Mountain Echo

It was Saturday afternoon. The atmosphere was thick in Resin Grove High’s gym—thick with sweat, anticipation, and a tension that clung to the rafters like smoke. Today marked the first game of the basketball season, and the whole town had come alive to witness it.

The Resin Grove Ravens had just finished warming up, sneakers squeaking across the polished hardwood, when Coach Erwin clapped his hands and called them in.

“Alright,” he said, voice gruff and steady as ever. “Everybody remember the plan?”

The team nodded. Faces gleamed with perspiration, but their eyes burned with fire—some more than others. Blake Hartley stood at the center of the huddle, slightly hunched, hands on his knees, feeling the beat of the gym pulse in his chest.

Coach continued. “Go beat them. And listen to Blake.”

There were murmurs of “Let’s go” and claps on backs as the players broke the huddle, jogging toward the bench. But Coach raised a hand. “Blake, stay here a second.”

Blake turned back, nodding silently.

Coach stepped in close. His eyes, deep-set and worn from too many seasons on the sidelines, met Blake’s. “Set the tone out there. Keep the team focused. Control the pace. You’re the captain now. That means more than just calling plays.”

Blake nodded again, steel-gray eyes unwavering. “Got it, Coach.”

He jogged out to join his team, sneakers thudding softly on the court. Resin Grove’s gym buzzed with life. The bleachers were packed—students in Raven colors, parents clutching coffees, the school band blasting fight songs, and cheerleaders flashing pompoms under the fluorescents. The air smelled like popcorn, floor polish, and nervous energy.

Scanning the crowd, Blake spotted them—Ethan Woodsen and Nick Vale, sitting in their usual spot on the third row. Ethan gave him a cool, confident thumbs-up. Nick, always one to break the tension, mimed an over-the-top slam dunk before pretending to injure his shoulder.

Blake grinned despite himself.

The opposing team, the Bridgemont Hawks, warmed up on the far side of the court. Their navy and silver uniforms gleamed under the lights. Towering above the rest of them was Jamal Reed—their center and star player. Blake had seen the footage. The guy was a menace in the paint.

The ref blew the whistle. Players lined up for the tip-off.

Blake turned to his team, heart steady, focus sharp. To his right stood Levi Chambers, the lanky small forward with a killer midrange shot and ice in his veins. On his left, Mateo Cruz, the shooting guard with lightning-fast feet and a quiet confidence. Darren Cole, the muscular power forward, cracked his neck and adjusted his headband, while Jordan Myles—the 6’6” center and newest starter—flexed his hands like a boxer before a bout.

The ball went up. Darren leaped high, tipping it back cleanly to Blake.

Here we go.

Blake caught the ball, immediately setting the rhythm with a smooth dribble between his legs. He called out a play—"Hawk 2"—and the Ravens moved like clockwork. Levi set a screen at the top of the key. Mateo broke free on the wing. Blake hit him with a bounce pass, and Mateo rose up.

Swish.

Three-nothing. The Ravens drew first blood.

The crowd erupted.

The next few minutes flew by. Blake was everywhere—pushing the pace, calling audibles, feeding passes into the post. Mateo knocked down two more jumpers. Darren banged inside for rebounds, muscling past defenders for gritty layups. Levi dropped a beautiful turnaround fade. Jordan used his length to contest shots, grabbing boards and throwing sharp outlet passes to start the break.

But the Hawks weren’t slouches. They countered with precision, feeding Jamal Reed in the paint. He was a beast—backing down Jordan, spinning through doubles, and swatting shots with casual cruelty. By the time the first quarter ended, the score was tied at 17.

Coach Erwin kept rotating players, but the core five kept reappearing.

“Keep pressing,” Blake told them during a huddle. “Jamal’s slow on the rotation. Let’s use that.”

The second quarter saw more of the same. Mateo drilled a three. Darren had a putback dunk that made the crowd explode. But Bridgemont kept pace. Every time the Ravens pulled ahead, the Hawks clawed back.

With two minutes left in the half, Blake drove hard to the basket, juked a defender, and laid it in over Jamal. The crowd roared. But seconds later, the Hawks’ guard returned the favor with a clean floater over Jordan’s fingertips.

Halftime: 34-33, Ravens barely ahead.

The locker room buzzed with sweat and talk.

“Jamal’s killing us in the post,” Jordan muttered, wiping his face.

“I can try fronting him more,” Darren offered.

Coach nodded. “Do that. Levi, float into help when you can. Blake, I want better floor spacing—don’t dribble into corners.”

“Understood,” Blake said, already thinking two plays ahead.

They hit the floor again, met by a still-rowdy crowd. Blake passed Ethan and Nick again—Ethan now chewing gum like a coach, Nick holding up a sign that just said: “GO HART.”

The second half was war.

Bodies flew. Blake took a charge that knocked the wind out of him. Mateo hit the floor hard after a drive but popped up. Darren got called for his third foul early in the fourth.

And still, it came down to the final minute.

Score: Hawks 61, Ravens 60.

Coach Erwin called timeout. The team gathered, breathing hard, jerseys soaked.

“We run the pick-and-roll,” Coach said. “Blake—take the shot if it’s clean. If not, Darren’s your guy.”

They nodded. Levi clapped Blake’s shoulder. “You got this.”

Blake took the inbound pass. Levi set a rock-solid screen. Blake burst past his defender. Jamal stepped up, arms wide.

At the last second, Blake dished it to Darren, who exploded to the rim.

Slam.

The gym went ballistic.

62-61, Ravens.

Fifteen seconds left.

The Hawks pushed fast. Their guard dribbled into traffic. Blake got a fingertip on a pass, nearly stole it—but the ball ricocheted back to a Hawk. Jumper.

Miss.

Jordan boxed out. Darren grabbed the board.

Five seconds. Foul.

Blake to the line. One-and-one.

He walked up slowly, wiped his palms. The noise faded.

Dribble. Spin. Shot.

Clang.

Jamal pulled the rebound. Timeout.

Three seconds.

Coach Erwin’s voice was calm. “No fouls. Hands up. Make ‘em earn it.”

The ball was inbounded to Jamal at half court. One dribble. Blake was right there, hand up, contesting.

Jamal launched a prayer.

Backboard.

Bank.

In.

Final score: 63–62.

The buzzer screamed. The Hawks bench stormed the court.

The Ravens stood frozen.

Blake stared at the scoreboard, the sound of cheers washing over him like static. For a second, it didn’t feel real. Then it did—like a gut punch.

Coach Erwin clapped his shoulder. “Good game.”

Blake nodded, jaw clenched.

As the team filed into the locker room, heads down, Blake glanced up at the bleachers. Ethan stood, giving a slow, meaningful nod. Nick gave him a double thumbs-up and shrugged like, “Close one, dude.”

Blake cracked the smallest smile.

They’d be okay. But the loss burned. And somewhere inside, Blake knew this was the beginning of something else entirely.

A shift. A beat waiting to drop.