First Game

The gym at Lincoln High buzzed like a live wire, the air thick with the electric hum of the season opener against Carver High. The stands were a chaotic quilt—parents hollering, students stomping, a shrill whistle cutting through the din now and then. Elijah sat on the bench, bouncing his knee, the ball tucked under his arm as he watched the starters warm up. His palms were sweaty, his legs itching from five weeks of relentless grind, but his eyes burned with a quiet, fierce hunger. This was it—his first official game, where VC counted, where the system's silent tally clicked. Five contested makes for Deadeye, every assisted jumper a chance to wield Catch & Shoot. Across the floor, Carver High ran their drills, a blur of quick cuts and sharp calls—a scrappy squad with speed to burn and a swagger that dared anyone to step up.

The locker room an hour ago had been a stew of bravado and nerves. Malcolm Lewis, all wiry energy and wild grin, had strutted around shirtless, slapping backs and tossing jabs. "Yo, Reed, you better not brick if you get in—my grandma's up there, and she'll out-yell me if you choke!" he'd crowed, dodging a towel Derrick Hayes flicked at his head.

"Man, she'll be yelling at you for botching passes," Derrick rumbled, his deep laugh rolling as he laced his sneakers. "Reed's the only one out here scrapping—rest of us just posing."

Elijah smirked, tugging on his jersey—number 14, a faded red that hung loose on his 5'5" frame. "Just get me the ball, Mal. I'll hit—you worry about not tripping over your own feet."

"Hit?" Malcolm whistled, miming a pass. "Big talk, bench boy. Carver's guards are quick—hope those kicks got some spark."

"Spark or not," Elijah said, voice low and steady, "I'm ready. Watch."

Coach Johnson had barreled in then, whistle swinging like a noose, his gravelly roar slicing the chatter. "Alright, shut it, clowns! Carver's fast—they'll run you ragged if you're soft. Thornton, you're driving. Hayes, Lewis—set the tone. Reed, be ready—hustle every second you get. No heroes, no loafing. Move the ball, hit your shots. Let's go!"

Now, as the ref's whistle shrieked and the ball tipped skyward, Elijah watched from the pine, the game snapping into focus. Jamal Thornton leapt, all 6'2" of raw power, tipping it to Malcolm, who snagged it with a grin. "Game on, boys!" he shouted, and the Lincoln Lions surged. Elijah leaned forward, eyes locked on the court—he'd get his shot soon.

Carver's point guard, a wiry kid named Darius with a buzz cut and legs like pistons, darted up to press Malcolm full-court. Malcolm jabbed left, then snapped the ball between his legs in a tight crossover—Darius lunged, too late, and Malcolm burst free, a cackle trailing him. "Too slow, fam!" he called, pushing into the frontcourt. The Lions ran their set, Jamal sinking a jumper—2-0—but Carver answered fast, Darius weaving for a layup. 2-2. Elijah's fingers twitched, itching to play.

Five minutes in, Coach barked, "Reed, you're up!" Elijah sprang off the bench, subbing for Terrance, his heart pounding as he hit the hardwood. Score tied at 6-6, Malcolm brought it up, Carver's press swarming. Elijah cut hard to the corner, shaking his defender—a stocky sophomore with quick feet but heavy hands. He faked left, pivoted right, and popped free as Malcolm's eyes flicked his way. The pass came—a crisp chest-high zip—and Elijah caught it, knees bending as he rose. Darius peeled off Malcolm, lunging to contest, hand up, but Elijah's release was swift, the ball arcing over fingertips. Swish. 8-6, Lions. The crowd roared, a wave crashing over him.

"First blood, Reed!" Malcolm hollered, jogging back as Carver grabbed the inbound. [1/5 Contested Makes], the system ticked silently. VC would tally post-game—points, assists, steals, rebounds, blocks, plus a win bonus—and the badge chase was on.

Carver struck back quick. Darius sliced through traffic, his dribble low and sharp—a hesitation, crossover, then a whip-pass to their forward cutting baseline. The shot floated up, kissed the glass, and dropped. 8-8. Elijah gritted his teeth, hustling back. "Stay up!" Jamal barked, clapping, and the Lions reset.

Malcolm dribbled up, Carver's press buzzing. Elijah darted to the elbow, faking a cut left, then spinning right—his defender bit, stumbling, and Elijah broke free. Malcolm slung a bounce pass, skimming the floor, and Elijah snagged it, one dribble to square. Darius lunged again, hand high, contesting tight. Elijah pump-faked—Darius leapt—and sidestepped, rising smooth. Swish. 10-8. [2/5 Contested Makes].

"Keep it coming!" Elijah called, adrenaline spiking as he jogged back. Malcolm flashed a grin. "Oh, you're getting fed, bro!"

Carver pushed tempo, Darius a streak upcourt. Elijah tracked his man, the sophomore, who bolted for the wing. A screen loomed—Elijah fought over it, shoulder scraping hardwood, and stuck close as Darius zipped a pass. The kid caught it, jab-stepped, but Elijah's hands were up, feet sliding. The shot went up—contested, off the rim. Elijah boxed out, snagging the rebound as it caromed long. [1 Rebound]. He fired an outlet to Malcolm, and the Lions flew.

Elijah sprinted, flaring to the left corner. Malcolm drew two, hesitated—a quick behind-the-back dribble to shake Darius—then whipped a skip pass across the court. Elijah caught it, his defender scrambling late, and rose with a hand in his face. Swish. 13-8. [3/5 Contested Makes]. The crowd erupted, Martha's voice slicing through— "That's my boy!"—and Elijah's chest tightened, a grin breaking free.

"Keep it hot, Reed!" Derrick yelled from the bench, clapping as Carver called timeout, their coach stomping the sideline. Elijah jogged to the huddle, sweat trickling down his neck, the game's rhythm pulsing in his veins. Three contested makes—two to go. Coach Johnson clapped his shoulder. "Good hustle, Reed. Stay sharp—move that ball!"

The first quarter blurred into a war of runs. Carver clawed back—Darius slicing for a layup, their center muscling in a putback—narrowing it to 15-14, Lions. Elijah stayed in, answering with a hustle play—stripping a loose pass from the sophomore mid-dribble with a quick swipe—[1 Steal]—then feeding Jamal for a dunk that rattled the rim. 17-14. His legs ached, the Build the Foundation gains holding, but five weeks of grind still tugged at him. He shook it off, focus narrowing.

Second quarter, Coach pulled him for a breather, score at 20-18, Lions up. He watched from the bench, chest heaving, as Carver tied it with a Darius step-back—20-20. Three minutes later, Coach growled, "Reed, back in!" Elijah hit the floor, score knotted at 24-24. Malcolm brought it up, Carver's press easing, and Elijah worked off-ball, weaving through screens. He faked a cut to the paint, then flared to the wing—his defender trailed, caught on Derrick's pick. Malcolm zipped a no-look pass through traffic, and Elijah caught it mid-stride, one dribble to set. The sophomore recovered, lunging with a hand up, but Elijah's jumper sailed clean—swish, over the contest. 26-24. [4/5 Contested Makes].

"Almost there," he muttered, hustling back as Carver pushed. One more. The crowd's roar swelled, Martha's voice a lifeline in the chaos.

Carver's center powered in a hook—26-26—and Elijah felt the game teeter. He needed that fifth shot, but windows were tightening. Malcolm dribbled up, Darius pressing, and Elijah ran a curl off Jamal's screen—hesitation, left-right fake, then a plant. The pass came, a high arc over the defense, and Elijah caught it at the top of the key. His defender leapt, hands clawing, but Elijah sidestepped—a low dribble to reset—then rose again, contested tight. The ball hung, grazed the rim, and dropped. 28-26. [5/5 Contested Makes – Deadeye Unlocked].

The system chimed silently—no flash, just a shift, a new edge earned. He clenched his fist, jogging back as Carver's coach screamed for a timeout. "You're on fire, Reed!" Malcolm shouted, slapping his hand. "Keep that heat!"

Halftime hit with the Lions up 32-30, Elijah's legs quaking but his spirit soaring. Coach Johnson's gruff nod—"Nice work off the bench, Reed, stay in it"—rang as he gulped water, the cold biting his throat. Five contested makes—Deadeye was unlocked, 1,000 VC to buy it at Bronze if he could stack enough tonight. He'd started with 500 VC banked; this game was his first harvest.

Third quarter, Coach kept him on the bench to start, Carver storming back. Darius turned on the jets—a crossover that buckled Malcolm's knees, a step-back three that swished, then a lob to their forward for a slam. 32-35, Carver up. Four minutes in, Coach barked, "Reed, get in!" Elijah subbed for Terrance, score at 36-38, Carver leading. He sprinted upcourt, calling for the ball. Malcolm hit him with a chest pass on the move, and Elijah jabbed left, crossing right—his defender bit, off-balance—and darted to the elbow. Jamal set a screen, and Elijah popped free. The pass came, but Carver's center switched, towering over him. Contested again. Elijah pump-faked, the big man leapt, and he stepped back—a smooth dribble, then up. Swish. 38-38. The crowd roared, Martha's "Get it, Elijah!" ringing clear.

"Still got it!" Malcolm laughed, clapping as they reset. Elijah grinned, sweat stinging his eyes—Deadeye unlocked, proving its worth.

The quarter swung—Carver's speed clashing with Lincoln's scrap. Elijah added a steal, swiping Darius mid-dribble with a quick hand—[2 Steals]—then fed Malcolm for a fast-break layup—[1 Assist]—40-40. Carver hit back with a corner three, 40-43, and the gym pulsed with tension as the buzzer blared.

Fourth quarter, Coach brought Elijah back with six minutes left, down 42-46. Malcolm took charge, weaving through Carver's press with a behind-the-back dribble that drew gasps from the stands. Elijah ran off-ball, faking a cut baseline, then flaring to the wing—his defender lagged, caught on Derrick's hip. The pass came—a skip over two defenders—and Elijah caught it, one dribble to square. The sophomore lunged, hand up, but Elijah's shot was money—swish, contested. 44-46. Another make, Deadeye humming in his arsenal.

"Keep it alive!" he yelled, hustling back as Carver pushed. Two minutes left, 46-48, Carver holding slim. Elijah's breath rasped, but he dug deeper. Malcolm dribbled up, Darius swarming, and Elijah ran a pick-and-roll with Jamal—hesitation, a shoulder fake, then a burst to the corner. The pass sailed, a bullet through traffic, and Elijah caught it, his defender diving late. Up—hand in his face—swish. 48-48. Tie game. The gym exploded, Martha's voice a war cry— "That's my baby!"

Thirty seconds ticked, Carver up 50-48 after Darius' dagger layup. Elijah bolted upcourt, Malcolm dishing to him at the arc. His defender pressed, but Elijah crossed left—a low, tight dribble—then spun right, shaking free. Ten seconds. He drove, drew the center, then kicked out to Jamal at the wing—swish, a three at the buzzer. 51-50, Lions win. The crowd stormed the floor, a red tide of chaos, and Elijah stood, hands on his knees, gasping as Malcolm tackled him with a laugh.

"Bro, you're clutch off the bench!" Malcolm shouted over the roar, Derrick piling on. Elijah grinned, the game's heartbeat still pounding in his chest.

Final Score: Lincoln High 51, Carver High 50

Elijah's Stats: 16 points (7/10 FG, 2/3 3PT), 1 assist, 2 steals, 1 rebound

7 Field Goals: 5 contested jumpers (unlocking Deadeye)

VC Earned: 320 Base: 50 VC (official game participation) Points: 80 VC (5 VC per 2 points scored) Assists: 20 VC (20 VC per assist) Steals: 40 VC (20 VC per steal) Rebounds: 10 VC (10 VC per rebound) Blocks: 0 VC (0 blocks) Win Bonus: 50 VC Total VC: 500 (pre-game) + 320 = 820 VC

Elijah trudged to the locker room, legs leaden but soul alight, the system's tally flickering in his mind. 16 points off the bench—seven buckets, five contested, two assisted—plus a steal, an assist, and a rebound, sparking the Lions to a nail-biter win. Deadeye was unlocked, 1,000 VC to buy it at Bronze, and with 820 VC now banked, he was closing in. Malcolm slung an arm around him, still hyped. "Man, you were lights out—grandma's gonna talk about that spin all week!"

"Tell her I'll buy her dinner if I hit 20 next game," Elijah shot back, grinning as Derrick chuckled.

"Better save up, then," Derrick said. "You're a problem off the pine, Reed."

Elijah nodded, peeling off his jersey, the night's chaos settling into a quiet pride. One game down, a season to seize—every dribble, every pass, every shot a step toward greatness. Carver fell, and he rose from the bench to shine. The grind was just heating up.