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[Dr Adjective]

Two sets of instincts competed for the controls behind Heather's eyes: with a large opponent dashing right towards her, one wanted her fists up and guarding her core, the other wanted an arm out to block shots with another low to play the ball as it was dribbled. Both wanted her up on her toes, coiled and poised to match movements in kind. The mental re-routing required to remind herself that she was balling, not boxing, set Heather back a few fractions of a second, enough to let Manuel wrong-foot her where normally she'd have no trouble floating like a proverbial butterfly.

Her only consolation was in ironically not being quite on the ball enough to overcommit to the wrong direction either. Heather corrected as quickly as she could, lunging back into Manuel's path; her leading arm outstretched with a view to interfering in his aim.

[LYourLocalAutist]

Immediate backtracking on number 5's part occurred as Heather got in his way. Skid on pivot foot, quarter spin, side, side, side. Reestablish the neutral and readapt; preferably in the span of seconds. Think quick. Vamos, vamos. He'd kicked off a lot of rust just then— Heather wouldn't be hesitating again. War on equal grounds, warranting the big guns. For number 5, that meant forcing something to give. Every wall had a nook you could push and push and then shatter.

Center body, ball rolling on the palm, dribble inverse 'tween the legs— in, out, between, beyond. Schmooving and in her face, ready to bolt at a moment's notice. Twinkle toes. Either she made for a grab or an opening would present itself. Either way, Mañana would come and breeze through. A point guard's job is ball control, and he was getting that paper.

[Dr Adjective]

Too slow. And of course, Manuel wasn’t stupid enough to try for a snap shot with her Get Down Mister President-ing into the most likely path, he wasn’t the one scraping off the rust.

Nope, Manuel backed up and reestablished the initiative, putting Heather back into the position of having to read signals for which her instincts had atrophied. Where his body was going, the way his muscles clenched and twitched, those were easy, but what it meant for tactics one, two, three steps further on? That was the tough part,

So in he came again, getting in close, inside her guard. Were this a fight, it might be to Heather’s advantage, negating the taller boy’s reach and turning it against him. But on the court, it just meant less line of sight to read, fewer split-seconds to react based on those reads. Soon enough, the latitude to back up ran short, and Heather was faced with a choice between seizing the initiative herself, or letting Manuel dictate the flow all the way up to and through the hoop.

Heather Klein was never one to let things slide when direct action was on the table. She lunged for the ball.

[LYourLocalAutist]

Number 5's in the game now. There's no snark and no smugness to be seen or heard. Trash talk was for people about to lose. To both parties currently present, that was not an option.

His forward movement and in & out worked just as intended. The most perfect position a player can ever find themselves in is one wherein they're forcing the reaction from the opponent. He had her working off of his hand, and he knew just where to lead any interaction he could think of. Like that lunge, for instance. Manuel barely thought— all instinct, all the time, baby— as his eyes slid down to her outstretched hand and he moved.

One more bounce, then grip on the ball. Weight on that pivot foot, bring it in, bring it in, bring it in close— and spin. Js skidding, outfit futtering. Advantage by predetermination, by seconds, which of course meant victory. If he could evade Heather here, the goal was a straight shot away. Heart of the ball, baby. Forward.

[Dr Adjective]

Heather's hands were fast, but her skill was at delivering them quickly to an opponent's body, much moreso than at plucking a rapidly moving ball out of the air below her waist. Not really a transferrable skill from boxing. Her outstretched hand flew inches clear of the expertly-controlled ball, and as Heather recovered her stance, Manuel was already whirling past her turned back and moving for the hoop.

She made a sincere effort. Perhaps it would've been a better look for her if she'd just accepted the loss and played it cool.

For the second time in about as many seconds, the basketball sailed past the blonde's outstretched fingertips as she leapt to intercept, not quite able to knock it off course in a last-ditch attempt at defence. Heather's soles squeaked, echoing harshly through the court as she landed in an awkward skid, righted herself, and at last got her hands on the ball as the net slowed its descent through the hoop and into her waiting grasp.

"Nice shot."

She couldn't deny that it was. Her comparative lack of practice would have to be sufficient balm for her ego.

Bounce.

Bounce.

Heather's eyes rose to regard the hoop opposite. She smirked. Game on.

[LYourLocalAutist]

Manuel didn't look back as he grounded himself from the spin and began the short burst to the two-pointer line. He didn't need to. You played this game long enough and you just knew if someone was on your tail or if they'd eaten your dust. Skid and skid and foot on the line and bring it upppp, takes the shot— Swish! UNbelievable! He pumped his fist and let out some nondescript positive grunt of celebration before turning back around to face his opponent on defence.

"Oh, uh—"

He looked genuinely caught off guard by the compliment, game face dropping to reveal something different entirely, not the usual smug face. He'd expected her to like scoff or scowl or squint or something. Not deliver some sincere words. He got his senses back shortly and smiled— not grinned— as he bent his knees again, defensive position.

"Hey, thanks."

This game just kept getting better and better.

[Dr Adjective]

Heather didn’t think twice about complimenting the shot, a reflex born from the generally genial atmosphere among the boxers at her gym. It only occurred to her that it might be unusual when Manuel appeared baffled by the gesture.

His loss. Whilst the boy was getting himself together enough to eventually thank her, Heather was dribbling down court with a view to equalising the score.

[LYourLocalAutist]

Points to Heather, it did actively take more time for Manuel to react to her sudden burst of forward momentum than it would’ve if she’d said “eat shit fashie” or whatever. His eyes moved a bit too late. Slow on the draw. Shit. Act together fast, number 5. This move warranted later consideration. Trash talk was discouraged and old, but positive affirmations…

Pocketing the idea at the back of his mind, Manuel made to position himself just barely in front of what would be a convenient spot for Heather, realizing along the way: this was arguably a way worse position to be in against her. Hey, man, would you rather have to overcome a brick wall or stare down an oncoming train? Had to reaffirm his position. Use his height, keep her down. Mieeeerda.

[Dr Adjective]

Manuel may have had a slight edge in height and weight, but when it came to force, Heather had the momentum. Maybe basketball wasn’t a contact sport, maybe she’d benefit more from learning more skilful approaches to a 1v1. Maybe she didn’t really care when a plausibly deniable opportunity presented itself.

So, onward she barrelled, adopting a slight curve and a plan to divert only at the last second should her opponent remain still, such that she could brush off the shoulder check as accidental.

[LYourLocalAutist]

Okay, keeping her down might have worked— if she'd planned on stopping anytime soon. Manuel's brow furrowed as she seemed to refuse to slow down. Basketball is not a contact sport and here she was about to check his ass out. He couldn't well remain firm against the big mean blonde freight train, and any attempt to get out of harm's way before moving to counter would only result in her having God's clearest shot. Mierda mierda mierda. What was there to do? Basketball is not a contact sport!

...Basketball is not a contact sport.

Number 5 lowered his stance, seemingly abandoning the idea of blocking altogether. Had to be able to move quicker for this. His eyes turned to the ever-present focal point of the player: the ball on Heather's hand. It wouldn't matter how fast or how strong she was coming on if he took it from her. Here's hoping it actually worked. Deep breath in, deep breath out, lean in, wait for her to close the distance— juke step and lunge.

[Dr Adjective]

One moment, Manuel's eyes were on her. He seemed nervous. Intimidated. Step one complete.

The next moment, he was focusing. His stance changed, his eyes moved.

Moment by moment, as her legs pumped and her attention was divided between the ball and the man, Heather's brain put what remaining processing power it had afterwards to interpreting what her eyes were telling it.

Oh.

Oh he was doing just what she'd tried to do.

Only problem, she'd already physically committed to the curve-into-swerve pathing she'd set out to execute. Not a lot of wiggle-room with that much momentum behind her.

Unless...

The plan had been to lurch to the right and accidentally put her left shoulder into his, unless he blinked first and dodged. The amended plan? Throw her entire body into a spin, come out of it to the left instead, gamble on the three. If it'd been a real game, Heather would've just looked for a teammate to pass to, but then again, she'd have four other opponents to worry about as well. What if the world was made of pudding? No point entertaining the hypotheticals when they had to stray so far from the reality on the ground as to be totally useless. She had one man to beat, and that man was definitely the more skilful player. So, better to go with unorthodox moves, throw him off, and when all else fails, gamble.

Rubber soles squeaked on polished floor, Heather twisted about like a cartoonish parody of a ballerina whilst clutching the ball to her chest for exactly as long as she thought she'd get away with in a real game, made a complete 360.

If she'd had time to get the lay of the land before taking the shot, Heather might've balked at how far from the three point line she was. Whether it was fortunate or not that she was in the zone would have its answer in a few seconds.

[LYourLocalAutist]

Slowwww motion as number 5's dive for the ball went through. Fixated— this had to be the way. She was overcommitting, she'd fumble, he'd make it, he'd make it. Hand outstretched, leaning ever forward. There wasn't really any manner of tactical analysis to be made at this stage. Action going through, locked the fuck in, surging forward with the purest of determinations.

Making the sight of her throwing her entire body into an ankle-breaking spin and the concordant cacophony of rubbers sole against the floor marking its effectiveness all the more distressing.

Somewhere subconsciously, Manuel knew he had no chance to correct himself or reorient, but he pushed himself to try anyway. Gritting his teeth, he tried to spin what remaining leverage he had mid-lunge! ...This only led to him clattering on the floor, knees first. Heather left him in the dust. Leaving him in the audience, more like. He waited in anticipation as she made the shot from the three-pointer line anddddddd—

BOOM! IN THE BASKET! THE MOVES! THE MOVES! COMEBACK OF THE CENTURY!

Ahem. Right. Rad. Anyway

Manuel couldn't resist a broad smile at the performance of his opponent, letting out a celebratory whoop and fist pump as he stood back up. "Good stuff! What a play, what a play..."

Dusting himself off, he patiently waited for the ball to bounce, bounce, rollll... all the way over to him. Always came back. Thor & Mjolnir type shit. Call him worthy. He picked it up, now repositioned as the attacker.

"...Looks like it's best o' three, then, si?"

[Dr Adjective]

Feet hit the ground again.

The ball hit the hoop again.

Roll, roll, roll, aaaaand… net.

Heavy exhale. A breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding in. Bicep flexed, fist clenched, just the most minor of pumps. Keeping it low-key.

Heather’s eyes followed the ball as it rolled slowly but surely back over to Manuel. He threw the gauntlet back down for a third clash. She released a little more held breath, wiped some sweat from her brow, and gave a gesture somewhere between a nod and a shrug. A very sure, why not? reaction.

“You know, if you were like this more often, people might actually like you.”

[LYourLocalAutist]

He took a few steps forward and nearly stopped at Heather's statement. People liked him— nah. They really didn't. It was Lopaka and it was Mason and that was really it besides... well, besides them. The people like Marino. His easy grin felt somewhat more elastic now. Strained, but even then, weaker. For barely a moment, his eyes drooped to the floor.

"...I know."

Manuel threw the ball down and it bounced. He did so again and again, gradually approaching as he managed to clear whatever feelings laid dormant in his head, returning to what had been, the default. It was not the same. Stance low. Breath in and out. Eyes on the goal. Brow furrowed.

"C'mon. Time to play."

Fast break forward. To victory.