Chapter 295: Wrong Target

Inside the arena, the ball went up, and the second half started exactly where the first one had left off.

Only worse for Dexter.

If that was even possible.

He got switched onto Lucas within the first thirty seconds, jaw already locked, chest already rising too hard, like the halftime break had given him nothing. Lucas caught the inbound near the wing and looked at him for a moment, almost curious, like a man deciding which version of damage to use next.

"Still here?" Lucas asked.

Dexter didn’t answer. He only dropped lower, hands out, daring him to try something.

Lucas obliged.

He rocked the ball once. Then twice. Slow. Deliberate. Nothing urgent about it. Dexter’s weight shifted forward half an inch, chasing the fake, and that was all the opening needed. Lucas spun on his pivot foot, a full turn that left Dexter grabbing at a jersey that was already gone, and rose into a jumper that dropped clean through the net before Dexter finished turning around.

The building exhaled as one.

Ashford 43. Northlake 15.

---

Two possessions later, Lucas got him again.

A completely different way this time, like he was working through options for entertainment.

He caught the ball at the top of the arc and waited for Dexter to close the distance. Then he rolled it slowly between his legs. Back and forth. Back and forth. Unbothered. Almost lazy. Dexter lunged for it once and missed. Lunged again and missed worse. On the third swipe, Lucas pulled the ball back at the last second, let Dexter’s hand cut through empty air, and drove hard right into a finger-roll layup that barely made a sound going in.

Somewhere in the student section, a voice cut through the noise with the line that would end up on every recap by morning.

"HE CAN’T GUARD HIM!"

The chant caught instantly.

"HE CAN’T GUARD HIM! HE CAN’T GUARD HIM! HE CAN’T GUARD HIM!"

Even some Northlake students joined in, laughing as they clapped along, the whole building rocking with a rhythm that had nothing to do with either school’s fight song. It was not support anymore. It was public roasting set to a beat.

Ashford 45. Northlake 15.

---

Dexter tried changing it.

He pressed higher. Bodied Lucas before the catch. Crowded him earlier. None of it mattered. Every possession ended the same way. A crossover here. A behind-the-back there. An alley-oop tossed off one bounce that Marcus finished with a two-handed slam hard enough to leave the rim shaking.

By the middle of the third quarter, Lucas was no longer even setting up long combinations. He just read whatever Dexter gave him and punished it immediately. A hard closeout earned a pump-fake and a foul. A soft closeout earned an open three. A double-team earned a no-look pass through a gap that should not have existed, straight into Devon’s hands for an easy two.

The scoreboard had stopped looking like a contest between two teams.

It looked like one player using another as demonstration material.

Ashford 61. Northlake 22.

The moment that finally broke something in Dexter came with under two minutes left in the third.

Lucas caught the ball on the wing and did not attack right away. He just stood there with the ball on his hip, looking at Dexter with something that was not quite a smile.

"You want to try one more time?"

Dexter said nothing. His whole body was shaking from the effort of holding himself together. Sweat ran down his face. His hands flexed open and closed like he could not decide whether to stay in a defensive stance or abandon the game completely.

Lucas shrugged, as if either answer would have been fine, then exploded into a crossover so sharp it looked like the ball had jumped from one hand to the other. Dexter’s feet tangled trying to recover. By the time he found his balance again, Lucas was already several steps away, rising into a step-back three. The contesting hand never got close enough to matter.

Swish.

The arena did not just roar.

It came apart.

Students climbed over seats. Phones shot up from every direction. An entire building screamed a name that had meant nothing to most of them two weeks earlier. The scoreboard updated in the middle of the noise like a final stamp on the humiliation.

Ashford 66. Northlake 22.

---

Coach Carter was already off the bench before the ball finished dropping through the net, sprinting toward half court with one arm stretched for Dexter’s jersey.

"That’s enough! Dexter, that’s enough!"

Dexter did not hear him.

Or he did, and no longer cared.

The second Lucas turned to jog back on defense, still not even looking his way, something in Dexter finally snapped all the way through. He tore free of the hand closing around his shoulder and lunged, every ounce of frustration packed into one blind swing. The fist was already cocked back before he had a real target locked in.

It was not a basketball play anymore.

It was pure violence.

Lucas saw it a full half-second early.

He did not plant.

He did not even look alarmed.

He simply was not where the punch expected him to be. A small step to the side. Weight shifting off his back foot. Clean, almost casual. Dexter’s fist tore through the empty space his jaw had occupied a heartbeat earlier.

There was nothing left in front of it.

Coach Carter had just closed the distance behind Dexter, still reaching for his player, still shouting his name, when the missed punch carried straight into him.

The punch landed square on his nose.

Gbemmm!

The sound was thick and ugly, heavy enough to cut through the noise of the entire arena. Coach Carter’s head snapped back from the force of it. His body followed a second later, dropping hard onto the hardwood with no chance to catch himself. The clipboard flew out of his hand and skidded across the painted floor as blood burst from his nose, running fast between his fingers and dripping onto the court under the lights.

For one full second, nobody moved.