The hotel gym buzzed with energy the next morning. The boys were already on the floor, running drills, tossing passes, and teasing each other like usual – but Tyrone moved differently now. Not distant, not brooding – focused, coiled, ready.
Ector clapped a hand against his chest mid-drill. "Alright, team. Today's showtime. Compton Magic. Don't tell me you're scared of a hometown hero, Tyrone!"
Tyrone smirked, bouncing the ball. "I'm not scared. I just… haven't gotten a chance to show what I can really do yet."
Novak raised an eyebrow. "Is that your way of saying, 'watch me embarrass everyone'?"
"Exactly," Tyrone said, grin widening. "And you boys better keep up. I don't want anyone making me look like a one-man circus."
Aliir and Biha exchanged a glance, both shaking their heads with a laugh. "We got you, cap. Don't worry," Aliir said, patting Tyrone's back.
"Yeah, but don't think this means I'm letting you slack," Biha added with mock severity. "Bench warmers beware."
Jesus snorted. "Bro, you're about to light this place up. I can feel it."
Grigori leaned in, bouncing a ball with calm precision. "Just make sure you leave some highlight reels for the rest of us, Tyrone. Don't hog all the glory."
Mason laughed. "Fine. I'll share. But only if you all cover me when they try to double-team."
The team huddled for a quick pre-game pep talk, joking and ribbing each other, but underneath it all was a shared determination. They were a team, ready to prove their worth – not just to Compton Magic or scouts, but to themselves.
The bus ride over was tense with anticipation, but inside the gym, as they stepped onto the polished hardwood, the chatter faded into a unified focus. Warm-ups were fast, precise. Passes crisp. Layups smooth. Every shot Tyrone took was with intent – every drive to the hoop a reminder of what he had fought for.
Ector called out defensive rotations. "Stay on your man! No freebies! And Tyrone, don't get distracted by old friends in the crowd."
Tyrone chuckled. "Old friends? You mean kids who laughed at me when I carried my middle school to the state finals?"
"Exactly those," Mason quipped back, eyes glinting. "Time to show them what they missed."
Grigori and the others formed a wall of energy, guarding aggressively, communicating constantly. Aliir dove for every loose ball. Biha cut lanes like he was born to run them. Novak ran plays with meticulous timing. Jesus was everywhere at once, stealing passes, finishing in traffic. Ector drove the paint like a wrecking ball.
The first tip-off set the tone. Tyrone exploded off the jump, driving past defenders, finishing with authority, while the team fed off his energy. Every play was crisp. Every basket a statement. Compton Magic's starters looked sharp, but our boys were synchronized chaos – a team of mercenaries assembled to dominate, and they were executing like professionals.
Tyrone's grin widened after a clean drive and layup. "Alright… alright, let's make them remember why I almost made it to this roster."
Ector laughed mid-layup. "Don't worry, captain. You're carrying us all the way. Just like you said."
As the game wore on, the boys communicated with shouts, jokes, and quick quips, keeping each other sharp, motivated, and entertained. Compton Magic was strong, but nothing they could throw at the team could break the rhythm.
By halftime, the score was clear: the boys were not just keeping pace – they were making a statement. And Tyrone? He had found his focus, his fire, and his team. The dream he almost gave up on wasn't gone – it was alive on the floor, shared with the kids who now became his team of misfits.
The game was electric from start to finish. The score stayed neck-and-neck. Compton's bigs tried to impose themselves, but our boys refused to bend. The crowd was loud, the energy raw – every possession felt like a playoff game.
Then, in the final seconds, Compton ran a play: a screen-and-roll designed to exploit a mismatch. Aliir Deng, exhausted but alert, got caught on a killer crossover and couldn't recover. The Compton guard found space, launched a high-arching three, and swish – buzzer-beater.
The gym erupted. Final score: 105-102. A loss, yes, but a moral victory. The boys had pushed one of the most elite prep teams in the nation to the very edge – no overtime, no miracles, just sheer heart, skill, and teamwork. Tyrone smiled wryly, chest heaving, muttering, "Next time… next time it's ours."