Kyle took the inbound this time—trying to be careful, trying to protect the ball, trying to do anything right.
He passed to Anderson.
One.
Anderson swung it to Brett.
Two.
Brian was already moving.
He read the pass before it left Anderson's hands, cutting into the lane like a shark that had scented blood. Brett's fingertips barely grazed the leather before Brian's hand was there—deflecting, tipping, sending the ball spinning toward Landon.
Landon scooped it up without breaking stride.
The Reapers scrambled back—too slow, too rattled, too human.
Danton planted heavy in the post, the heat of his breath sharp against Phei's neck, muscles flexing like coiled ropes as he tried to shove Phei backward into the baseline. The rubber soles squeaked in protest; sweat beads flicked off Danton's brow and hit the floor with tiny wet slaps.
Phei felt the pressure ripple through his ribs—then let it slide past like water off oil.
He caught Landon's pass with ease.
