A Cold Battle...

The tension in the air was palpable as the game between Russia and the USA continued to unfold. The score was 8-9, with the United States trailing by a single point. Time was ticking, but neither team was willing to give an inch. The intensity of the match was reflected in the faces of the players watching from the sidelines, their eyes glued to the screen. The players who had already finished their 1v1 games were seated on the benches, catching their breath, but they were equally invested in this battle. This game, this moment, was a defining one.

Mason Carter and Viktor Mikhailov were locked in a brutal struggle. Both men were visibly exhausted, drenched in sweat, but their determination remained unwavering. The game had entered the final stretch, with each possession feeling like it could be the last. The clock continued to wind down, and the spectators, both on the court and on the sidelines, held their collective breath.

Viktor had the ball once more, the score still tight. With a fierce glint in his eye, he sized up Mason, who was poised, ready to defend. Viktor began to move, his footwork sharp and deliberate, testing Mason's defense. He feinted left, then quickly cut right, trying to shake his opponent loose.

Mason, however, was no slouch. He was quick on his feet, staying in front of Viktor with impeccable positioning. He anticipated Viktor's every move, and when Viktor made his move to drive to the basket, Mason slid over to cut him off.

But Viktor wasn't done. With a hard jab step, he pushed Mason off balance for a split second, creating just enough space to launch a contested mid-range jumper. The ball flew through the air like a missile, spinning toward the hoop.

It hit the rim, bouncing high, but the shot wasn't a clean miss. Viktor was quick to react, following the shot as it came down. With a powerful leap, he grabbed the rebound and went up again, this time with a second-chance opportunity. Mason was right there, his body forcing Viktor to adjust mid-air, but Viktor powered through, muscling his way up.

And then—nothing.

The ball rimmed out, and Mason grabbed the rebound, letting out a deep breath of relief. He was hanging on by a thread, his muscles sore from the back-and-forth battle, but he couldn't let up now. He quickly dribbled upcourt, his eyes scanning for an opening.

Viktor, frustrated but determined, hustled to get back into position, but he was lagging slightly, exhausted from his earlier effort. Mason saw the opportunity and pushed the pace, taking a few hard dribbles toward the basket. Viktor, still recovering from the rebound attempt, was out of position, leaving Mason with a clear path.

Mason drove hard to the right side, using his shoulder to shield the ball from Viktor's defense. Viktor tried to recover, but it was too late. Mason took a step back and launched a jumper from just outside the paint, a quick and fluid motion. The ball sailed through the air, and the crowd held their breath.

Swish.

The score was tied at 9-9. Both teams were fighting for every point now, and the stakes were clear: one final shot would determine who would claim victory.

The crowd erupted into cheers and gasps as the score evened out. The tension between the two players was thick enough to cut with a knife, both of them drenched in sweat, breathing heavily. Their bodies screamed in protest, but neither player was willing to back down. They were in it for the long haul.

Viktor, knowing that one more slip-up could cost him the game, quickly regained possession. He wasn't about to let this game slip away. He began his drive again, keeping Mason on his toes, but this time he was more methodical. He wasn't relying solely on brute force anymore; he was looking for the perfect moment to strike.

Mason stayed in front of him, sticking with him every step of the way. But Viktor had one more trick up his sleeve. He faked a drive to the left and then spun back to the right, hoping to lose Mason in the process.

Mason, however, wasn't fooled. He mirrored Viktor's every move, anticipating his spin and keeping up with his quick shifts. The two collided in the paint as Viktor tried to launch a contested fadeaway.

It was an ugly shot.

Viktor's legs were too tired to create the space needed for a clean look, and Mason's defense was too much to overcome. The ball ricocheted off the backboard and out of bounds.

USA ball.

It was Mason's chance to finally take control. With the score still tied at 9-9, there were only a few seconds left. One shot. One decision.

He dribbled slowly, his eyes never leaving Viktor, his body pumping with adrenaline. The countdown began in his head, each second slipping by like it was a lifetime. Mason was starting to feel the weight of the pressure, but he wasn't going to let it break him.

With a quick fake, he tried to get Viktor to bite, but Viktor didn't fall for it. Instead, he stepped back, giving Mason just enough room to take the shot he wanted. The ball left Mason's hands, but the seconds felt like hours as the ball flew toward the hoop.

It was going to be close.

The ball rattled the rim.

Once.

Twice.

And then—finally—it dropped through.

USA 10 – Russia 9.

The crowd erupted in cheers as Mason let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Viktor stood still for a moment, stunned. He had given everything, but it wasn't enough. He slowly shook his head, walking off the court in defeat.

Mason didn't celebrate. He knew that this victory didn't mean the end—it just meant the battle continued.

The players in the crowd who had already finished their games watched the dramatic finish with wide eyes, knowing that each match was more intense than the last. As the game ended, the next batch of players was preparing, waiting for their turn to step into the arena. The energy was infectious, and Diego's heart beat faster in anticipation.

But for now, Mason Carter had secured his victory, and Viktor Mikhailov had been eliminated. The USA had taken the lead, but only for now. The journey was far from over.