Chapter 8: The Turning Point

Hello. I forgot to upload yesterday. 2 chapters today. Thank you for reading!

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The game pressed on. Oliver faced off against Williams, the opposing team's No. 31, his stance firm, his eyes locked on his opponent's every move. He kept just a step of distance, shadowing Williams' attack with careful precision.

From the sidelines, Oliver had studied Williams well. His dribble was sharp, his footwork clean—deceptive and dangerous.

Now, under the bright lights, Oliver had to give it his all and maintain focus to make a stop.

There was no room for error.

Williams feinted, raising his hands as if to shoot. Oliver reacted instantly, springing into the air, arms fully extended.

But the shot never came.

It was a fake.

Williams had never gathered the ball.

Instead, it lingered briefly in his left hand before slipping away, bouncing lightly on the hardwood.

Oliver was caught midair, his balance thrown off.

'Not good.'

Gritting his teeth, he forced his body downward, adjusting his stance just as Williams took off for a drive.

Then—Oliver read him.

As Williams surged forward, Oliver stepped back at just the right moment, his hand striking out with precision. He met the ball cleanly, knocking it loose.

"Beautiful steal!" Boeheim clenched his fists in quiet satisfaction.

The ball skittered away. Oliver lunged, hands reaching instinctively.

The moment it was in his grasp, he was gone—racing down the court, a blur of speed.

"Lightning quick!" The commentator's voice rang out, thick with excitement.

"Get back on defense!" Williams barked, snapping his team out of their daze.

The Alabama defenders rushed to position, closing the gaps, their transition defense quick and disciplined.

"Sharp recovery! These guys aren't easy to break through!" The commentator marveled.

Beyond the three-point arc, Oliver slowed his pace, lowering his stance. His dribble steadied, deliberate. He was watching, waiting.

Then—two fingers, raised ever so slightly. A silent signal.

Gorin caught it immediately and took off, shifting across the court in smooth, purposeful motion. His defender followed, step for step.

Meanwhile, Oliver played his own game, shifting the ball left and right, testing Williams' balance.

Then—an opening. Williams leaned slightly left.

Oliver exploded right.

A step past him. Then two. He was gone.

Williams twisted, trying to recover, but it was too late.

Oliver charged toward the basket. A defender closed in fast, towering over him.

He leaped, arm poised for the shot.

The defender rose with him, hand outstretched. His height and reach were enough to smother the attempt. He had the block.

Or so he thought.

Just as the ball was about to leave Oliver's fingertips, its arc shifted—dropped. A spin, a flick of the wrist, and suddenly, it wasn't a shot at all.

The court went silent for a fraction of a second.

"Too low! Did he lose control?" Klint couldn't hide his excitement from Oliver's 'mistake' from the bench.

"No," Boeheim murmured, eyes never leaving the play. "That's a setup."

"Watch closely. That's how a point guard should be."

Gorin was there, perfectly timed. He slipped past his defender, leaped, and met the ball midair.

A smooth catch. A sharp twist. Then—power.

The dunk was clean, decisive. The rim snapped back into place as the ball fell through.

The crowd erupted.

The commentators' voices overlapped in disbelief and exhilaration.

"What a setup! That pass was unreal!"

"Where did he even come from!?"

On the sidelines, Boeheim clapped hard, his strategy board rattling under his grip.

Klint, towel clenched in his teeth, stared at the court, struggling to process what he had just seen. His eyes flickered toward the 5'9" point guard, a mixture of frustration and unwilling admiration settling in his expression.

'Damn it.'

Across the court, Williams exhaled, shaking his head. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

He was enjoying this.

Gorin, still catching his breath, walked over to Oliver and extended a hand.

Oliver met it without hesitation. Their palms connected with a firm, resounding clap.

"You played well," Gorin murmured. "And… I owe you an apology for last time."

Oliver held his gaze. In that moment, no words were needed—respect had been earned.

This was more than just a good play.

It was a turning point.

The whistle blew. Timeout.

The opposing coach had seen enough. He pulled four players off the court. 

The only one who remained was Williams.

The court was abuzz. They wondered what Alabama's coach is up to.

If you look closely, their best player, Mo Williams, kept staring at Oliver.

"I thought I could finally play against a great player." 

Before stepping into position, Williams cast a final glance at Oliver. His expression was unreadable, but just before he turned away, he muttered under his breath—

"It's such a shame."

When the crowd saw the substitutions, they finally saw what the coach was planning.

"This game will be tough to watch now."