Coach Aaron sat at the scorer's table, pen moving across his notepad in quick, precise strokes. The assistant coaches flanked him, their excitement bleeding through attempted professionalism.
"Did you see that comeback?" Assistant Coach Miller couldn't keep still. "Kid brought them back from fourteen down practically by himself. That pull-up three? The steal? He's a monster."
Aaron's pen never stopped moving. "Talent's easy to see."
"Easy to—Coach, he just demolished Vale. That's a nationally ranked player."
"Control is what matters." Aaron finally looked up, his eyes finding Lucifer across the gym. "Let's see if he can lead, not just score."
The Team A huddle smelled of sweat and frustration. Five players gulping water, five more shifting nervously on the periphery.
"We're switching the five." Lucifer's voice cut through the heavy breathing. Calm. Matter-of-fact. "You four, sit. Bench, you're in."
Marcus nearly choked on his water. "What?"
"But we were just getting momentum," Kevin protested, his shooting hand still trembling from adrenaline.
The bench players looked equally stunned. DeShawn, a point guard with cornrows and an ego that entered rooms before he did, scoffed. "Kid thinks he's the coach."
Another bench player, Tony, rolled his eyes so hard they might have seen his own brain.
"Everyone deserves a chance to play," Lucifer said, already turning away from the discussion he wasn't having. "This isn't over. We can still win."
The starters exchanged confused glances but trudged to the bench. You didn't argue with someone who'd just shown what Lucifer had shown. Not openly, anyway.
The second quarter started like a car crash in slow motion.
DeShawn brought the ball up, dribbling between his legs unnecessarily, wasting seconds on the shot clock while his teammates stood around like expensive lawn ornaments. An open cutter raised his hand. DeShawn ignored him, pulling up for a contested three that hit nothing but air.
Team B pushed the pace. Aaron Vale found his center for an easy bucket.
35-15.
Next possession: DeShawn dribbled for fifteen seconds, threw a lazy pass that Vale intercepted, leading to another easy score.
37-15.
The new center, Big Mike, decided to establish physical dominance by throwing an elbow during a screen. The referee's whistle was immediate. His third foul in two minutes.
"They look lost," someone in the crowd muttered.
Lost was generous. They looked like five guys who'd met in the parking lot and decided to play basketball despite having different definitions of what basketball was.
DeShawn forced another shot. Tony and Jerome, the two forwards, hadn't moved from the corners in three possessions. Big Mike committed his fourth foul trying to block a shot from behind.
42-15.
Lucifer stood up. The squeak of his shoes cut through the chatter.
"Timeout."
The assistant coach glanced at Aaron, eyebrows raised in question. Aaron's response was a simple nod. "Let him."
The second unit jogged over, somehow looking both exhausted and self-satisfied. DeShawn was already preparing excuses, his mouth opening before he reached the huddle.
Lucifer spoke first, his voice carrying that particular quiet that made gyms feel smaller.
"You." He pointed at DeShawn. "Too selfish. You had an open man three times. Took contested shots instead."
"I was trying to—"
"You." Big Mike's turn. "This is basketball, not football. Set a screen means stand still. Not deliver hits."
"He was—"
"You three." The forwards. "Haven't moved in five possessions. You're traffic cones with pulses."
Tony stepped forward. "Who made you—"
"Sit out." Lucifer turned his back on them completely. "Watch how a team is supposed to play. Maybe next game you'll contribute."
He walked past his original teammates, not looking at them, just muttering loud enough for them to hear: "I know we're down. Trust me, and I'll trust you. We win this."
The original five took the court. Three minutes left. Twenty-seven points down.
42-15.
The math was impossible. The momentum was gone. Aaron Vale's team was already celebrating in their body language, that loose confidence of a game already won.
Lucifer took the inbound. His new defender, Wells, tried to get physical immediately, reaching for the ball with grabby hands.
Mistake.
Lucifer snatched the ball left, exploding past Wells like he was standing still. The help defender rotated. Lucifer was already passing, a laser to Kevin in the corner.
Swish.
42-17.
2:45 remaining.
"Full court press!" Lucifer barked.
They swarmed. Team B, comfortable with their lead, got sloppy. Marcus tipped a pass, Jay grabbed it, fed it to Lucifer who was already streaking.
Layup.
42-19.
2:28 remaining.
Vale called for the ball, trying to restore order. Lucifer shadowed him, forcing a difficult pass to the wing. Team B's forward hesitated, then drove. Marcus rotated perfectly—exactly where Lucifer had pointed him pre-possession. The shot clanged off iron.
Rebound. Push. This time Lucifer kept it, pulling up from mid-range over Wells.
Nothing but net.
42-21.
2:05 remaining.
The crowd noise changed frequencies. Someone yelled, "No fucking way!"
Team B rushed their next possession. Vale tried to take control but Lucifer was everywhere—denying the entry pass, forcing Vale to catch it at half-court. The shot clock wound down. Forced three-pointer.
Miss.
Kevin grabbed the board, hit Lucifer on the outlet. No-look pass to Ray cutting baseline.
42-23.
1:42 remaining.
Coach Aaron's pen had stopped moving.
Vale got free on a screen, pulled up from eighteen feet. Good shot. Better defense didn't matter.
44-23.
1:20 remaining.
Lucifer walked the ball up slowly, letting his teammates set. Called out "Horns" loud enough for everyone to hear. The play developed exactly as designed—Marcus screening, rolling hard. The pass hit him in stride.
And-one. The center's fourth foul.
44-26.
0:58 remaining.
Marcus missed the free throw but Jay crashed the boards, putback.
44-28.
0:45 remaining.
Team B called timeout. When they returned, they ran isolation for Vale. He backed Lucifer down, turned for his fadeaway—the same shot that had been money all game.
Lucifer's hand appeared at the last possible second, fingertips grazing leather. The ball hit front rim, bounced to Kevin.
Fast break. Lucifer filled the lane, drew both defenders, dropped it to Marcus trailing.
Dunk.
44-30.
0:30 remaining.
Vale's teammates were looking at each other now. The center screamed for the ball in the post, got it, went up strong.
Jay stripped him clean. The ball went to Lucifer at the three-point line.
Everyone expected him to shoot. He drove instead, collapsing the defense, finding Kevin in the corner again.
Swish.
44-33.
0:18 remaining.
Team B tried to inbound. Lucifer read it perfectly, nearly stealing but deflecting it out of bounds instead.
0:15 remaining.
Vale finally got the ball where he wanted it—left elbow, his spot. The shot was perfect form, perfect rotation.
Too much rotation. It rimmed out.
Kevin to Lucifer. Full sprint up court.
0:08 remaining.
Vale and the center converged on him at the three-point line. The obvious play was the pull-up three. Had to be. The angle, the time, the momentum—
0:03 remaining.
Lucifer jumped, ball cocked back like he was going to force it, then whipped a behind-the-back pass that threaded between both defenders.
Marcus caught it under the basket, nobody within five feet.
0:01 remaining.
The ball went up, soft off his fingertips, kissing off the glass as the buzzer shrieked through the gym.
Final score 47-46.