Game Time, part 1

The locker room was still and sharp with the familiar smell of sweat, old tape, and detergent. Blake sat where he always did — second bench from the left, locker door open, staring at the nameplate as if it might blink back.

Same spot as last week.

Last week, when they lost by one. Sloppy turnovers, fourth quarter collapse, him missing that open three in the final minute. The worst part wasn’t even the loss — it was standing here afterward, staring into the locker like it might offer answers.

Not today.

“Yo, Hartley,” Darren’s voice broke through the quiet. “You spacing out or talking to your sneakers again?”

Blake looked up. “Neither. Manifesting greatness.”

Darren snorted. “Just make sure your ‘greatness’ gets the ball past their number three this time.”

Blake smirked but said nothing. Darren was intense, always had been. The guy approached rebounding like trench warfare. But he had Blake’s back on the court — always did.

Coach called the team in. A tight circle. The pregame speech was shorter than usual. Focused.

“They edged us out last season. Barely. They think this year’s a repeat. You show them otherwise.” He looked at each of them. “Fast. Smart. No hero ball. Don’t let them intimidate you and show them that last week’s loss was a fluke. Trust each other, and finish what you started.”

They moved into their huddle, arms slung around shoulders, a moment of unspoken electricity buzzing through them.

“Break on three — one, two, three—”

“Break!”

The gym was alive by the time they emerged from the tunnel. The crowd leaned in from the bleachers like a living wall — the buzz of voices rising and falling like waves.

Across the court, Southside Vultures were already warming up. They were fast, aggressive, and undefeated this season. Everyone knew they were the team to beat.

Everyone also knew they had barely edged out Resin Grove last year. And no one forgot it.

Blake jogged out and caught the familiar beat of squeaking sneakers on polished wood. He bounced the ball once, then again, falling into rhythm. Warmups ran like clockwork — layups, drills, passes. Mateo fired off a no-look bounce pass, smooth and cocky as ever. Levi followed it up with a corner three, nothing but net. Darren boxed Jordan out at the post just for the practice of it.

Blake went up for a layup, and when he turned mid-step, he caught a flash of maroon and gold from the side bleachers.

The cheer squad, pom-poms glinting in the overhead lights.

Vivi stood front and center in her captain’s spot, sharp ponytail and bright eyes scanning the court like a general taking inventory. When she noticed him watching, she gave him a quick thumbs-up — not over the top, just a blink of encouragement

The buzzer sounded.

Time.

They gathered for tip-off. Blake bounced once, eyes locked on the center circle. Jordan squared up across from the opposing center — a guy nearly as tall but heavier and clearly more experienced. Blake could see Jordan’s shoulders tense.

“You got this,” Blake said under his breath. “Just jump like it’s for your life.”

The ref stepped in. Whistle. Tossed the ball.

Tip-off.

Jordan’s timing was a fraction off. The other team tipped it back — first possession went to the Vultures.

They came in fast. Swung the ball, crossed over, pulled Blake and Mateo out wide, then hit the paint.

Two points.

The gym erupted on their side.

Blake wiped his palms on his shorts, inhaled. Calm.

He brought the ball up. Darren set a screen, Levi cut baseline, Mateo waved him off, yelling “Mismatch!” from the arc.

Blake kicked it to Mateo — who didn’t even blink before sinking a three over their point guard.

3–2.

Blake smiled, jogging back on defense.

The game settled into rhythm. Fast, physical, and unforgiving. Mateo was flashy, slicing through the defense like a blade. Levi made two clean stops on fast breaks. Jordan struggled a little with positioning, but grabbed two boards in the first five minutes. Darren hammered into the paint, bullying the other forward until he backed off.

Halfway through the quarter, Blake pulled a hesitation move at the arc, sent their defender sliding left, and dropped a jumper from the top of the key.

The crowd roared.

When he turned to jog back, he caught Vivi again — one fist raised, grinning at him from the sideline like she saw it coming the whole time.

He then saw Ethan and Nick grinning cheering for him from the bleachers.

But the Vultures weren’t easy. They pressed hard. Their point guard — number three — was fast, with sticky hands and eyes like radar. Twice he intercepted passes before Blake even released them. They rotated well, and every mistake was punished. Still, Resin Grove held their own.

End of the first quarter: 15–14, Vultures.

Coach pulled them into a huddle, voice low and firm.

“We’re matching them. But stop playing scared. They’re not magic. Stop giving them space, and make your screens count.”

Second quarter began with Mateo hitting another three, then Darren drawing a foul and sinking both free throws. For a few shining minutes, Resin Grove led by five.

Blake ran harder, called tighter plays, dished clean assists. He wasn’t the top scorer — that was Mateo — but he was the engine. The rhythm. Every time he drove into the lane and kicked it out, the whole crowd leaned in like they were holding their breath.

But by the end of the second quarter, the tide shifted.

Two bad calls. A fast break they couldn’t stop. Then a clean three from the Vultures’ power forward — a guy with a lazy release that somehow never missed. Suddenly, Resin Grove was down by four.

The last possession of the half, Blake held the ball with eight seconds left. He glanced at Coach, who signaled a motion set. Levi cut left, Mateo faked right, Blake used Darren’s screen and split the defenders. He took it into the lane — up and under — and the ball kissed off the glass just before the buzzer.

Halftime: 32–30, Vultures.

As the horn echoed, Blake jogged to the bench, chest heaving, sweat rolling down his back. The crowd roared around them. Somewhere in that noise, he heard Nick’s voice yelling something unintelligible. Probably encouraging. Maybe just loud.

He sat down, towel over his shoulders, heart thudding.

Same spot as last week.

Different game.

And the second half was still waiting.