<b>Chapter </b><b>217 </b>
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The scoreboard read 19:13. We were already leading, but I was just getting started. I casually dribbled the ball back to center court, one hand in my pocket, enjoying the shocked expressions on my opponents‘ faces.
“Don’t hold back on my ount,” I called out to Brock, who was breathing hard, his face flushed with exertion. “I wouldn’t want you thinking I got lucky.”
One of Brock’s teammates, a muscr guy with a buzz cut, scowled at me. “Is she fucking serious right now?”
Brock didn’t respond, though I could see the muscles in his jaw working as he clenched his teeth. He was trying hard not to lose his cool, but the strain was showing.
“I’m getting the hang of it now,” I said with a casual shrug. “First time ying and all. Just needed to warm up my hands a bit.”
The whistle blew, and I kicked into higher gear. I moved like water, flowing around defenders who might as well have been standing still. The ball was an extension of my hand, and the basket seemed to pull it in like a ma. Three–pointers,yups, jump shots–they all found their mark with effortless precision.
The scoreboard ticked upward: 22:13. Then 37:13. Then 45:13. By the time we hit 59:13, Brock’s team looked like they’d run a marathon, while I hadn’t even broken a sweat.
Students from all over campus had heard something unusual was happening. They streamed into the gymnasium, filling the previously half–empty stands until people were standing three deep along the walls. Their phones were out, recording what was quickly bing Princeton legend.
“Holy shit,” a girl in the front row whispered loudly. “Is she even human?”
Chase, who had barely touched the ball since I took over, was having the time of his life. He jogged alongside me, a massive grin splitting his face.
“Hey, Reynolds!” he called out to Brock. “You think you could do a few crunches while you’re down there? I’ve always wondered if you actually have abs or if it’s just padding in your jersey!”
Brock, who had fallen trying to block one of my shots, red up at Chase,
Chase wasn’t finished. He turned to his teammates, loud enough for everyone to hear: “Hey guys, what do you think about the dude trailing behind Brock? Is he wiping sweat or tears off his face?”
The Princeton section erupted inughter. Even our team was grinning now, jogging around the court like they were on a casual stroll through the park while Randview’s yers gasped for breath.
Brock called a timeout, gathering his team in a huddle. I could see him gesturing furiously, his face red with frustration and exhaustion.
8:00 Fri<b>, </b>Sep <b>26 </b><b>T. </b>
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When y resumed, all five Randview yers converged on me like a pack of wolves. Chase started to move toward me, but I shook my head slightly. I wanted this challenge.
They formed a tight circle around me, arms outstretched<b>, </b>bodies positioned to block every possible escape route. For a moment, I stood still, letting them think they had me trapped. Then I moved.
It was like watching a ballerina dance through a field of statues. I ducked, pivoted, and spun through impossibly small gaps between defenders. The ball never left my control, an obedient extension of my will. Before they could adjust, I was airborne.
The gym fell silent as I soared toward the basket, rising higher than seemed physically possible for someone my size. Time seemed to slow as I mmed the ball through the hoop with such force that the backboard shuddered.
The silencested exactly one second before the gym exploded.
“JADE IS A BEAST!” someone screamed from the stands, and the chant was immediately taken up by dozens, then hundreds of voices.
Chase was literally jumping up and down, pumping his fists in the air. “Holy fuck! Holy fucking fuck!” he kept repeating, his vocabry apparently reduced to those few words by the shock of what he’d just witnessed.
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