Marcus locked eyes with him.
"You're not better than me." His voice was low, dangerous—half-spit, half-confession. The kind of line you threw when ego got bruised, and blood started boiling.
Lucas smiled—just a sliver. Barely enough to be seen.
"Then prove it without fouling."
The words hung in the air like smoke. Sharp. Unfiltered. Cutting right into the nerve.
A tension rippled across the court. Like the floor might snap.
The referee handed Lucas the ball on the sideline.
2:40 left. Second quarter. 37–16.
The crowd quieted just enough to hear the squeak of shoes.
Ryan Taylor, Vorpal's power forward, stood at the left elbow, hands on his knees. Sweat rolled off his jaw as he glanced sideways at Lucas and Marcus, locked into their private war.
(They're gonna kill each other at this pace...) Ryan thought grimly. He adjusted his stance.
His fingers twitched.
(We're up, but we're not in control.)
