The arena pulsed like a living heartbeat. Bright lights flooded the polished court, turning every bead of sweat into tiny sparks. Twenty thousand voices rose and fell in waves, a constant roar that vibrated through the floor and into the players' bones. Banners hung high from the rafters, reminding everyone what was at stake tonight: Game Seven of the Western Conference Finals.
Alex stood at the free-throw line in the final minutes of the fourth quarter, chest heaving, jersey soaked dark with sweat. The score sat tight: Suns up by two, ninety seconds left. His legs burned from endless sprints, lungs begged for deeper air, but his focus stayed razor-sharp. The crowd noise faded to a dull hum inside his head. Only the rim mattered.
He bounced the ball once, twice, spun it in his palms the way he had since he was a kid on cracked concrete. The referee handed him the second free throw. Alex exhaled slow, bent his knees, and let it fly. Clean swish. Three-point lead.
