The stadium lights burned like a thousand suns, casting long shadows across the polished hardwood. The roar of the crowd was deafening, a living thing that pulsed through Jake Carter's veins. Sweat dripped from his brow as he crouched low, his fingers brushing the ball—one last dribble, one last shot.
**00:03 on the clock. 82-83.**
His muscles screamed from forty minutes of relentless play, but his mind was razor-sharp. The defender in front of him, Marcus Cole—All-State, trash-talking king—was breathing just as hard.
*"You choke here, Carter. Just like last year."*
Jake ignored him. The noise of the crowd faded into white noise. All he saw was the rim.
**00:02.**
A sharp crossover. Marcus stumbled, just half a step. Enough.
Jake pulled up.
The ball left his fingertips as the buzzer blared.
Silence.
Then—
**Swish.**
The eruption was instant. Teammates mobbed him, the crowd chanted his name, and for one blinding moment, Jake Carter was weightless. They'd done it. State finals. *Finally.*
But as the adrenaline faded, his gaze caught on the scouts in the stands—notebooks open, eyes calculating. And the text burning in his pocket:
*"We need to talk. - Dad"*
The real game was just beginning.