The whistle had co from the referee.
A stern-faced woman in black and white stripes who looked like she’d seen enough Legacy drama to last several lifetis and had zero patience for any more. She stood at center court, ball tucked under her arm, waiting for the circus to end so she could do her actual job.
Landon and Brian finally released Phei’s shirt.
It fell back into place—covering that impossible body, hiding it from the hungry eyes that had just morized every ridge and shadow. The fairy’s hold released at the sa mont, and Phei rolled his shoulders, shooting his teammates a look that promised retribution.
They grinned back.
Worth it.
"Captains," the referee called. "Center court. Now."
Marcus walked forward first.
Unhurried. Unbothered. Every step radiating the absolute certainty of a man who had never lost anything that mattered.
Phei approached from the opposite side.
They stopped three feet apart.
The referee looked between them.
"Standard rules. First team to fifty points wins—no quarters, no halfti, no breaks. Only subs if you have one. Ga doesn’t stop until soone hits fifty." She paused, letting that sink in for the crowd. "Fouls will be called tight. I don’t care whose family owns what. Any questions?"
First to fifty.
A street ball rule. Raw. Brutal. No tiouts to regroup. No halfti speeches to adjust strategy. Just two teams going at each other until one hit the magic number.
For a team of five trained players against three guys who’d barely practiced together?
It should be a slaughter.
Neither captain spoke.
"Good." She held up the ball. "We’ll do a jump ball for first possession—"
"Give it to them."
Phei’s voice cut through the stadium.
Quiet. Flat. Carrying anyway because the microphones were still hot and twenty thousand people had stopped breathing.
The referee blinked. "Excuse ?"
"First possession." Phei’s eyes never left Marcus. "Give it to them."
Whispers. Confusion. Disbelief rippling through the crowd like wind through wheat.
"You’re forfeiting the jump ball," the referee clarified. "You understand you’re already down two players. You’re giving them another advantage."
Three against five.
And he was handing them the ball.
Phei’s lips curved. Ghost of a smile.
"They’ll need it."
The stadium exploded.
Marcus didn’t react.
He just looked at Phei. Long. asured.
"Your funeral."
"We’ll see."
The teams took positions.
Five Heaven Reapers spread across the offensive end—Marcus at the top of the key, Danton on the wing, Brett and Anderson in the corners, Kyle lurking near the basket.
Three defenders.
Phei. Landon. Brian.
The math was impossible. Two players would always be open. Always. There was no defensive sche in basketball that could cover five with three.
The crowd knew it.
The Reapers knew it.
Marcus knew it.
The referee handed the ball to Marcus at the top of the key.
He held it casually. One hand. Like it weighed nothing. Like this entire spectacle was beneath him.
"Check."
He bounced the ball to Phei.
Phei caught it. Bounced it back.
"Check."
The ga began.
Marcus moved first.
A simple dribble to the right—testing, probing, seeing how Phei would respond. His teammates rotated, five bodies moving in patterns they’d drilled a thousand tis, creating space, exploiting the numbers.
Phei stayed in front of Marcus. Balanced. Patient.
Marcus crossed over. Left to right.
Phei mirrored it.
Marcus drove left—hard, explosive, the first step that had blown past every defender he’d ever faced.
Phei slid with him. Cut off the lane.
But that was the point.
Marcus wasn’t trying to score. He was drawing the defense—pulling Phei toward the basket, collapsing what little coverage three players could provide.
He kicked it out to Danton.
Wide open on the wing. Three against five ant soone was always open, and right now that soone was Danton Maxton with nothing but air between him and the basket.
He caught it in rhythm. Squared up. Released.
The three-pointer was pure.
Swish.
3-0, Reapers.
The crowd roared. Marcus’s Angels went insane. The Heaven Reapers’ bench celebrated like the ga was already over.
Danton pointed at the crowd, soaking it in, then jogged back on defense with a smirk aid directly at Phei.
This is how it’s going to go, his expression said. Numbers don’t lie. You’re fucked.
Phei’s expression didn’t change.
He just walked to the baseline to collect the ball.
Brian inbounded to Phei.
And sothing shifted.
The cold that had been radiating off Phei all day—that passive, ambient frost—suddenly focused. Concentrated. Like a laser that had been diffused through fog and now found its target.
He took one dribble.
Marcus stepped up to guard him at half court. Full pressure. The prince defending the charity case personally.
Phei looked at him.
Through him.
And then he moved.
The crossover was so fast it didn’t register as a crossover—the ball teleported from right hand to left, his body shifting directions like physics had filed for divorce. Marcus, for the first ti in anyone’s mory, was caught reaching at air.
Gone.
Phei exploded past him—not around, through—hitting the lane at a speed that blurred the caras.
Danton stepped up to help.
Phei didn’t slow down. Didn’t even acknowledge him. He gathered at the free throw line and rose—body climbing, climbing, climbing—hang ti that made the crowd hold their breath—
Kyle ca from the weak side. Late. Desperate. Jumping to contest.
Phei switched the ball mid-air. Right hand to left. His body twisted—a corkscrew that defied anatomy—and he threw it down over Kyle’s outstretched arm.
The dunk was violence.
BOOM.
The rim scread. The backboard shuddered. Kyle crashed to the floor and Phei landed on his feet like a cat, already walking away before the net stopped swinging.
3-2, Reapers.
Silence.
Then chaos.
Marcus called for the ball imdiately.
No more feeling out. No more casual probing. The prince had seen sothing that demanded a response.
He attacked.
Full speed. Every move he had—crossover, between the legs, behind the back, stepback—a blur of elite handles that had embarrassed college defenders, that had made scouts compare him to NBA guards.
Phei stayed in front.
Not scrambling. Not guessing. Anticipating. Every direction Marcus tried, Phei was already there, already waiting, already cutting off angles before Marcus knew he wanted them.
Left—there.
Right—there.
Spin—there.
Marcus pulled up for a contested fadeaway. His signature. The shot that always fell.
Phei rose with him.
Higher.
His hand ca from above—fingertips eting leather at the apex of Marcus’s release, not blocking it clean but tipping it, changing the rotation by degrees.
The ball clanked off the back rim.
Brian grabbed the rebound—boxed out Anderson, ripped it down, imdiately looked up court.
Phei was already gone.
Full sprint. Outlet pass. Brian’s throw was perfect—leading Phei toward the basket, hitting him in stride.
Landon filled the lane on the left.
Three Reapers scrambled back—Marcus, Danton, Brett—but they were chasing, not defending, their angles wrong, their montum working against them.
Phei crossed half court with the ball.
He could have passed to Landon. Could have pulled up. Could have done anything safe and smart and tactical.
Instead, he attacked.
Three on one. Him versus the three defenders who’d recovered.
Brett stepped up first—Phei blew by him with a hesitation dribble that froze him in place.
Danton slid over to help—Phei spun, a full 360 that left Danton grasping at shadows.
Marcus was the last line. The prince himself, positioned at the rim, ready to send this charity case’s shot into the stands.
Phei gathered.
Rose.
Marcus jumped to et him—perfect timing, perfect positioning, everything the prince had ever learned about shot-blocking coming together in one mont.
Phei kept rising.
Higher than Marcus.
Higher than should be possible.
At the apex, he cocked the ball back—way back, behind his head—and threw it down with both hands over the outstretched arms of the Prince of Earth.
The dunk didn’t just go in.
It detonated.
BOOM.
The sound was different this ti. Heavier. An impact you felt in your chest, that made the floor vibrate, that announced to everyone watching that sothing fundantal had just changed.
Marcus landed first, stumbling backward.
Phei landed a second later, directly in front of him.
Their eyes t.
Phei didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. His expression said everything.
Your move, prince.
3-4.
Phei’s team had taken the lead.
Three against five.
And suddenly, the impossible didn’t look so impossible anymore.
The stadium was deafening.
David was screaming into his mic, but the words were swallowed by 200,000 voices losing their minds simultaneously.
In the VIP section, Dravenna’s wine glass hung forgotten in mid-air. Her eyes were fixed on the court, on the white-haired boy who had just posterized the most dominant player in Paradise history.
Well, she thought.
lissa was laughing. Actually laughing, champagne spilling over her fingers, watching the boy who belonged to her dismantle royalty like they were children playing at a man’s ga.
Harold sat frozen beside her. Mouth open. Brain refusing to process what his stepson—his charity case stepson—was doing to the Prince of Earth.
On the court, Marcus Heavenchild stood at center court.
Chest heaving.
Eyes burning.
For the first ti in his life, he was being challenged.
Actually challenged.
And the ga had barely started.
3-4.
First to fifty.
Forty-six more points to go.
And Phei Maxton looked like he was just warming up.
User Comments
0 comments from readers