The next morning at Lincoln High, it was buzzing. Everywhere Dante went, it was like the game from the night before had imprinted itself on every locker, every hallway, every voice.
"Yo D! That was crazy last night!"
"Bro, that third-quarter slam? You different."
Even teachers gave nods of approval, some disguising their admiration beneath raised eyebrows or soft claps on the shoulder.
Dante was trying to stay grounded, but the attention was like static electricity, small shocks of recognition everywhere he turned.
But for Coach Hale, one breakout game meant nothing.
"You ready for Westbrook?" he said, cutting through the noise as Dante entered the gym for morning shoot around.
Dante paused. "I was born ready, coach."
Coach Hale tossed him a ball. "Then show me."
Westbrook High was ranked third in the state. A team with a system. Tough defense. Deep bench. Discipline. Their captain, Elijah Rowe, was a 6'4" point guard who played like a grown man, aggressive, smart, and unapologetically physical.
Dante had seen highlights. Elijah didn't just score. He enforced.
The Lincoln squad gathered after classes for film breakdown. Coach Hale had the projector running clips of Westbrook's last three games. Elijah Rowe's name popped up again and again, deflections, steals, fast breaks, no-look dimes, and one scary poster dunk that made even Rico wince.
"He's not just nice," Rico muttered. "He's vicious."
Coach paused the tape. "Rowe will press you full court, he'll body you off screens, and he'll test your temper. He's not better than you, he's just used to people thinking he is."
Dante leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes locked on the screen.
This wasn't like the last game. This wasn't a crowd waiting to see what he'd do.
This time, he was walking into a storm.
Game day came faster than expected. The Lincoln bus rolled into Westbrook's campus under a sky streaked with gray. It felt colder here, like even the weather knew they were the underdogs.
The Westbrook gym was already packed, fans waving signs and screaming before warmups even began. The court was polished like a mirror, and banners from past state championships hung like reminders of legacy.
Dante stood at the free throw line during layup lines, bouncing the ball twice before launching into a clean dunk. The crowd booed. Westbrook's players smirked.
They weren't here to be impressed.
They were here to win.
Tip-off came, and just like that, it was on.
Elijah Rowe made his presence known immediately, pressing Dante the full length of the court. Not just shadowing, harassing.
Dante dribbled through the pressure, his movements tight, efficient. But Rowe was relentless, bumping with the shoulder, slapping at the ball, talking the whole time.
"You think you're ready, huh? One game don't make you nice, rookie."
Dante didn't flinch.
He didn't speak.
But when the ball swung back to him, and he blew past Rowe with a hard crossover and dropped a floater over the help defender, he let that bucket talk.
Westbrook ran their system like a machine. Every cut was sharp. Every screen had weight. They punished mistakes. And their crowd? Loud and strategic. They surged with momentum, crashing down like thunder on every Lincoln turnover.
By halftime, Lincoln trailed by 9.
In the locker room, Coach Hale stood in front of the whiteboard, jaw locked. The room was heavy.
"I don't care what their ranking is," he said. "I care what you do next. If you want to fold, stay here. If you want to prove you belong, take their respect."
Dante looked around. Rico's eyes were on fire. The bench players sat up straighter. The team nodded.
They were still in it.
But they needed something special.
They needed Dante to take over.
Coach Hale paced in front of the bench like a general before battle, barking out instructions to the second unit while keeping one eye on the court. Lincoln had taken control of the game, but he wasn't satisfied, not with Dante still pacing himself and Rico having missed two straight open looks.
Dante, meanwhile, was still on the floor, orchestrating the offense with a steady hand. Every possession was another opportunity to read the defense, to manipulate the pace. He wasn't putting up gaudy numbers, but his impact was unmistakable.
Then came the moment.
Midway through the third quarter, Westbrook's defense tightened up. They switched to a box-and-one on Dante, trying to neutralize him completely. The rest of the Lincoln squad tensed, momentarily caught off guard.
But Dante didn't panic. He slowed the tempo and walked the ball up, analyzing the new setup like a chessboard.
"Clear out," he called calmly, waving off the wing players.
The defender glued to him was fast, hands twitching, eyes locked in, but Dante baited him with a lazy crossover, then spun left, lost him in the process, and fired a no-look pass to Rico cutting baseline. Rico caught it in stride and laid it in.
The gym roared. Even the Westbrook fans had to clap at the finesse of it.
"That's how we break traps," Dante said on the way back, chest-bumping Rico.
Coach Hale smiled at last. It was subtle, but it was there.
From that point forward, Lincoln put on a clinic. Rico found his rhythm, draining two threes in the next two minutes. Malik, the big man, had two blocks and a thunderous put-back slam that shook the rim and sent Lincoln's bench to their feet.
Dante? He started attacking more aggressively. A quick step-back three from the top of the key. Then a drive past two defenders and a smooth reverse layup. He was surgical.
By the end of the third quarter, the scoreboard read: Lincoln 64, Westbrook 49.
But the fourth quarter wasn't going to be a coast.
Westbrook came out swinging. Their point guard hit a wild contested three to start. Then they stole the inbounds pass and converted again. Within ninety seconds, the lead was down to ten.
Coach Hale signaled for a timeout.
The players jogged over, panting, sweat dripping down their faces. Dante bent over, hands on his knees, locking eyes with Rico.
"We ain't folding," Dante said. "They want to fight? Let's fight."
Coach Hale looked around the huddle. "You earned this lead. Now finish your damn meal. We don't stop until the final buzzer. Got it?"
They all nodded.
The next possession, Dante came out on a mission. He called for an iso, crossed over hard left, and exploded to the rim. The help-side defender came flying in, but Dante hung in the air just long enough, switched hands, and finished with his left.
The crowd erupted again. The momentum had shifted back.
Over the next five minutes, Lincoln's defense locked in. Every switch was tight, every rebound contested. Dante picked their point guard's pocket at half court and took it coast to coast for a thunderous two-hand dunk that brought the gym to its feet.
By the final whistle, Lincoln had sealed the win: Lincoln 85, Jefferson 72.
The players hugged, slapped hands, and bumped chests. It wasn't a playoff game, but it felt like a statement.
Dante walked over to Coach Hale, who extended a firm hand.
"Controlled the game from start to finish," Coach said. "Proud of you."
Dante nodded. "One game at a time, Coach."
As the crowd filtered out, scouts whispered to each other. Some had already seen enough. Others scribbled notes and shook hands with the coaching staff. And a few, more curious than ever, had only just begun to understand what Dante King could become.
Outside the gym, the air was cool, the night quiet. Dante leaned against the wall near the exit, headphones in, decompressing.
Then he heard the voice.
"Nice game out there."
He turned. It was Janelle, the girl from the media team, holding a notepad and a recorder.
"Got time for a quick post-game quote?"
Dante smirked. "Only if you have time to walk with me."