Balls Out, Shirts Off

The flashy guy was already in full swing, arms out, voice cocky like he ran the whole block.

"I'm just sayin', this spot? It's a little tight for a public zone, y'know?" he said, glancing lazily at the locals in front of him. "All these rats packed in like it's a shrine or somethin'. No ventilation, no seating, no replay screens? C'mon."

One of the older streetheads scoffed.

"This is our shrine, asshole."

The flashy guy grinned wide.

"Yeah? Then pray harder, cause it's about to get repurposed."

He spread his arms as if to showcase his crew behind him, that black-and-gold drip catching the light.

"We're preparin' for the Underleague. Need a proper court for real drills, no interruptions. You boys? You can still chill here, just on the sidelines."

Some of the older players scowled. One of the younger girls folded her arms tighter across her chest.

Then the flashy guy smiled wider and tossed the grenade.

"Tell you what, I have a deal for you," he said, jerking his thumb behind him toward the blue-haired girl.

"Y'all back off, let us train full time, and Lil' Vice'll pop all your cherries. One by one."

The silence hit like a punch.

Did he just say that?

Nia "Lil' Vice" Valencia.

Long legs crossed, thighs taut, glistening under sheer tights, ponytail swaying like it had its own rhythm.

She smiled as the attention turned to her.

The flashy guy nodded like he meant every word.

"If you boys hand over the court like gentlemen," he added. "She'll take care of every last virgin on this court. Real Breakball welcome package."

Nia giggled, covering her mouth like it was sweet.

"You're all staring like I'm meat… surrounded by starving puppies…"

But her eyes told the truth.

She loved it. Every hungry glance. Every twitch of disbelief. Every twitch of dick she knew she was causing.

She rubbed her inner thigh with the back of one hand, arching her back just enough to hint at bounce beneath her top.

She rocked on her feet, fingers sliding under her waistband just a bit.

"Don't be shy. I got time…"

But the local girls weren't having it.

"Hell nah," one barked, Lana, as Nash remembered. Tall, mean, played in dirty boots. "You serious? That's the offer?"

"You got better?" the flashy guy snapped back. "Bitch'll fuck you too if you ask nice."

Lana flipped him off.

Another girl, Mari, shoved one of the local boys.

"You better not be thinking about it, dumbass."

But the boys were sweating. One of them looked down, biting his lip.

The crowd started to shift. Some embarrassed, some curious. Most unsure.

Nash's brow furrowed as the pattern became clear.

He'd seen this play before. Breakball was eat or be eaten. And sometimes, it wasn't just about the ball. Sometimes, it was about who controlled the room.

Sex was leverage. Attention was currency. And Nia was spending both without blinking.

She was like Rin.

His old teammate. The one who climbed by fucking her way past every gate and smiling while she stomped over every idiot who said thank you.

And just like Rin, she was winning.

Until Nash stepped forward.

He walked slow, eyes half-lidded, like he hadn't just spent the entire morning on edge, cock straining from a body that wouldn't cool down since Zayela nearly lost control.

He hadn't gotten off. Not even close. His balls were tight, his thoughts filthy, and the ache hadn't dulled.

But this?

This wasn't the time for this.

He came here early for a reason, to run games, dominate, and scrape together more cash before Lina and Sarra showed.

Now some gold-draped pricks tried to hijack his grind with their underleague prep and a walking cumtrap for bait?

Nah.

Perfect timing.

[NEW QUEST: STREET CLAIM – SHUT THEM DOWN]

➤ Beat the opposing team in a Breakball match (Full Court 5v5)

→ Rewards: +250C, +3 Stat Crystals (Randomized), +1 Exclusive Passive Skill

Note: Failure to complete the challenge within the match window forfeits the rewards.

Nash's lips curled. His whole mood sharpened.

That was all he needed.

He slid up behind the local who looked most like the group's makeshift rep, skinny dude in cutoff pants, leaning back like he'd been half-tempted by Nia's thighs.

Nash slung an arm around him like they were long-lost brothers.

"Damn, man," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "They really offered that like it was a deal? Shit. Sad, honestly."

The skinny guy froze. The crowd went quiet.

Nash looked past him, dead at Nia, voice casual and smooth.

"I get it now… you brought your B-team and your blow-up doll. Shame, though. Girls 'round here got way more heat. Way better than rented holes in fishnets."

A few of the girls gasped, then burst into hard laughter.

"Yo who is this guy?" Mari grinned, elbowing Lana. "He always talk like this?"

Lana tilted her head.

"Think so. But… damn, he looks jacked. Wasn't he skinnier last day?"

Nia blinked, once. Her tongue darted to her bottom lip and stayed there. She didn't smile, but her eyes didn't look angry either.

More like intrigued.

The flashy boy stepped forward.

"Yo, you somebody?"

Nash turned slow.

"I'm the guy you don't want to play if you're scared of losing."

The boy's jaw ticked.

"Talk like that, you better have a squad."

"I do," Nash replied. "Right here."

He turned slightly and nodded at the street rats.

"This is our court. So let's play for it."

A silence hit, this time different. The whole court caught the weight of the challenge.

"If we win," Nash said, "you fuck off and take your fuck doll with you. If you win? You get your little training ground."

The flashy guy looked back at his crew, smirked, then turned again.

"You want smoke with us?" he sneered. "This ain't pickup, ratboy."

"Then let's do it," Nash said. "The street rats against.... um..."

The flashy guy smiled wide and crooked.

"Blacklist. Name's Jinzo, by the way."

Nash didn't wait.

He turned back to the crowd and clapped his hands once, loud enough to snap everyone's focus.

"Alright," he said. "I need four bodies. Real ones. None of that thirsty-limp-wrist bullshit. We're playin' for the soul of this court."

Nobody moved at first.

Then the silence broke.

Lana barked.

"Kev, get your dumb ass up there."

The tall, wiry kid with the buzz cut stepped forward, wiping his nose, eyes burning like he'd been waiting for a reason.

"Yo," Mari added. "Take Dre. He got handles."

Dre, a stocky dude in baggy shorts and high socks, jogged forward, cracking his neck.

"Two more," Nash called. "Quick."

"T-Bone!" someone shouted from the fence.

The heavy-set dude with tattoos over both shoulders pushed through the crowd like a charging bull.

"Let's fuckin' go."

That made three.

Last was Rey, quiet, lean, fast, already spinning a ball on his finger as he strolled up.

Ten seconds later, the five of them stood beside Nash.

No uniforms. No sponsors. Just street grime, duct-taped shoes, and raw hunger.

"Let me give you a name to illustrate your determination. How about the Ratvengers?" Jinzo smirked, tossing his chain over his shoulder.

Nash smirked back.

"There's more effort in that than what your parents were thinking when they called you Jinzo."

Jinzo whistled and turned toward his own crew, barking orders.

Blacklist stepped onto the court, coordinated like a real squad. They warmed up with quick passes and chest bumps, loud enough to feel like a pre-game show.

Across from them, Nash rolled his shoulders, bouncing the ball once, then turned to his squad.

"Ten-minute match," he said. "No timeouts. Dead balls stop the clock. Fast as fuck."

He looked them over, Kev's long limbs, Dre's thick legs, T-Bone's mass, Rey's quick twitch tension.

Not perfect but gritty.

"I'll run point," Nash said. "Kev on wing. Rey, you're my escape. T-Bone, hold the paint like it owes you. Dre, crash hard. Every time."

Dre nodded, wiping his palms on his shorts.

"Let's burn 'em."

Across the court, Nia leaned against the chain-link fence, biting her thumbnail. Watching.

Waiting.

Nash didn't give her a glance.

A street girl blew a whistle.

Ball up.

The game began.