Beeep!
The first whistle pierced through the deafening cheers, and just like that, Ga One of the finals was underway.
The atmosphere inside the arena was electric—fans packed every seat, waving banners, chanting, and holding their breath in anticipation.
It wasn't just any finals match. This was the mont everyone had been waiting for: the beginning of Ross's run for his tenth consecutive championship.
The hype was unreal. People weren't here just to watch a ga—they were here to witness a legend at work.
And with Ross on the court, anything felt possible. His fanboys were out in full force, decked in his jersey, screaming his na like it was a war cry.
The whole arena seed to throb with expectation.
Ross's team won the tip-off, and within seconds, the ball was in his hands.
There was no hesitation, no warm-up. He pulled up from deep and sank a flawless three-pointer on his first touch of the ball.
The crowd exploded. That single shot was like a signal flare—the beginning of the end for the opposing team.
From there, things spiraled fast. Ross was everywhere—driving, dishing, dunking, draining shots from half-court like it was a training drill.
His teammates played well, but Ross played like he was from another planet.
By halfti, the scoreboard read a soul-crushing 80 to 30.
The other team looked shell-shocked, like they'd wandered into a nightmare they couldn't wake from.
It didn't feel like a competitive match. It felt like a demolition. An exhibition. A warning.
That's what every Ross-led ga eventually turned into—a public reminder of how far above everyone else he was.
And through it all, he hadn't missed. Not once. Every shot, every move, was flawless.
No one dared challenge him physically, either. Not anymore.
The league had learned the hard way: ssing with Ross didn't just get you embarrassed—it got you injured.
Seriously injured. He wasn't just the best player on the court—he was a walking career-ender.
Elbows, ankles, knees—it didn't matter.
If soone ca at Ross the wrong way, they ended up on the floor, in the hospital, or worse: out of the league entirely.
The list of players forced into early retirent by crossing paths with him was as long as it was brutal. So called him a demon.
Others said he was karma in sneakers. But everyone agreed on one thing—when Ross played, you either watched in awe… or prayed you didn't end up his next victim.
And this was just Ga One.
"This can't go on," Colton muttered under his breath, staggering back to the bench during a tiout.
His vision was blurred with sweat, his breathing ragged, his arms trembling from sheer fatigue.
Every muscle in his body scread for relief, but the ga wasn't even close to being over.
Worse yet—Ross didn't look like he'd even started sweating.
Colton had tried everything. Man-to-man. Zone help. Double teams. Triple teams, even.
But it was like trying to cage a shadow. Ross danced around every trap with insulting ease, slipping past defenders with that sa casual arrogance he'd worn since the tip-off.
It wasn't just skill—Ross made it look personal, as if humiliating his defenders was part of the show.
No matter what Colton threw at him, Ross had an answer. A spin. A step-back. A no-look pass.
A fadeaway three that barely touched the net.
The guy played like gravity didn't apply to him—and it was breaking Colton's spirit.
And what could he do about it?
Get physical?
He'd thought about it. God knows he'd thought about it.
A well-tid elbow, a hard shove on the drive—anything to rattle Ross and knock him off his rhythm.
But then he rembered what happened to the others. The list was long.
Veterans, enforcers, even rising stars who thought they could play tough guy.
They all ended up the sa: broken bodies, shattered careers.
Ross didn't just retaliate—he finished you.
One guy tore his ACL trying to take a charge.
Another caught an elbow to the temple and never played again.
Word around the league was clear: you don't ss with Ross unless you've already updated your will.
So Colton kept his distance. Physically, anyway.
But ntally?
He still had one card left to play.
If he couldn't beat Ross with defense, and he couldn't bully him with contact, maybe he could get inside his head. Rattle the cool, cocky superstar.
Push the right buttons. Force a mistake. Maybe—just maybe—make him snap.
The halfti ended. The buzzer sounded.
Ross jogged back onto the court, barely looking winded.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The ball was back in play. Ross had it again.
Colton squared up, forcing his exhausted legs into a defensive stance, but this ti, he didn't watch the ball.
He watched Ross's eyes. Waiting for his mont.
Then he leaned in.
"Hey, Ross," Colton said, his voice low but sharp, like a knife pressed against skin.
"I hear so of your wives are stepping out on you."
Ross didn't blink.
"You've got what, thirty? Forty wives now? I guess when you collect won like trading cards, it's hard to keep track. Harder still to satisfy all of them." He gave a theatrical sigh.
"But don't worry. I'm sure those young studs they're seeing can pick up the slack."
Ross dribbled once. Twice. His eyes remained fixed forward.
Colton smirked, encouraged.
"Your knees aren't what they used to be, old man. They're out there chasing real athletes now. Fresh at. Strong backs. Guys who don't need to ice their joints after one quarter of play."
He chuckled, trying to sound casual, but underneath, he was bracing himself. He half-expected a blow. A shove. Anything. But Ross just kept dribbling.
"I an, think about it," Colton went on, desperate to twist the knife. "Why else would they be so bored? They've seen the legend. They want soone who actually moves in the bedroom."
Still nothing.
Colton leaned in closer, pushing his luck.
"I bet even now, while you're out here showing off, one of them is getting handled by so fresh-out-of-college rookie with a six-pack and no bedti."
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