Chapter 9: Number 20
The gym was eerily silent as the medical staff helped Aiden White sit up. His face was twisted in pain, his ankle already starting to swell.
Evan Cooper crouched beside him, worry etched across his face.
"Aiden… can you stand?"
Aiden clenched his fists, trying to push himself up. He barely made it an inch before wincing in pain.
"Damn it…" he muttered under his breath.
Lucas, still catching his breath, walked over.
"Don't force it, Aiden. Let them check it out first."
Aiden turned his head slightly, locking eyes with his sister in the stands. Her small hands were gripping the railing, her expression filled with fear.
He felt ashamed.
(I promised her… that I'd show her I could win.)
Aiden gritted his teeth.
"I can still—"
Ryan Taylor, the team's power forward, cut him off.
"Don't be stupid, man. If you push it now, you could be out for the whole season."
Aiden exhaled shakily. He knew Ryan was right.
But giving up hurt more than the injury itself.
Coach Mason finally spoke up.
"White's out. We need a sub."
Everyone turned toward Ethan Albarado, who had raised his hand confidently.
Coach Fred Mason's face twisted in confusion.
His mind raced.
"(Who the hell is this kid…? Have I ever played him before?)"
His eyes narrowed.
"(No. Never.)"
"Tsk, don't mess with me, brat." Coach Mason crossed his arms. "Sit your ass down."
But Ethan didn't move.
Instead, he walked forward.
"I knew you wouldn't sub me in, Coach." His voice was low, calm. "You never have. Not even once."
Coach Mason scoffed.
"And for good reason. I don't throw nobodies into games.
Ethan leaned in slightly.
"Then let me remind you of something, Coach."
His voice dropped to a whisper, just loud enough for Mason to hear.
"I know about the missing team funds."
Mason's entire body stiffened.
His smug expression vanished.
Ethan's smirk widened.
"You thought no one noticed? The 'lost' sponsorship money? The budget that never made it to new uniforms?"
Mason's forehead beaded with sweat.
Ethan stepped even closer.
The tension on the bench was palpable.
Coach Mason's eyes narrowed as Ethan Albarado leaned in closer, his voice a low whisper.
"So you better sub me in… or your dirty little secret might just slip out."
Coach Mason's body stiffened.
A bead of sweat rolled down his temple as he stared at Ethan.
(This damn brat… how the hell does he know?!)
Ethan took a step back, grinning.
"Well, Coach?"
The rest of the team was watching the exchange, confused by the sudden shift in atmosphere.
Josh Turner, sitting on the bench, raised an eyebrow.
"Yo… what the hell's happening?"
Coonie Smith, looked shocked.
"That fatass looks like he's seen a ghost."
Coach Mason clenched his fists. He hated being cornered—especially by a benchwarmer.
But Ethan's confidence wasn't fake.
He probably have some evidence.
And if that something got out…
Mason's stomach churned.
He glanced at the court—Aiden was still grimacing in pain, clutching his ankle. No choice.
With a scowl, he gritted his teeth and barked out:
"Number 20, you're in."
The players on the bench froze.
"Huh?!"
Even Evan Cooper, the team captain, looked surprised.
Lucas turned to Ethan, his interest piqued.
(What did he just say to the coach…?)
The referee blew the whistle.
"Substitution! Albarado in for White!"
Ethan grinned, stepping onto the court for the first time.
The crowd didn't cheer.
They didn't clap.
They just stared.
Confused murmurs spread across the gym.
"Who?"
"Wait… who is that guy?"
"They're really putting in a benchwarmer?"
Even Orlando Hoops players looked amused.
Alec Storm snorted, crossing his arms.
"This is who they're putting in? Damn, this is just sad."
Mason Hayes chuckled.
"Guess they've given up. Let's finish this."
..
Suddenly the referee raised his hand.
"Technical foul on Orlando Hoops. Free throw for Vorpal Basket."
A buzz of murmurs swept through the gym.
"Who's shooting?"
The referee pointed to the new substitute.
"Number 20. Albarado."
A ripple of confusion spread through both teams.
"Albarado? Who the hell is that?"
The Orlando Hoops players exchanged glances. None of them recognized the name.
"Is he a benchwarmer?" Alec Storm muttered, eyeing Ethan with mild curiosity.
"Never seen him before," Mason Hayes added. "Must be a nobody."
On the Vorpal Basket bench, the reactions were even stronger.
Evan Cooper furrowed his brows. "Wait… Albarado? Since when did he play?"
Ryan Taylor shook his head. "I thought he was just another water boy."
Josh Turner, who was sitting with an ice pack on his injured ankle, chuckled. "Yo, is this a joke? We're letting an unknown take a free throw?"
Lucas Graves, however, remained silent. His sharp eyes never left Ethan.
He had a feeling this wouldn't be ordinary.
As Ethan Albarado stepped onto the court for the first time.
The number 20 jersey rested snugly on his back, the fabric feeling heavier than usual—but not from nerves.
From expectation.
As he walked past his teammates, their gazes lingered on him.
Some skeptical. Some curious.
Lucas Graves grinned at him.
"You're playing!"
Ethan met his gaze and smirked.
"I know."
Lucas chuckled, but there was an undeniable sharpness in his eyes.
"You look confident."
Ethan tilted his head slightly.
"Let's see."
Then, as the referee prepared to blow the whistle, Ethan mentally called upon his system.
"System, display my status."
A holographic screen flashed before his eyes.
[Basketball Power System]
Name: Ethan Albarado
Level: Rookie
Upgrade Points (UP): 20
Shop Points (SP): 100
...
[Core Attributes]
[Offensive Attributes:]
Shooting Accuracy: 6Layup Skill: 4Dunk Skill: 3Dribbling Skill: 9Passing Skill: 5
[Defensive Attributes:]
Defense: 3Blocking Ability: 3Steal Skill: 4
[Physical Attributes:]
Stamina: 4Endurance: 4Speed: 9 (Base: 4 | +5 Upgraded)
...
[Skills:]
Basic Power Shot – Allows for standard shooting with average accuracy.Basic Precision Pass – Enhances accuracy in simple passes.
Basic Dribble – Fundamental ball-handling skills.
Magic Johnson Passing Vision (Intermediate Level) – Significantly improves court vision and playmaking abilities.
Playmaker's Vision (Advanced) – Upgrades passing accuracy, decision-making, and assists, making teammates more effective.
Ethan thought as he close the status window.
"(Im ready.)"
As Ethan Albarado walked calmly to the free-throw line.
The orange ball felt cool in his hands, the weight familiar yet electric.
This wasn't just a free throw.
This was his first step.
He bounced the ball once.
Then again.
The gym, despite the crowd, felt silent.
Even Coach Mason, arms crossed on the sideline, watched with reluctant interest.
Lucas spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Sink it."
Ethan breathed in.
Then—he shot.
The ball sailed perfectly through the air.
Swish.
The net snapped as the ball went in clean.
For a second—no one reacted.
Then, the silence broke.
"Wait, what?"
"That shot was smooth as hell."
"Did he just swish it with no hesitation?"
Even Alec Storm raised an eyebrow.
"Huh."
Ethan smirked as he stepped back.
The referee signaled for play to resume.
The game had just changed.
And everyone was about to find out who Ethan Albarado really was.
.....
Scoreboard:
Orlando Hoops – 48
Vorpal Basket – 30(+1 from Ethan's free throw)
Time Left in the Second Quarter: 2:58
Ethan stood at the line, gripping the basketball. The orange leather felt rough under his fingertips, the seams pressing against his skin. He bounced the ball once, twice, then paused.
A sudden wave of memory rushed through him.
The crowd, the gym, the game—it all blurred.
Instead, he saw a different court.
A small, empty gym in California.
A younger boy sat alone in a wheelchair, the cold metal pressing against his skin. His legs—motionless.
Jonathan Brandit. His past self.
He remembered the nights spent alone, staring at the hoop, gripping the ball, but never standing. The bitter cold of the gym when everyone else had left. The helplessness.
The sound of the ball bouncing against the hardwood, only to roll away, untouched.
The sound of his own breath, ragged, heavy, full of frustration.
The sound of silence—when no one believed in him anymore.
Then—he saw himself again.
But this time, he was standing.
Standing at the free-throw line, in the middle of a game, as Ethan Albarado.
His heartbeat slowed.
"(You're not Jonathan Brandit anymore.)"
"(You're Ethan Albarado. )"
He exhaled.
Shaking off the memory, Ethan focused on the hoop in front of him. His grip on the ball tightened.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
He raised his arms, guiding the ball with perfect form.
A smooth flick of the wrist.
The ball sailed through the air, spinning in slow motion under the bright lights.
It arced high—clean, precise...then dropped.
Swish.
Nothing but net.
The crowd, for just a moment, fell silent.
Then—
"Holy crap."
"Wait… that was smooth."
"That shot… felt different."
Even Alec Storm's smug expression faltered. He narrowed his eyes.
"This guy…"
Lucas Graves, watched with a sharp grin.
"I knew it... He is good"
The referee signaled. "One point. Play resumes!"
Ethan stepped back, his face unreadable.
But deep inside—he knew.
That was just the beginning.
...
[Lucas side]
Lucas sat on the bench, his fingers tapping idly against his knee, his golden eyes locked onto Ethan Albarado.
That shot… it wasn't normal.
It wasn't flashy. It wasn't forced.
It was clean. Perfect. Cold.
The way the ball left his fingertips, the way it spun, the way it dropped through the net without even touching the rim.
Lucas had seen great shooters before. He had studied them.
But Ethan—this was different.
That form. That control. That stillness.
For a moment, Lucas almost forgot about the game. He just watched Ethan walk back down the court, his expression unreadable, his movements steady.
The gym wasn't loud, but it wasn't quiet either. The energy had shifted.
Even the Orlando players had taken notice.
Lucas's fingers curled into a fist.
"Number 20..."
His golden eyes flickered.
"Ethan Albarado. I knew it."
To be continue