Extra Basket-Chapter 158 - 145: Training

August 8, 2010

Vorpal Middle School Gymnasium

Two Days Before the Division Cup

August 8, 2010 — Two Days Before the Division Cup

The sound of sneakers screeching on the hardwood echoed through the gym like a war chant. Sweat painted the court in streaks. The air smelled of adrenaline, burnt rubber, and something deeper—

Determination.

I stood near the baseline, arms crossed, watching them.

They were no longer the team they were just a month ago.

Back then... we were barely holding it together.

Back then... we lost more than we won.

Back then... they doubted themselves.

Some of them couldn’t shoot. Some couldn’t defend. Some couldn’t even look their own failures in the eye.

But now?

They’ve changed completely.

Lucas Graves.

Quick. Relentless.

His Absolute Mimicry has evolved not just in power, but in mastery.

Before, copying one ability drained him. It left him panting, slower, exposed.

But now?

He can stack them. Borrow moves mid-air. Switch forms mid-drive.

A spin from Louie, a pass from Evan, a pull-up from Josh all in one motion.

He’s stronger than ever a far cry from the unsure bench player he once was.

But even this upgraded power has limits.

Ryan Taylor.

Back then, he was awkward in the paint. Hesitant.

He’d miss box-outs. Get outmuscled. Forget rotations.

But now?

He’s a storm under the rim. Every rebound feels like it means something personal to him.

He throws his body like a shield. Dives without hesitation.

He became our emotional engine. Our bruiser. The soul that refuses to quit.

Evan Cooper.

Once overwhelmed by pressure. Easily stripped. Always second-guessing.

Now?

Eyes sharp. Hands faster.

He commands the floor like a chessboard.

Directs traffic. Reads spacing. Anticipates cuts before they happen.

He’s the pulse of our offense our general.

The difference between hesitation and leadership? A thousand reps and the courage to

take the blame.

Evan grew up and fast.

Josh Turner.

A shooter, sure but streaky.

Miss one shot, and his confidence cracked.

Miss two, and he vanished.

But not anymore.

Now, he shoots like he knows it’s going in.

Once he finds rhythm, the net sings like a lullaby.

One... two... three in a row.

And suddenly, teams are scrambling. Because Josh has become a problem.

Aiden White.

The background player. Always "solid," but never noticed.

That changed.

He embraced the role of the glue guy the kind of player every team needs but no one praises.

He guards without flash. Passes without ego. Fills holes in silence.

Balanced. Stable. Underestimated just the way he likes it.

Louie Gee Davas.

Back then? All flash. No control.

Crossovers for the crowd. Turnovers for the stat sheet.

But now?

He’s still wildfire but wildfire with a direction.

Style and fury in one, sharpened by the weight of expectation.

You never know what move comes next...

And neither does his defender.

Kai Mendoza.

Used to get outrun. Outpaced.

But his mind was always ahead.

Quick thinker.

He knows the shortcuts the game doesn’t teach where to stand, when to cut, how to bait.

He’s not the fastest.

But when you’re smart, you don’t need to be.

Coonie Smith.

Once chaotic. All heart, no polish.

Jumping too early, fouling too much, overreaching every possession.

Now?

Powerful. Efficient. Focused.

He times his jumps. Boxes out. Screams on switches.

And when he grabs a rebound, he rips it like he’s taking something back.

Because he is.

Jeremy Park.

Quieter now.

But that quiet, holds weight.

A month ago, he would’ve cracked under pressure.

Now?

After the debt. After Big King. After nearly dragging us all down

He’s fighting like someone with everything to prove.

He trains like he’s trying to erase every weakness.

Not just for himself but for us.

He owes us.

And he’s paying it back with every drill, every sprint, every drop of sweat.

And me?

Ethan Albarado.

I don’t say much.

But I watch.

I learn.

I adjust.

They think I’m the quiet one.

But they forget:

The quiet one doesn’t just play the game. He changes it.

Beside me stood Ayumi Brooke, her clipboard hugged tight against her chest, eyes locked on the court with the same intensity as mine.

She nudged me gently.

"They’re moving sharper than before," she said, soft but confident.

I nodded.

"They’re evolving."

She smiled a little.

"And you? Still analyzing every breath, they take?"

I didn’t answer that.

Because she was right.

Every cut Lucas made I tracked it.

Every bounce pass from Evan recorded.

The arc of Josh’s release, the pivot foot of Ryan, the timing of Connie’s rebounds — all of it.

"Two days left," Ayumi whispered.

I spoke quietly, but my voice didn’t waver.

"Two days is enough. If we don’t waste a second."

....

Scene: Court Drill, 4v4 Chaos Drill

Vorpal Middle School Gym – August 8, 2010

The ball cracked into Louie’s hands like lightning snapping through the air.

"GO!" I barked.

Louie didn’t hesitate. He shot forward, pivoting off the balls of his feet as Brandon slammed into the defender with a brutal hard screen, shoulder firm, feet wide. The

sound of the collision echoed through the gym like a car crash.

Spin. Flick. Pass.

Louie’s hands were a blur as he whipped the ball to Kai near the wing.

Kai didn’t even look.

The moment the ball touched his fingers, he already had a mental map of the court.

He skipped the pass low and fast to Lucas in the corner — right pocket, sweet spot.

Lucas caught. Pump-fake.

Josh bit hard. Too hard.

His shoes screeched as he launched through the air like a fish caught on bait.

Lucas smirked. One dribble. Cut baseline.

Defender closing.

Reverse pivot. Left foot plant.

Up—under—release.

"BUCKET!!"

Coonie shouted from half-court, clapping hard as the ball snapped through the net with a clean SWISH.

They were flowing now.

Not just playing. Reading each other. Moving like instinct made flesh.

But still not perfect.

I clapped once. Loud.

"RESET!"

They all groaned.

"Faster rotation after the second screen. Louie, your hedge was late. Jeremy, you overcommitted off-ball. That’s how the backdoor opens."

Louie rolled his eyes, bent over and breathing heavy.

"Bro, I’m moving like the wind already—"

I didn’t raise my voice.

"Then move like a storm."

He froze. Looked up.

I wasn’t mad. Just clear.

Ayumi, standing beside me with her clipboard, jotted something down.

"We’ll need conditioning drills after this," she said.

"They’re faster, but their stamina’s not there yet."

I nodded once.

"Alright. Circuit run after the next set. 3 laps, 5 cones, full-court shuffle."

They groaned again.

"You want the Cup or not?"

They shut up.

...

Cut To: Break Time Bleachers

Sweat dripped from every chin, every elbow, every jersey.

Some leaned against the walls. Others collapsed onto the court.

Lucas flopped next to me, arms stretched behind his head, chest rising fast.

"So uh..." he said, voice half-dead, half-playful.

"Division Cup. You nervous?"

I looked down at him.

"No."

He grinned. "Liar."

I blinked.

"You’re not nervous about the opponents," he said, sitting up now.

"You’re nervous about us. That we won’t be ready."

I didn’t answer.

That silence was enough.

Louie dragged himself over, dropping to the floor like gravity had doubled just for him.

He took a long swig of Gatorade, eyes narrowed.

"So..." he said between gulps.

"When are you gonna tell us who we’re up against in the Division Cup?"

Ayumi glanced at me.

I exhaled.

"Sixteen teams. We’re seeded fifth."

Everyone froze.

"Wait, what?" Evan leaned forward. "Fifth? After beating Blazing Fox?"

Ayumi tapped her clipboard.

"Seeding was locked before that match. Win or lose, it didn’t move us."

Josh wiped sweat from his neck.

"Then who the hell’s ranked first?"

Silence.

I stared forward. Then said it.

"Piedmont Spartans."

The name dropped like a rock into water.

Lucas stiffened.

Ryan’s jaw clenched.

"Three years undefeated," Ayumi added. "National attention. High school scouts. Sponsorships."

"But that’s not our opponent," I said.

Evan looked over.

"...Then who is?"

I turned to him.

"Roanoke Storm."

Evan’s face changed immediately.

"...No way."

His voice got quiet.

"Kagetsu Renjiro..."

I nodded once.

"Yeah. MVP of Roanoke. Number 23."

Coonie sat down slowly.

Even Kai stopped drinking water.

Renjiro.

The boy who plays like ice. Who never shows emotion. Who once scored 48 points in a single game with only 6 dribbles.

Ayumi added:

"They call him ’The Precision Blade.’"

Josh whispered:

"...Is he really that good?"

I looked at all of them.

"He’s better."

Ethan stood up slowly, arms crossed, eyes heavy with memory. The gym shadows cut hard across his face, and when he finally spoke, his voice wasn’t loud

but it cut clean through the silence.

"Nicknamed ’The Human Thunderclap,’ Kagetsu was a half-Japanese, half-African-American phenom."

Lucas blinked.

Josh looked stunned.

Ayumi stopped writing.

"His vertical was the stuff of legend," Ethan continued. "I’ve seen it. Live. Not on tape."

"They say his first step sounds like thunder."

He turned to them now.

"He’s already being scouted. His name’s traveled beyond Virginia. Some say if he stays healthy, he’s going D1 by high school. Not senior year. Freshman year."

Evan whispered, almost afraid to say it:

"That’s... impossible."

"No." Ethan shook his head.

"He makes the impossible routine. That’s the problem."

Aiden swallowed hard.

Ryan leaned forward, his voice a quiet growl.

"Then we’re fighting a future pro in middle school?"

"Exactly," Ethan replied. "He’s not our age. He’s already above this level. But that’s why..."

His voice steadied.

"That’s why we fight. Because no one thinks we can win. Because they see ’Vorpal’ and think ’nobody.’ But after tomorrow? They’ll remember us."

Lucas looked at him, eyes burning now.

"So, what’s the plan, Captain?"

Ethan smirked.

"We don’t run from thunder."

"We bring the storm."

..

Location: Hidden Valley Middle School Gymnasium

The gym was nearly empty.

Only the squeak of one pair of sneakers echoed inside the vast court.

The afternoon sun cut through the tall glass windows in golden beams, painting the hardwood like a battleground waiting for thunder.

At center court stood one figure.

Kagetsu Renjiro — #23.

freёweɓnovel_com

The MVP of Roanoke Storm.

The Human Thunderclap.

He wasn’t built like a typical middle schooler.

Tall.

Lean.

Defined.

His arms flexed effortlessly as he bounced the ball once, twice, then palmed it. His jet-black hair, damp with sweat, clung to his forehead. His skin glistened under the lights, and his eyes razor-sharp and locked in stared straight at the hoop like it was prey.

The gym lights flickered as if nature itself dared not challenge him.

He stood still for a moment... then rose into the air with such violent power that the sound of his takeoff cracked like thunder against the gym walls.

BOOM.

The dunk echoed not loud in volume, but heavy in intent.

Landing softly, he rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, then looked toward the far wall where a television screen mutedly replayed highlights of Vorpal basket against Blazing Fox

A slow-motion clip played: Ethan’s pass, Lucas’s shot, and the celebration.

Kagetsu didn’t flinch.

Instead, he murmured, voice low, deep, emotionless:

"Ethan Albarado, huh?"

His hand tightened around the ball. He turned his back to the screen.

"Vorpal won against a high school team..."

He stepped back behind the arc.

One dribble.

One breath.

One motion.

SWISH.

Perfect arc. No rim. Just silence and net.

"...Not a big deal."

His tone wasn’t arrogance.

It was fact.

Then, finally... a smirk — just barely.

He walked toward the baseline where his coach, a tall man in a black tracksuit with a clipboard under his arm, leaned against the wall.

"Coach," Kagetsu said, tossing the ball without looking.

"Put me on Ethan."

The coach raised an eyebrow.

"Planning to shut him down?"

"No."

Kagetsu cracked his knuckles slowly.

"I want to see how loud his storm really is."

To be continue

This chapt𝙚r is updated by fr(e)ew𝒆bnov(e)l.com