan's reach, lining up for a shot. "Rebel billionaire, huh? I like it."

The ball left Malik's hands, arcing high. Jonathan jumped, his fingertips just grazing the ball as it sailed past. It hit the rim, circling once before falling through the net.

"Yes!" he pumped his fist in the air. "That's how it's done!"

Jonathan retrieved the ball, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Lucky shot. We're still tied."

"For now," Malik said, crouching into a defensive stance. "But not for long."

They continued their game, trading shots and playful insults. The score remained close, neither able to pull ahead by more than a point or two.

As Jonathan prepared for another attempt at the basket, a sleek black car pulled up to the edge of the court. The window rolled down, revealing an older man in a suit.

"Mr. Reed," the driver called out. "Your father is requesting your presence at the office."

Jonathan's shoulders slumped, the ball dropping from his hands. "Seriously? Now?"

Malik picked up the ball, spinning it on his finger. "Duty calls, huh?"

"Something like that," Jonathan muttered, turning to the driver. "Tell him I'll be there in an hour."

"I'm afraid Mr. Reed was quite insistent that you come immediately, sir."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. Give me a minute."

As the driver nodded and rolled up the window, Jonathan turned back to Malik. "Sorry, man. Looks like we'll have to finish this another time."

Malik shrugged, tossing the ball back. "No worries. Your old man probably just wants to lecture you about responsibility or some shit."

"Probably," Jonathan said, catching the ball. "Want to grab a beer later? After I deal with whatever this is about?"

"You know it. Text me when you're free. And hey, try not to let the billionaire life corrupt you too much while you're gone."