The Hundred-Foot Fall
The timeout buzzer drilled into Kael's skull. Forty seconds left on the clock. Forty seconds to convince four kids they weren't already buried.
He grabbed Ryn's shoulder. She flinched. Her eyes were wet but her jaw was set.
"Listen to me," Kael said. "All of you. Look at me."
Brick stared at the floor. Spin picked at a loose thread on his jersey. Pip was crying silently, tears cutting clean tracks through the grime on her cheeks.
Kael dropped to one knee. The glass was cold through his worn-out sneakers. He could feel the vibration of the crowd above, the bass thrum of the arena's sound system, the hum of the neural dampeners still pulsing from the Viper's bench.
"I'm going out there," he said.
Ryn's head snapped up. "You can't. You're banned."
"I'm not playing. I'm coaching from the court." Kael pulled off his jacket. Underneath, he wore his old league jersey—faded blue, the number 7 peeling at the edges, the sponsor logo long since washed out. The fabric smelled like mothballs and regret.
"That's illegal," Spin said. His voice cracked.
"There's no rule against it." Kael stood up. His ribs screamed where he'd stitched them the night before. The fishing line pulled tight with every breath. "I checked the rulebook. Page forty-three. 'Coaches may occupy the bench or the designated coaching zone.' The court is a designated coaching zone if the referee allows it."
"The referee won't allow it," Ryn said.
"He will if I ask nicely." Kael turned toward the court. The glass stretched out before him, a transparent killing floor suspended a hundred feet above the ground. Below, the net hung slack, waiting for someone to fall. The Vipers' chrome exosuits gleamed under the arena lights. Their coach, Voss, stood at the sideline with her arms crossed, watching him.
Kael walked to the referee. The man was short, bald, with a hearing aid in his left ear and a permanent scowl etched into his face. His name was Marlow. He'd been officiating league matches since before Kael's first championship.
"Marlow," Kael said.
"Voss." Marlow didn't look up from his tablet. "You're not on the roster."
"I'm not playing. I'm coaching from the court."
Marlow's thumb paused over the screen. He looked up. His eyes traveled from Kael's jersey to the fishing line visible at the collar of his shirt. "You're bleeding through your shirt."
"I'm aware."
"The crowd will riot."
"The crowd is already rioting." Kael gestured at the stands. The undercity section—crammed into the nosebleed seats, wearing duct-taped shoes and hand-me-down jackets—was chanting something he couldn't make out. The elite section was silent, watching through champagne flutes and designer sunglasses.
Marlow stared at him for a long moment. Then he tapped his tablet. "Page forty-three. 'Coaches may occupy the bench or the designated coaching zone.' The court is not a designated coaching zone."
"It is if you designate it."
"I'm not designating it."
Kael leaned closer. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Marlow. I know about the neural dampeners. I know you've been told to ignore them. I know Aethel Corp owns your contract. But I also know you have a daughter who plays in the undercity league. I know she wears number twelve because that was your number. I know you taught her to tap the glass before every shot."
Marlow's face went pale.
"I'm not threatening you," Kael said. "I'm asking you. Let me coach from the court. Give these kids a fighting chance. And when this match is over, I'll make sure the footage of the dampeners goes to every news outlet in Neo-Avalon. You'll never have to look the other way again."
Marlow's hand trembled over his tablet. He looked at the Vipers' bench. He looked at the undercity section. He looked at Kael.
"Thirty seconds," he said. "If you're still standing in thirty seconds, I'll designate the court as a coaching zone."
Kael nodded. He stepped onto the glass.
The crowd erupted. The elite section booed. The undercity section cheered. The Vipers' star player—a man named Dravin with neural implants visible as silver studs along his temples—pointed at Kael and laughed.
Kael stood in the center of the court. The glass hummed beneath his feet. The pressure sensors were calibrated to detect movement, weight shifts, impacts. He could feel them vibrating, waiting for him to make a mistake.
Twenty seconds.
Dravin walked toward him. His exosuit whirred with every step. He was six-foot-five, two hundred and forty pounds of muscle and chrome. His eyes were black—the implants had replaced his irises with dark lenses that tracked movement at impossible speeds.
"You're pathetic," Dravin said. "You think a jersey makes you a player? You're a ghost. A washed-up fixer who sold his soul for pocket change."
Kael didn't answer.
Fifteen seconds.
Dravin stepped closer. His breath smelled like protein shakes and mint. "I'm going to break you. I'm going to put you through the glass and watch you hit the net. And then I'm going to do the same to your little street rats."
Kael still didn't answer.
Ten seconds.
Dravin's hand shot out. He grabbed Kael's jersey, twisted the fabric, pulled him close. "Say something. Beg. It'll make this more fun."
Kael looked at Dravin's hand. Then he looked at Dravin's eyes. "You're scared."
Dravin's grip tightened. "What?"
"You're scared. That's why you're talking. That's why you grabbed me. You're scared of a washed-up fixer and four homeless kids." Kael smiled. It was not a friendly smile. "You should be."
Five seconds.
Marlow's voice cut through the arena. "The court is designated as a coaching zone. Coach Voss is permitted to occupy the playing surface. Play resumes in thirty seconds."
Dravin released Kael's jersey. He stepped back, his face twisted with anger. "This isn't over."
"It's never over," Kael said. "That's the point."
The buzzer sounded. The fourth quarter resumed.
The score was 60-58. Kael's team led by two. Forty seconds left on the clock.
The Vipers had possession. Dravin took the ball at center court. His implants tracked every player on the floor. He saw Pip shifting her weight to the left. He saw Spin blinking sweat out of his eyes. He saw Brick favoring his right knee.
He didn't see Kael.
Kael moved behind Dravin, silent, his footsteps timed to the hum of the glass. He tapped his chest twice—the signal for a zone defense. Ryn saw it. She shifted left. Brick shifted right. Spin dropped back. Pip stayed on Dravin.
Dravin drove. His exosuit propelled him forward at a speed that shouldn't have been possible. Pip tried to cut him off. He sidestepped her like she was standing still. He jumped.
The ball left his hand.
Brick jumped too. His fingers brushed the ball, deflecting it off course. It hit the rim, bounced, spun, and fell through the net.
Sixty to sixty. Tie game.
Twenty seconds left.
Kael caught the ball on the rebound. He handed it to Ryn. "You know what to do."
Ryn nodded. She dribbled down the court. The Vipers' defense collapsed around her. Two players, then three. She passed to Spin. Spin passed to Pip. Pip faked a shot and passed back to Ryn.
Ten seconds.
Ryn was at the three-point line. Dravin was in front of her. His implants tracked her eyes, her shoulders, her hips. He knew where she was going to move before she did.
Kael stepped into Dravin's line of sight. "Hey."
Dravin's eyes flicked to Kael for a fraction of a second.
That was all Ryn needed.
She drove left. Dravin recovered, but his reaction was half a beat slow. Ryn jumped. Dravin jumped after her. His hand came down on her arm, hard, illegal, but the referee didn't call it.
Ryn released the ball.
It arced toward the basket. The buzzer sounded. The crowd held its breath.
The ball hit the rim. It bounced up. It bounced again. It spun on the edge of the hoop, teetering, deciding.
It fell out.
The crowd groaned. The scoreboard flashed: 60-60. Overtime.
Kael grabbed Ryn before she could fall. She was shaking. Her arm was red where Dravin had hit her. "I missed," she said. "I missed."
"You didn't miss. He fouled you." Kael looked at Marlow. Marlow looked away.
"It doesn't matter," Ryn said. "We're going to overtime. We're going to lose."
"We're not losing." Kael turned to the team. "Listen to me. Overtime is five minutes. Five minutes of hell. The dampeners are going to get worse. They're going to target Pip. They're going to target Spin. They're going to try to break Brick's knee."
"Then what do we do?" Spin asked. His voice was thin, reedy, scared.
Kael looked at each of them. Ryn, with her bruised arm and her fire. Brick, with his silent strength and his failing heart. Spin, with his quick hands and his faster mouth. Pip, with her tears and her gift.
"We play dirty," Kael said.
The team stared at him.
"We've been playing their game. Clean passes, clean shots, clean defense. That's what they expect. That's what they trained for." Kael pointed at the Vipers' bench. "They have exosuits. They have implants. They have dampeners. They have everything money can buy."
He pointed at the undercity section. "We have nothing. We have duct tape and stolen gear and a court that's going to be bulldozed if we lose. So we stop playing their game. We play ours."
"What's our game?" Pip asked.
Kael smiled. "Chaos."
The overtime buzzer sounded.
The Vipers took the court first. Dravin was grinning. His implants glowed red at the temples—the dampeners were at maximum. The air felt thick, heavy, like moving through honey.
Kael's team took their positions. Ryn at point. Spin on the wing. Pip at forward. Brick at center. Kael stood at the sideline, his hand pressed against his ribs, blood seeping through his fingers.
The ball went up.
Brick won the tip. He slapped it to Ryn. She drove, but her movements were sluggish, delayed. Dravin intercepted her pass. He passed to a Viper player who was already cutting toward the basket. The Viper scored.
62-60, Vipers.
Kael tapped his chest. The signal for a full-court press.
Ryn pressed the inbound passer. Spin double-teamed. The Viper panicked and threw a wild pass. Pip intercepted it. She passed to Ryn. Ryn shot.
The ball bounced off the rim. Brick grabbed the rebound. He passed to Spin. Spin drove, faked, passed to Ryn. Ryn shot again.
This time, it went in.
62-62.
Two minutes left.
The Vipers brought the ball up slowly. Dravin controlled the tempo, his implants scanning the court, calculating angles, predicting movements. He passed to a Viper player in the corner. The Viper shot.
Brick blocked it. The ball flew out of bounds. Vipers' possession.
Kael called a play. "Ryn. Switch to man-to-man on Dravin. Don't let him touch the ball."
Ryn nodded. She shadowed Dravin, sticking to him like glue. He tried to shake her. She stayed with him. He tried to push her off. She pushed back.
The Viper inbounder threw the ball to Dravin. Ryn deflected it. Spin grabbed the loose ball. He passed to Pip. Pip shot.
The ball swished through the net.
64-62, Kael's team.
One minute left.
The Vipers called a timeout. Kael gathered his team. They were breathing hard, sweating, shaking. The dampeners were taking their toll. Pip could barely stand. Spin's hands were trembling. Brick's face was gray.
"Thirty seconds left after this timeout," Kael said. "We need to hold them. One stop. That's all."
"What if they score?" Ryn asked.
"Then we score again." Kael looked at her. "You can do this. You've been doing this your whole life. Fighting for every inch. Stealing what you need. Surviving when no one thought you would."
Ryn nodded. Her eyes were dry now. Her jaw was set.
The timeout ended.
The Vipers took the court. Dravin had the ball at center. He dribbled slowly, deliberately, running down the clock. Twenty seconds. Fifteen. Ten.
He drove.
Ryn stayed with him. He faked left, went right. She stayed with him. He jumped. She jumped.
Their bodies collided in midair. Dravin's elbow caught Ryn in the ribs. She gasped. She fell.
The ball left Dravin's hand.
It arced toward the basket. Time seemed to slow. The crowd was silent. The ball rotated, spinning, hanging in the air.
Brick jumped. His fingers brushed the ball. It changed trajectory, hit the backboard, bounced off the rim, and fell into Spin's hands.
Spin passed to Pip. Pip passed to Ryn. Ryn was on the ground, clutching her ribs, gasping for air.
Kael ran onto the court. He grabbed the ball. He handed it to Ryn. "Get up."
She looked at him. Her eyes were wet again. "I can't."
"You can." Kael pulled her to her feet. "Five seconds. You have five seconds. You've been running your whole life. Run one more time."
Ryn took the ball. She dribbled down the court. The Vipers' defense collapsed around her. Dravin was in front of her. Two other players closed in from the sides.
She had no angle. No shot. No time.
She passed to Pip.
Pip was wide open. The ball hit her hands. She looked at the basket. The buzzer was about to sound. The crowd was screaming. The dampeners were pulsing in her skull.
She shot.
The ball arced. It hung in the air. It seemed to take forever.
And then it swished through the net.
The buzzer sounded.
The scoreboard flashed: 66-64.
Kael's team had won.
The undercity section exploded. People were screaming, crying, hugging each other. The elite section was silent, stunned, furious.
Ryn collapsed. Kael caught her. She was laughing and crying at the same time. "We did it. We actually did it."
"We did it," Kael said. He looked at the court. The glass was cracked in a dozen places. The net below was stained with sweat and blood. The Vipers were walking off the court, their heads down, their exosuits whirring in defeat.
Dravin stopped at the sideline. He looked at Kael. His implants were dark now, the red glow gone. "You got lucky."
Kael shook his head. "I got a team."
Dravin walked away.
Kael turned to his team. They were huddled together, crying, laughing, holding each other. Brick lifted Pip onto his shoulders. Spin was doing a victory dance that looked like a seizure. Ryn was sitting on the glass, her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking.
Kael sat down next to her. "You okay?"
"No," she said. "I think I broke a rib."
"Same."
She laughed. It turned into a cough. "What now?"
Kael looked up at the arena lights. They were bright, blinding, beautiful. "Now we go home. We build a new court. We play again."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that." Kael stood up. He offered her his hand. She took it. He pulled her to her feet.
They walked off the court together, the glass cracking beneath their feet, the crowd still roaring above them.
Behind them, the net swayed in the wind, empty, waiting for the next fall.
He grabbed Ryn's shoulder. She flinched. Her eyes were wet but her jaw was set.
"Listen to me," Kael said. "All of you. Look at me."
Brick stared at the floor. Spin picked at a loose thread on his jersey. Pip was crying silently, tears cutting clean tracks through the grime on her cheeks.
Kael dropped to one knee. The glass was cold through his worn-out sneakers. He could feel the vibration of the crowd above, the bass thrum of the arena's sound system, the hum of the neural dampeners still pulsing from the Viper's bench.
"I'm going out there," he said.
Ryn's head snapped up. "You can't. You're banned."
"I'm not playing. I'm coaching from the court." Kael pulled off his jacket. Underneath, he wore his old league jersey—faded blue, the number 7 peeling at the edges, the sponsor logo long since washed out. The fabric smelled like mothballs and regret.
"That's illegal," Spin said. His voice cracked.
"There's no rule against it." Kael stood up. His ribs screamed where he'd stitched them the night before. The fishing line pulled tight with every breath. "I checked the rulebook. Page forty-three. 'Coaches may occupy the bench or the designated coaching zone.' The court is a designated coaching zone if the referee allows it."
"The referee won't allow it," Ryn said.
"He will if I ask nicely." Kael turned toward the court. The glass stretched out before him, a transparent killing floor suspended a hundred feet above the ground. Below, the net hung slack, waiting for someone to fall. The Vipers' chrome exosuits gleamed under the arena lights. Their coach, Voss, stood at the sideline with her arms crossed, watching him.
Kael walked to the referee. The man was short, bald, with a hearing aid in his left ear and a permanent scowl etched into his face. His name was Marlow. He'd been officiating league matches since before Kael's first championship.
"Marlow," Kael said.
"Voss." Marlow didn't look up from his tablet. "You're not on the roster."
"I'm not playing. I'm coaching from the court."
Marlow's thumb paused over the screen. He looked up. His eyes traveled from Kael's jersey to the fishing line visible at the collar of his shirt. "You're bleeding through your shirt."
"I'm aware."
"The crowd will riot."
"The crowd is already rioting." Kael gestured at the stands. The undercity section—crammed into the nosebleed seats, wearing duct-taped shoes and hand-me-down jackets—was chanting something he couldn't make out. The elite section was silent, watching through champagne flutes and designer sunglasses.
Marlow stared at him for a long moment. Then he tapped his tablet. "Page forty-three. 'Coaches may occupy the bench or the designated coaching zone.' The court is not a designated coaching zone."
"It is if you designate it."
"I'm not designating it."
Kael leaned closer. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Marlow. I know about the neural dampeners. I know you've been told to ignore them. I know Aethel Corp owns your contract. But I also know you have a daughter who plays in the undercity league. I know she wears number twelve because that was your number. I know you taught her to tap the glass before every shot."
Marlow's face went pale.
"I'm not threatening you," Kael said. "I'm asking you. Let me coach from the court. Give these kids a fighting chance. And when this match is over, I'll make sure the footage of the dampeners goes to every news outlet in Neo-Avalon. You'll never have to look the other way again."
Marlow's hand trembled over his tablet. He looked at the Vipers' bench. He looked at the undercity section. He looked at Kael.
"Thirty seconds," he said. "If you're still standing in thirty seconds, I'll designate the court as a coaching zone."
Kael nodded. He stepped onto the glass.
The crowd erupted. The elite section booed. The undercity section cheered. The Vipers' star player—a man named Dravin with neural implants visible as silver studs along his temples—pointed at Kael and laughed.
Kael stood in the center of the court. The glass hummed beneath his feet. The pressure sensors were calibrated to detect movement, weight shifts, impacts. He could feel them vibrating, waiting for him to make a mistake.
Twenty seconds.
Dravin walked toward him. His exosuit whirred with every step. He was six-foot-five, two hundred and forty pounds of muscle and chrome. His eyes were black—the implants had replaced his irises with dark lenses that tracked movement at impossible speeds.
"You're pathetic," Dravin said. "You think a jersey makes you a player? You're a ghost. A washed-up fixer who sold his soul for pocket change."
Kael didn't answer.
Fifteen seconds.
Dravin stepped closer. His breath smelled like protein shakes and mint. "I'm going to break you. I'm going to put you through the glass and watch you hit the net. And then I'm going to do the same to your little street rats."
Kael still didn't answer.
Ten seconds.
Dravin's hand shot out. He grabbed Kael's jersey, twisted the fabric, pulled him close. "Say something. Beg. It'll make this more fun."
Kael looked at Dravin's hand. Then he looked at Dravin's eyes. "You're scared."
Dravin's grip tightened. "What?"
"You're scared. That's why you're talking. That's why you grabbed me. You're scared of a washed-up fixer and four homeless kids." Kael smiled. It was not a friendly smile. "You should be."
Five seconds.
Marlow's voice cut through the arena. "The court is designated as a coaching zone. Coach Voss is permitted to occupy the playing surface. Play resumes in thirty seconds."
Dravin released Kael's jersey. He stepped back, his face twisted with anger. "This isn't over."
"It's never over," Kael said. "That's the point."
The buzzer sounded. The fourth quarter resumed.
The score was 60-58. Kael's team led by two. Forty seconds left on the clock.
The Vipers had possession. Dravin took the ball at center court. His implants tracked every player on the floor. He saw Pip shifting her weight to the left. He saw Spin blinking sweat out of his eyes. He saw Brick favoring his right knee.
He didn't see Kael.
Kael moved behind Dravin, silent, his footsteps timed to the hum of the glass. He tapped his chest twice—the signal for a zone defense. Ryn saw it. She shifted left. Brick shifted right. Spin dropped back. Pip stayed on Dravin.
Dravin drove. His exosuit propelled him forward at a speed that shouldn't have been possible. Pip tried to cut him off. He sidestepped her like she was standing still. He jumped.
The ball left his hand.
Brick jumped too. His fingers brushed the ball, deflecting it off course. It hit the rim, bounced, spun, and fell through the net.
Sixty to sixty. Tie game.
Twenty seconds left.
Kael caught the ball on the rebound. He handed it to Ryn. "You know what to do."
Ryn nodded. She dribbled down the court. The Vipers' defense collapsed around her. Two players, then three. She passed to Spin. Spin passed to Pip. Pip faked a shot and passed back to Ryn.
Ten seconds.
Ryn was at the three-point line. Dravin was in front of her. His implants tracked her eyes, her shoulders, her hips. He knew where she was going to move before she did.
Kael stepped into Dravin's line of sight. "Hey."
Dravin's eyes flicked to Kael for a fraction of a second.
That was all Ryn needed.
She drove left. Dravin recovered, but his reaction was half a beat slow. Ryn jumped. Dravin jumped after her. His hand came down on her arm, hard, illegal, but the referee didn't call it.
Ryn released the ball.
It arced toward the basket. The buzzer sounded. The crowd held its breath.
The ball hit the rim. It bounced up. It bounced again. It spun on the edge of the hoop, teetering, deciding.
It fell out.
The crowd groaned. The scoreboard flashed: 60-60. Overtime.
Kael grabbed Ryn before she could fall. She was shaking. Her arm was red where Dravin had hit her. "I missed," she said. "I missed."
"You didn't miss. He fouled you." Kael looked at Marlow. Marlow looked away.
"It doesn't matter," Ryn said. "We're going to overtime. We're going to lose."
"We're not losing." Kael turned to the team. "Listen to me. Overtime is five minutes. Five minutes of hell. The dampeners are going to get worse. They're going to target Pip. They're going to target Spin. They're going to try to break Brick's knee."
"Then what do we do?" Spin asked. His voice was thin, reedy, scared.
Kael looked at each of them. Ryn, with her bruised arm and her fire. Brick, with his silent strength and his failing heart. Spin, with his quick hands and his faster mouth. Pip, with her tears and her gift.
"We play dirty," Kael said.
The team stared at him.
"We've been playing their game. Clean passes, clean shots, clean defense. That's what they expect. That's what they trained for." Kael pointed at the Vipers' bench. "They have exosuits. They have implants. They have dampeners. They have everything money can buy."
He pointed at the undercity section. "We have nothing. We have duct tape and stolen gear and a court that's going to be bulldozed if we lose. So we stop playing their game. We play ours."
"What's our game?" Pip asked.
Kael smiled. "Chaos."
The overtime buzzer sounded.
The Vipers took the court first. Dravin was grinning. His implants glowed red at the temples—the dampeners were at maximum. The air felt thick, heavy, like moving through honey.
Kael's team took their positions. Ryn at point. Spin on the wing. Pip at forward. Brick at center. Kael stood at the sideline, his hand pressed against his ribs, blood seeping through his fingers.
The ball went up.
Brick won the tip. He slapped it to Ryn. She drove, but her movements were sluggish, delayed. Dravin intercepted her pass. He passed to a Viper player who was already cutting toward the basket. The Viper scored.
62-60, Vipers.
Kael tapped his chest. The signal for a full-court press.
Ryn pressed the inbound passer. Spin double-teamed. The Viper panicked and threw a wild pass. Pip intercepted it. She passed to Ryn. Ryn shot.
The ball bounced off the rim. Brick grabbed the rebound. He passed to Spin. Spin drove, faked, passed to Ryn. Ryn shot again.
This time, it went in.
62-62.
Two minutes left.
The Vipers brought the ball up slowly. Dravin controlled the tempo, his implants scanning the court, calculating angles, predicting movements. He passed to a Viper player in the corner. The Viper shot.
Brick blocked it. The ball flew out of bounds. Vipers' possession.
Kael called a play. "Ryn. Switch to man-to-man on Dravin. Don't let him touch the ball."
Ryn nodded. She shadowed Dravin, sticking to him like glue. He tried to shake her. She stayed with him. He tried to push her off. She pushed back.
The Viper inbounder threw the ball to Dravin. Ryn deflected it. Spin grabbed the loose ball. He passed to Pip. Pip shot.
The ball swished through the net.
64-62, Kael's team.
One minute left.
The Vipers called a timeout. Kael gathered his team. They were breathing hard, sweating, shaking. The dampeners were taking their toll. Pip could barely stand. Spin's hands were trembling. Brick's face was gray.
"Thirty seconds left after this timeout," Kael said. "We need to hold them. One stop. That's all."
"What if they score?" Ryn asked.
"Then we score again." Kael looked at her. "You can do this. You've been doing this your whole life. Fighting for every inch. Stealing what you need. Surviving when no one thought you would."
Ryn nodded. Her eyes were dry now. Her jaw was set.
The timeout ended.
The Vipers took the court. Dravin had the ball at center. He dribbled slowly, deliberately, running down the clock. Twenty seconds. Fifteen. Ten.
He drove.
Ryn stayed with him. He faked left, went right. She stayed with him. He jumped. She jumped.
Their bodies collided in midair. Dravin's elbow caught Ryn in the ribs. She gasped. She fell.
The ball left Dravin's hand.
It arced toward the basket. Time seemed to slow. The crowd was silent. The ball rotated, spinning, hanging in the air.
Brick jumped. His fingers brushed the ball. It changed trajectory, hit the backboard, bounced off the rim, and fell into Spin's hands.
Spin passed to Pip. Pip passed to Ryn. Ryn was on the ground, clutching her ribs, gasping for air.
Kael ran onto the court. He grabbed the ball. He handed it to Ryn. "Get up."
She looked at him. Her eyes were wet again. "I can't."
"You can." Kael pulled her to her feet. "Five seconds. You have five seconds. You've been running your whole life. Run one more time."
Ryn took the ball. She dribbled down the court. The Vipers' defense collapsed around her. Dravin was in front of her. Two other players closed in from the sides.
She had no angle. No shot. No time.
She passed to Pip.
Pip was wide open. The ball hit her hands. She looked at the basket. The buzzer was about to sound. The crowd was screaming. The dampeners were pulsing in her skull.
She shot.
The ball arced. It hung in the air. It seemed to take forever.
And then it swished through the net.
The buzzer sounded.
The scoreboard flashed: 66-64.
Kael's team had won.
The undercity section exploded. People were screaming, crying, hugging each other. The elite section was silent, stunned, furious.
Ryn collapsed. Kael caught her. She was laughing and crying at the same time. "We did it. We actually did it."
"We did it," Kael said. He looked at the court. The glass was cracked in a dozen places. The net below was stained with sweat and blood. The Vipers were walking off the court, their heads down, their exosuits whirring in defeat.
Dravin stopped at the sideline. He looked at Kael. His implants were dark now, the red glow gone. "You got lucky."
Kael shook his head. "I got a team."
Dravin walked away.
Kael turned to his team. They were huddled together, crying, laughing, holding each other. Brick lifted Pip onto his shoulders. Spin was doing a victory dance that looked like a seizure. Ryn was sitting on the glass, her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking.
Kael sat down next to her. "You okay?"
"No," she said. "I think I broke a rib."
"Same."
She laughed. It turned into a cough. "What now?"
Kael looked up at the arena lights. They were bright, blinding, beautiful. "Now we go home. We build a new court. We play again."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that." Kael stood up. He offered her his hand. She took it. He pulled her to her feet.
They walked off the court together, the glass cracking beneath their feet, the crowd still roaring above them.
Behind them, the net swayed in the wind, empty, waiting for the next fall.