Survival Of The Fittest

There were times to sit down and frown and beat himself the up at how he'd let his social life end up like this and then there were times to play. The following few seconds were the latter.

Manuel's eyes were furrowed in focus as he surged forward with determination. He already knew the exact move he'd use to end this, steps before he even began to make it. On a good groove. Tension so high. Deep breath in and dribble. He immediately began to swerve off to the side slightly, though still maintaining forward momentum. He intended to get his opponent moving towards the rim of the goal. In that short meantime, get that shuffle up: can't well set something up without a ball in hand.

Manuel certainly didn’t stay tilted for long, and his opponent likewise locked in. She kept her stance lighter this time, looser. They’d both succeeded before with lightning-fast, ankle-shattering misdirections, and this time Heather intended to be ready for it. No getting up uncomfortably close and leaving room for a quick dash aside.

So, Heather stayed back a pace or two, made her body and arms cover - or threaten to cover - as much of the court as physically possible.

As Manuel veered off towards the sideline, Heather mirrored, biding her time. He’d been ready for the lunge, maybe he wouldn’t expect her to try and block the shot this time rather than attempting to prevent it outright.

The goal inched closer and closer, and Heather was making herself a wall. As expected. She had the disposition and power for it, and she wasn't stupid enough to lunge twice. But this just meant everything was going according to Manuel's plan. As the goal came closer than ever, but not dunk-close, he leapt into action.

Big step in one direction. Prelude to an actual leap, would he have done it. Dunk of the century if no buff blonde ballers were there to block him. There was, though, so he went on. He didn't jump, per se— he planted his foot hard into the ground. Pivot point. Iconic. Coming up. Next thing, the ball stopped bouncing, now clutched tight in both his hands. His eyes were on the goal, not his opponent. Every ounce of trust he could muster was placed within himself. The ball was lifted up, but no shot was made— not before he made a quick step in the opposite direction. That was the leap. The ball shortly left his hands, going right to the backboard. Going— going—

Swish

Manuel landed on the ground and clapped his hands loud, releasing a breath he didn't know he was holding. Euro step of all time. One of the greats, one of the greats. Total Mañana victory, though he needed a bit before the tension relieved enough before he jumped and screamed and so on. But by the look on his face, he was already ecstatic.