A star player’s son is missing, and the ransom isn’t cash—it’s a championship loss.
Writer’s Prompt
The neon sign of the “Full Court Press” bar flickered, casting a bruised purple light over the half-empty glass of bourbon. It was five minutes to tip-off for Game 7. Across the street, the stadium hummed with the electric pulse of twenty thousand people waiting for Jaxson “The Comet” Reed to lead them to a title.
My phone vibrated against the scarred mahogany bar. It wasn’t a call; it was a video.
In the frame, a boy sat on a concrete floor. He was wearing a jersey three sizes too big—a Comet #23. He wasn’t crying; he just looked tired, his eyes wide and vacant in the dim light of some basement I’d never find in time.
Then came the text: “A triple-double wins the ring. A blowout win loses the boy. Tell Jaxson to miss the shots, or the kid misses his next birthday.”
I looked up at the TV. Jaxson was at center court, his face a mask of sweat and focused intensity. He didn’t know yet. I was the only bridge between his legacy and his blood. If I walked across that street and whispered in his ear, I’d be killing his son. If I stayed here and watched him dominate, I’d be a silent accomplice to a funeral.
The referee blew the whistle. The ball went up. Jaxson leaped higher than anyone I’d ever seen, his hand grazing the leather. My thumb hovered over the ‘Send’ button. The odds were stacked, the fix was in, and the clock was already running out.
How would you finish this story?
Does the narrator send the message, or do they try to hunt down the kidnappers themselves before the final buzzer? Is Jaxson capable of losing on purpose, or will his instinct for the game betray his heart?
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