Cross Mirage

Standing (1)

Shit!

Dean's hand flashes.

I send the ball diving between my legs, appearing behind me, and I catch it with my other hand.

Too close.

It was as if Dean's hand melted from existence during that steal attempt. His speed was ridiculous, and I nearly lost the ball to him just like that. I need to be more careful.

I shove the ball to the left, darting after it. Dean follows. Once the ball is back beneath my fingertips, I immediately shoot it back to the other side, ramping up my rhythm explosively.

Dean leans to his left, towards the ball. He reaches out―

The ball doesn't hit its second rebound. It's a horrifying sensation, hollowing me out from inside, but there's no denying of what just happened in that brief clash.

Dean knocked the ball out of my grasp; I've lost complete control of it.

"H-how..."

My opponent doesn't answer. He merely strolls past of me to collect the basketball. I click my tongue vexatiously at his nonchalant reaction.

The rules of our one-on-one are simple. If a player manages to bat the ball out of his opponent's hands, the match resets, and it becomes his turn to be on the offensive.

We resume starting positions, only this time, the ball is in his hands. Defence isn't my forte, but I'm not a pushover when it comes down to it.

Dean begins his attack, sending the ball to the other side. However, there's something bizarre about that manoeuvre; it's moving too slowly. Odd as it may be, my hands aren't able to react to that vulnerable, weak offence. I struggle to slow my pace down in an effort to match his speed.

No, but that's―

My instincts flare, but it's too late. The moment the ball arrives at his other hand, Dean sends it to the other side with an astonishing change of pace.

Not yet! Not yet!

Through sheer willpower and maybe a sprinkle of luck, I manage to stagger just in time to impede his movements, preventing him from making a drive towards my hoop.

Dean doesn't hesitate. He sends the ball back, then to his front again, making staggering dribbles from side to side. His pace is impossible to predict, and it's overwhelming me. The more I struggle to keep up with him, the more disoriented I feel from his movements.

Eventually, I stumble, my senses overloaded and my mind spinning from his insane techniques.

Dean makes his drive, racing towards the hoop.

Turn! Turn, you idiot!

Gritting hard, I force every drop of power I have in my muscles to turn around and give chase. My limbs break past their limits, cutting through the air, propelling my body after my opponent.

With my adrenaline-fuelled muscles on overdrive, I'm barely able to overtake Dean just as he reaches the outer ring. My opponent's knees bend as he prepares to leap for a dunk.

Not if I can help it!

My knees jerk and with a detonation of strength, I soar into the air with my arm outstretched, ready to impede his attack.

But Dean isn't in the air with me. My eyes widen as I realise I've been faked.

Damn it!