Coach Rahman in his pybook. Not while he still had breath in his lungs. He called another timeout, the buzzer a harsh, grating sound in the suddenly silent gym. Desperately trying to pump oxygen back into his suffocating team. He was digging deep, scraping the bottom of the barrel for any tiny flicker of hope, any miracle tactical adjustment that could somehow, against all logic and reason, pull them out of this nosedive.
“Okay, listen up! Listen up!” he said, his voice still firm, trying to project strength, but you could hear the weariness creeping in around the edges, like cracks in a dam about to burst. He cpped his hands, trying to get their attention, their eyes to focus. "We… we keep pying. We keep fighting. We don’t give up. Understand? That's not an option."
It was less a pep talk and more a desperate, almost pleading mantra, whispered through gritted teeth and fueled by sheer, stubborn willpower. "We just gotta… gotta find something. Anything." He looked at them, faces pale and defeated, and his own resolve wavered for just a second, before he forced it back down. He had to believe, even if they didn't.
His pyers just nodded, a slow, synchronized slump of heads. Like a bunch of zombies being told to shuffle forward. Their faces were pale, drained of color, bodies slumped over like defted inftable pool toys. Exhaustion? Check.
Demoralization? Triple check, with extra points. They would keep pying, yeah, because that’s what Coach said, and that’s what you’re supposed to do when someone in authority tells you to do something. But belief? Hope? Those were officially AWOL, vanished into thin air faster than free pizza at a university campus during finals week. They were running on fumes, obligation, and the faint, flickering memory of what winning used to feel like. "Five more minutes of this," one pyer whispered to another, barely audible. "Just gotta survive five more minutes."
As the final quarter clock started its countdown, the atmosphere in the gym was thick with inevitability. Momentum wasn't just on Banani High’s side; it was practically tattooed on their foreheads. Locked in, bolted down, and superglued for good measure. The scoreboard was basically fshing neon signs, screaming the story in giant, blinking numbers.
Banani hadn't just chipped away at that ridiculous 30-point gap; they were actually ahead. And not by a measly point or two – they were pulling away, leaving Motijheel choking on their dust like a vintage car trying to keep up with a Formu One racer. "Game over," a Banani fan decred confidently, leaning back in his seat. "Just gotta run out the clock now."
James? He just kept going, an unstoppable force of nature in sneakers. Relentless scoring machine, churning out points like a broken ATM spitting out cash. Three-pointer after three-pointer rained down, each one a tiny explosion of demoralization for Motijheel.
It was like he was pying on rookie mode, while everyone else was stuck on legendary difficulty. Layups that defied gravity, physics-bending acrobatics that made the crowd gasp, again and again. It was like he'd personally rewritten the ws of motion. And assists? Don't even get started.
