The gym felt colder than usual.
Not the temperature—the energy.
Michael noticed it the moment he walked in for morning shootaround. Whispers between teammates. Eyes darting. Even Jamal was quieter than usual.
Coach Alvarez walked over with a clipboard and a hard look.
"Game tonight got moved. Last-minute tournament slot opened up—some top-tier teams accepted. We're playing Ridgeway Academy. They've got three nationally ranked players. One's committed to Duke."
Michael raised an eyebrow. "That supposed to scare me?"
Coach smirked. "Not you. But don't get comfortable."
The Ridgeway gym was something out of a basketball movie.
Glass backboards, digital shot clocks, full bleachers even for warmups. Their team looked like they'd been built in a lab—tall, shredded, polished.
Michael stood across from them during intros. They were loud. Talking. Laughing.
He didn't say a word.
Didn't have to.
The second quarter told them everything they needed to know.
Michael had started slow—just 4 points in the first. But then he found the rhythm.
He blew past their 6'6 shooting guard with a right-to-left crossover and dunked so hard the rim bent. On the next play, he chased down a fast break and pinned the ball off the glass like a missile.
The crowd gasped.
Then came the fadeaways.
Turn. Elevate. Release. Net.
Every one more vicious than the last.
By halftime, the scoreboard was even: 36–36.
Michael had 18.
The third quarter was war.
Ridgeway started sending doubles. Traps. Even threw a box-and-one look.
Michael adapted on the fly.
Pass. Relocate. Catch. Fire.
Drive. Collapse the defense. Dish.
Spin. Hang. Score.
[Progress: 8.63%][Skill Refinement: Playmaking Under Pressure +1]
Jamal started hitting shots too.
By the end of the third, Michael had 25. Jamal had 12.
They were down 1.
Coach gathered them before the fourth.
"You want respect? This is where you earn it."
Michael looked at the team. Looked them all in the eye.
"I've got us. Just don't blink."
Final quarter.
Michael took over.
Stepback three. Mid-post fade. Euro into traffic.
And with 22 seconds left, tie game—he caught the inbound at half court.
Crowd on their feet. Defense locked in.
He dribbled. Waited. Let the clock tick down.
Then exploded.
Left drive. Hard stop. Up-fake. Defender bit.
Michael rose, drifted sideways, and released.
Swish.
Ridgeway called timeout.
No celebration. Just cold eyes and a clenched fist.
Final: 74–72. Michael's line: 34 points, 6 rebounds, 5 assists, 2 blocks.
Whispers turned to headlines.
"Who IS this kid?" "6'9 Jordan?? More like 6'9 PROBLEM."
[Milestone Achieved: First National Win][Progress: 9.12%]
Michael didn't smile until he was in the locker room.
"You good?" Jamal asked.
Michael nodded slowly. "Yeah. Just don't want to get comfortable."