Chapter 445: The All-Star Weekend

The All-Star Weekend is a bit like the Underground’s national holiday. Except here, nobody cares about fireworks; the real show is when you shoot the ball.

It always lands right in the middle of the season, just before the final sprint toward the playoffs. The league decides to put every official match on pause for an entire week. Why? Because no club wants to play while everyone is watching the best stars of the circuit get filmed somewhere else. It takes place in the biggest arena in the entire Underleague. The thing is so massive it can hold forty thousand people without the ceiling collapsing on people’s heads. Well, usually it holds.

To be honest, technically, it doesn’t serve any purpose. No points for the standings, no title, and it doesn’t give you a playoff spot. It’s just a huge show to make money, gain glory, and above all, be seen. Right at the top, in boxes with tinted glass so they can stay discreet, you find the scouts from the Upperworld. These guys come to see if the Underground still has any gems on the shelves. For the players, it’s the best showcase of the year before the Blood Star Invitational. And for the fans? It’s the only moment where they stop trying to slit each other’s throats between rivals for two nights, because everyone wants to see their idols gathered in the same place.

And that’s where the fans decide everything. For weeks, you can vote everywhere: on the league terminals, in the bars, on the betting apps. They choose five starters per conference. After that, the coaches and a league committee add five substitutes to pick up the ones people forgot. In the end, that makes twenty players: ten starters and ten substitutes, with guys and girls mixed together, as usual.

Obviously, since we’re in the Underground, everything can be bought, even the votes. Sponsors sell "vote packs" to their clients, gangs print thousands of them for their protégés, and the clubs with the most money almost always have a player who stands out. Everyone knows it, everyone pretends it’s honest, and the league calls it "the democracy of money."

The two players with the most votes, no matter their team, become captains. The teams are drawn at random in front of everyone, but the league pays attention: each team must have the same number of point guards, guards, forwards, and centers. It’s balanced on paper. Nobody knows in advance who they’ll be playing with, or who they’ll be rubbing up against.

The whole thing lasts two nights.

The first night is reserved for challenges. No match, just three events so every type of player can shine.

First, there’s the Pile-driver. The forwards and centers go one by one, with three attempts. Fan votes count as much as the judges’, so the best dunk isn’t necessarily the most technical one, but the one that makes the most noise. A decibel counter displays the ovation live. A guy even jumped over a car once just to make the needle go up, according to urban legends.

Next is the Sky Shooter for the shooters. They have one minute to send as many balls as possible from five different positions, farther and farther away. The worst part is that the defenders are allowed to move and hit. Missing a shot from six meters happens. But shooting from nine meters with a hundred-kilo guy breathing down your neck, that’s sport.

And to finish, there’s Hunt & Guard, where you really see who has balls. You pit two sides against each other: the hunters and the guardians. The hunters have to score, but only two-point baskets count, and each basket gives one point. The guardians have to stop them. Every stop gives one point: block, steal, or even if the hunter ends up on the ground. The side with the most points wins.

That’s where everyone brings out their claws. Point guards use their nastiest dribbles to put the guardians on their knees, forwards do sick finishes, and centers set screens that hurt. On the other side, the guardians answer with blocks from raging gorillas.

The bettors, meanwhile, mostly bet on how many teeth are going to fly and end up on the floor.

Each winner leaves with a bonus, sponsor contracts, and the right to act superior for a year. That’s the real trophy.

The second night is the main event, the All-Star game. Two teams, two twenty-minute halves, and no standings to defend. It’s not a match with rules as open as Hunt and Guard, but the league asks the referees to shut their mouths and close their eyes on certain fouls.

Nobody paid to hear a whistle every thirty seconds. You can run into each other, set screens a little too hard, it’s all good. The only unwritten rule for the players: don’t get hurt. Getting hurt in a fun match can ruin an entire season for a club.

To make sure it doesn’t look like a regular match, and to attract the attention of the whole world, the league added something: special conditions drawn at random by the "League Roulette," a giant screen hanging from the ceiling. At any moment, the speakers scream the condition that just dropped, and the players have to adapt immediately.

For example, the Gold Rush: every basket is worth three points for a few minutes. It turns the match into a total free-for-all. There’s the Bounty Hunter: a bounty is put on a random player’s head. If the opponent steals the ball from him, their team scores points. But if the guy scores or finishes the timer with the ball, it’s his team that collects. There’s also Misdirection, where several balls are thrown onto the court for a minute and only one of them is the real one that gives points, and Open Season, where no fouls are called for two minutes.

The bettors love it, because no bookmaker is able to predict what the Roulette is going to spit out.

Around all that, it’s complete chaos. Tickets disappear in minutes. The ones who didn’t buy anything pay three times the price to resellers outside the arena. The betting houses break their betting records every year.

And the brothels in the Red Zone? They launch special "All-Star Weekend" promotions. It’s more marketing than morals, but it works. There are after-parties in every district where fans and players mix until early morning. And we all know what that means: brutal hangovers, wild sex, and regrets the next morning.

The Upperworld channels broadcast the whole thing live, with just a thirty-second delay. Just in case someone says something too true or too vulgar.

And for once, the most exciting part isn’t knowing who’s going to win. It’s knowing who’s going to end up on which team.

In the Blacklist center, the players were celebrating the announcement of the event.

The votes hadn’t opened yet, but that didn’t stop anyone from making their predictions. Since the victory over Colossus, the bars, the apps, and the Underground forums were all saying the same thing, and the girls knew it because they spent their breaks reading the comments: the popular trend was that a good part of Blacklist would get selected.

"This is the best time of the year!" Jaz shouted, standing in the middle of the room, arms spread wide, her head a few centimeters from the neon light.

She crossed Victoria’s gaze, raised an eyebrow, and corrected herself at full speed.

"The best time of the year after the finals, of course!"

"I say it’s a chance," Hina cut in, sitting on the armrest of the couch. "A real chance. For once, people are going to look at me for something other than my ass."

"Girl, it’s in your CV. If it’s not your ass, it’ll be your boobs," Nia said, without looking up from her phone.

Hina seriously considered the question.

"Hmmm," she admitted. "But it’s so cruel... what’s the point of drooling over a dish you’ll never eat? How about you send them a masturbastape of you and an iron bat?"

On the subs’ side, no one was wasting time with hypotheses. Yuna had already decided.

"Kai-senpai and Miko-senpai, for sure! Even a blind person would vote for them!"

"Miko-senpai’s posters are selling better than the league’s," added Chio, fidgeting in place with her braid down her back. "They say some guy offered to pay triple for her signed jersey!"

"Yeah, like a jersey I specifically wore during a match after sweating," Miko half-closed her eyes. "I look like a nerd, but I’ve got a twisted mind too, so I see exactly where that’s going. If it’s not Nash, no way, José."

"It could be worse, you could be in the poll of the most fuckable Blacklist girls they made."

Miko pushed her glasses up her nose and focused on her manga. Hana, sitting next to her, tapped her shoulder twice, then raised a fist in the air, very slowly. Miko sighed without answering.

"And Rei too," Mai said from the couch. "She’s one of the best centers on the circuit. They can’t forget her."

"I didn’t shine enough," Rei answered.

Everyone turned toward her. The girls’ captain had her arms crossed and her eyes on the floor.

"When I see what Vex does, or that asshole from the Raptors, or Jaz who crushes everything she touches, I tell myself I don’t weigh much. In Breakball, having a wasp waist when you play center is a punishment."

"Me?" Jaz asked, not expecting to hear her name. "But I played more Power Forward, I don’t think they’ll make me compete on defense, and besides you’re like the best girl center in the conference."

"Jaz... You’re cute when you’re sincere, so let’s be serious for two minutes."

Jaz blushed all the way to the roots of her hair and looked away. Rei coughed into her fist and turned her head.

"They don’t vote for size, Captain," Mai continued. "They vote for the people they’re afraid of."

"I don’t scare anyone, I’m not Nash or Jaz," Rei grumbled.

No one answered.

"Kai will definitely get picked," Rumi said at that moment, sprawled on a bench in the corner, one arm over her face. "She has the best vertical, and if being a girl is a criterion, people like tomboys, right?"

"Well, too bad they won’t enjoy le moi... Unless..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Rumi stretched. "No Nash, no cum splash."

Kai puffed out her chest, hands on her hips, and gave the most insufferable grin in her catalog.

Alicia, on the floor, legs spread, burst out laughing.

"Me, I vote for myself, three times, on principle."

"Votes are limited to one per person," Nia pointed out.

"I’ll make a second account. And a third, who’ll know?"

Aiko, sitting apart on a stool, was carefully retouching the white ribbons of her twintails.

"These votes aren’t a big deal," she said in an indifferent tone. "It’s popularity, it doesn’t mean anything. If I’m not picked, it won’t make me hot or cold. Honestly, I don’t care at all."

The others looked at each other, trying at least to pretend they wanted to believe it. Like, yeah, a popularity vote and they wouldn’t choose the most popular girl.

Victoria tapped the documents in her hand against the big table to bring the attention back to her.

"Good, at least you’re motivated, that deserves a treat," she said. "Keep celebrating, but remember this: it’s an event with no stakes. No points in the standings, no playoff spot. Take it as a vacation, and save the best of yourselves for later."

She straightened slightly.

"On the other hand, the whole world will have their eyes on you. And when you say world, you say fame and glory. Think dazzling rather than efficient, it’ll be the perfect opportunity to attract some very generous sponsors. If you bring a few back along the way, then it’ll be a victory."

No one dared to answer. She turned on her heel, Dahlia in her wake, and the door closed behind them. It took almost three seconds before someone restarted the debates about the votes.

Dahlia walked in step with Victoria, her notebook against her hip, waiting to be told why they had left the room so quickly. They had reached the elevator when Victoria slowed down.

"Contact Nash. There’s something we need to handle."

"A problem?"

Victoria didn’t answer right away. She pulled a sheet from the pile she was holding and handed it to her.

"Look at the sponsor list."

Dahlia unfolded the sheet. Her eyes ran over the first lines diagonally, then went back to the beginning and started reading more slowly. Her eyebrows rose, her mouth parted slightly, and she held her breath for a moment.

"But these are..."