Chapter 412: The Beast At Home

This time, nobody laughed.

The sub stopped messing with his tape. Kael slowly set his protein bar down on the armrest. Two or three players subconsciously straightened their backs.

Suddenly, this wasn’t a fashion show anymore. It was like looking at a herd of sheep, but instead of a German Shepherd to protect them, it was the fucking beast of Gévaudan.

"Nash Blaze," Cross said, not moving. He rolled his shoulders, trying to show he didn’t give a shit. "Yeah, I know. He’s good at passing, right?"

"Passing," the coach said with a grimace, as if the word was disgusting. "6’4 ft, 194 pounds. The best point guard I’ve seen since..." He glanced toward the back of the room. Nobody moved; nobody dared look at the person he was talking about. "...since a long time."

The first clip started. A dark hangar, halogen lights hitting too hard, and asphalt shimmering with sweat. In the middle, Nash, ball in hand. Two defenders closed in on him like two halves of a sandwich.

He didn’t even turn his head. He threw the ball behind his back, zipping it across the court at hip level and landed right in the hands of Jaz who wasn’t even open yet. She only became open a split second later, and by then, the ball was already for her. Basket.

"Rewind it," Kael said.

The coach rewound the clip in slow motion. Kael had sat up straight in his chair,

"Look at his shoulders," Kael pointed out. "He’s not even looking. He knows where she’s going to be before she even move."

"That’s the role of a point guard," the coach said. "A point guard who can deliver laser passes. He lets it go before his teammate is free because he’s already visualized where she’s running. I’ve scrubbed through the last three games, how many passes do you think he’s lost?"

Cross shrugged his shoulders.

"Five.. Three?"

"Zero."

Someone in the room let out a muffled laugh, the kind you make when you’re trying to figure out if it’s a joke. Cross waited a second, then, seeing there was no pun, he made a face like a guy refusing to pay the bill at a restaurant.

"A point guard who can pass? We’ve seen that before. That doesn’t make him a menace; it makes him a mailman," Cross scoffed.

"That’s not the problem," the coach replied.

"Then where is the problem?"

The coach didn’t answer right away. He picked up his cup, looked at it, and grimaced because the coffee had been cold for six hours. Then he put it back down. He did that on purpose. After thirty years in the game, he knew exactly how many seconds of silence it took to make a room full of overconfident motherfuckers actually listen.

"The problem," the coach said, "is what happens when his teammates can’t keep up."

He switched the file, showing a game that had become legendary among the fans: Blacklist VS Raptors. The clock at the bottom of the screen and the score flashing: 35 to 18. In favor of the Raptors.

"You all know Jax and his crew of thugs," the coach said.

"Butchers," Cross added. "The kind of guys who scare children and debt collectors. We beat them with our eyes closed though."

"Maybe. But he beat them with three girls who weren’t up to the level and two guys we could’ve replaced with lamp posts, and a lamp post makes fewer fouls. They aren’t even on the roster today, which proves Blacklist finally figured that out. They were down seventeen points. Now, look what he does."

The clips started playing one after another.

A Raptor was on a fast break, all alone, the hoop wide open. He was roaring like a guy about to get a highlight-reel dunk. Suddenly, Nash came out of nowhere. He jumped higher than the guy, slapped the ball away with one hand without even wrinkling his jersey. The guy landed hard on his ass and slid right into the padding, leaving his dignity somewhere near the rim.

"Holy shit," Kael whispered from the aisle.

That was the first honest word spoken all morning.

Nash stole the next pass, dribbled the full length of the court, weaving between three defenders at high speed and finished it with a dunk from the free-throw line. He was off-balance, and the backboard shook like an old hag during salsa.

"Okay, the dude has legs," Cross admitted.

"He has more than just legs," Kael muttered.

A third clip played: a 360-degree spin in mid-stride, the ball passing between his legs while defenders slapped at his arms, and a two-pointer slammed home through two pairs of hands, like it was nothing.

That’s the kind of move you make in a schoolyard when you’re winning by thirty, not when you’re down seventeen with the whole crowd against you. Two substitutes looked at each other without saying a word. One of them had stopped chewing his gum.

"A guy who does everything, does nothing well," Cross said, a bit louder than necessary.

Kael turned toward him, very slowly.

"Dude... stop the cap. He does everything well. That’s the real deal."

"Don’t look at him as a player," the coach interrupted. "Look at him as a monster that learned how to dribble. I spent all night looking for a weakness, two pots of coffee, a migraine, and three Excel sheets, the guy made me watch some tutorials, and there’s only one thing I couldn’t find. The three-pointer. There’s only a few in all my clips."

He played the sequence. Nash, mid-jump, body twisted at an angle that should have snapped his hip, a step-back. The ball went through the hoop without even touching the rim.

For many, it was skills, for Nash, it was exactly that: a skill. And it’s name was disorder shoot, something too reachable to be a weakness.

"Only one weakness. And he makes it while twisting in the air," the coach added.

"So he can’t shoot," Cross said, sounding too happy to finally have something to grip onto.

"Or he just didn’t need to. You want to bet on which one it is?"

Cross didn’t bet. He twisted his signet ring once, then twice, and looked away toward a corner of the ceiling.

The next clip showed the third quarter. Nash was planted under the basket, arms spread wide. Jax charged in, going for a layup, but at the last second, Nash’s hand slammed the ball against the backboard.

"He’s... He’s playing center too?" someone whispered.

Nobody was laughing anymore. The substitutes players on the bench stood up straight, like students who just got told their final exam was starting. Kael had his arms crossed.

"When the others fall," the coach said, "he becomes a one-man army. He defends, he attacks, he passes, he finishes, and he carries everyone else on his back while they catch their breath. A normal team panics when they lose players. He just replaces them. And you know what? That’s exactly what’s going to happen against us."

Cross chuckled.

"Won’t happen against us. We aren’t the Raptors."

"I know. You’re better. That’s why it’ll happen. I trust you to drown the girls, so you must understand that what’s coming to you, is that thing."

Cross took a deep breath. He realized he’d stopped smiling a while ago, so he forced the smirk back on his face, tilting his head like he was fixing a crooked cap.

"So what? We change the plan for him? We’ve never changed a plan for anyone."

"We aren’t changing the plan."

"Good."

"I just want to make sure nobody is surprised."

"Nobody’s gonna be surprised, coach." Cross sat up and cracked his neck with a loud pop. He felt something stuck in his throat, and he did everything he could to hide it. "One guy and a bunch of lucky girls. That’s it. We know how to handle that."

He turned toward the back of the room with a smug grin.

"Honestly, Seth, do you want this guy or should I take him? I’ll have him on the floor in ten minutes, you just watch..."

Seth turned his head.

Slowly. His eyebrows lowered. There wasn’t anger in his eyes, not like the others, no visible traits or clenched fists.

This was worse.

It was a cold irritation, the look of someone who had been interrupted in the middle of a chess game to talk about some bitches. His eyes locked on Cross, not saying a word, but saying everything: Shut the fuck up.

Cross’s smile lasted two seconds. Then it slid off.

He took his feet off the chair. His signet ring stopped spinning. He suddenly felt like he could use and lose some water. He knew that look. He’d seen it once before, on a teammate who had missed an easy shot in the finals, and he didn’t have a good memory of what happened next.

"Yeah," he muttered. "I... yeah."

He turned back to the screen.

Nobody in the room looked at him. The coach pretended to search for something on his desk to give everyone a moment to breathe. Kael went back to his protein bar, without eating it.

The video kept playing, showing the end of the game against the Raptors. Nash was leaning forward, hands on his knees, chest heaving.

At the back of the room, Seth stared intensely at Nash, and for the first time during the session, he frowned slightly.

The Colossus didn’t talk about anything else for the rest of the morning. The jokes about ass and tits had finally stopped. Even Cross shut up, which for him was basically a national moment of silence.

Outside, things were even crazier. Nash was everywhere. He was on the giant screens, on every TV show, and all over the internet forums. Fans were practically fighting each other, arguing about whether he was just a "one-season wonder" or if he was actually going to be this good for his whole career.

Fwop.

Kids in every neighborhood playground were trying to copy his behind-the-back move, reporters had been camping out in front of the Blacklist gym since dawn, clutching their thermoses, just waiting for a guy who wasn’t showing his face.

Fwop. Fwop.

Everyone had the same question in their heads.

Where the hell was Nash?

Fwop. Fwop. Fwop. Fwop.

Meanwhile, back at the manor, it was early... well, if you can even call it "early" after a night of nonstop sex. The massive bed looked like a total crime scene.

Nash sat up and stretched, his shoulders. He looked like a mess, but a good one. His skin was glossy and slick. He had sweat, female squirt, and his own cum dripping all over his abs. His cock was still rock hard and wet, with a thick string of white cum hanging off the head until it finally snapped and landed right on Lina’s thighs.

"Man, I really gotta learn to go to sleep earlier," Nash muttered.

He nodded to himself, looking dead serious, like a guy who had just made a life-changing decision. Then he looked around the room and shrugged.

He’d made it this far in his career; why not let loose a little? There was no game today, no Apex, and nothing urgent happening. Besides, he knew nobody would be bothering him until at least 3 PM.

Jaz was sprawled out on her stomach at the edge of the bed, one thigh hanging off the side. Her ass was bright red from the pounding, and a fat line of cum was leaking out of her pussy, dripping down onto the sheets.

Nia was fast asleep behind him, lying on her side with her mouth open. There was some dried white stuff at the corner of her lips. One of her hands was still gripped tight in the blanket, like she had passed out while holding on for dear life.

Lina was flat on her back, arms thrown over her head. She was still breathing in short, jagged little jumps, the kind of breathing you do when you’ve come way too many times.

Amara was curled up against Lina’s left side, looking just as exhausted. Under her hips, there was a literal puddle of cum that had already soaked through to the wood of the bedframe.

Rumi was further down the mattress, one knee hooked up. Her face was totally slack. Her pussy was shiny and wouldn’t stop dripping; a thin white thread of cum just kept flowing out, even though nobody had been inside her for a while.

They were all absolutely covered in him, inside out. Every time one of them shifted in her sleep, more cum leaked out of them.

"Get some rest," Nash muttered. "There’s no emergency today. Just sleep."

He almost smiled.

He started thinking that now might be the perfect time to deal with his new goal regarding Zayela. The thought felt good, but even he was starting to feel the fatigue. He decided to do what the girls were doing and take a breather.

He looked for a place to put his head. There weren’t any pillows in sight, but there was Hina.

She was knocked out exactly where he wanted to lay his head. Her cheek was smashed into the sheet, her mouth was open, and her cute face looked completely blank after being fucked until she couldn’t even speak.

Her ass was still poked up, round, fat, and shiny, with a string of cum stuck between her cheeks. Nash reached out and grabbed it with both hands. He squeezed hard. The flesh filled his fingers, feeling heavy and soft, and when he let go, it bounced back perfectly.

He did it again, just "for science," watching the meat jiggle. He took a deep breath, smelling her skin: sweat, pussy, and that specific scent of her ass cheeks after a whole night of being on his cock.

Yeah, that was his favorite kind of incense. He turned his face and rested his cheek on her ass like it was a pillow.

It was warm and soft. The perfect pillow.

Alicia was the closest girl still next to him. She was lying on her stomach against his ribs, her hair stuck to her mouth, her body still twitching slightly in her sleep. Nash hooked his arm under her and grabbed her hip, dragging her right on top of him.

She made a small, sleepy sound, but she wasn’t awake yet.

He spread her thighs over his waist. Her pussy was still full of his many many loads. He lined up the head of his cock and pushed.

Alicia’s eyes almost opened halfway.

"Nnh... ahn... ah—!"

The head of his cock stretched her open instantly. She was swollen and used, but she was still too tight for him. He was just too thick. The ridge of his dick forced her open, and since there was no room left, all the cum already inside her squirted out around his shaft in a warm, messy spill over his hips —schlk— running down onto the bed. Alicia’s mouth opened, making a raw, animal-like sound.

"Hhnng—! Ah—!"

Her nails dug deep into his chest. He fed her the rest of it, pushing in slow, inch by inch, until her ass was seated firmly on him and the shape of his cock was visible against her belly.

But he didn’t start fucking her; he just stayed inside.

Alicia lay on him like a living, breathing blanket, stuffed full and leaking down both sides of his cock. Her face was buried in his chest, and she kept making those thin, punched-out noises every time he moved an inch. Hina’s ass was still under his head, hot and bouncing a little whenever Alicia shook. The other girls were just wrecked all around them on the wet sheets.

Nash finally closed his eyes for good.

He was living his best life. Outside, giant screens were looping his face, half the city was wondering where the hell he was, and a reigning champion had just spent three hours staring at him on a twenty-foot screen.

Nash didn’t give a shit. He was fast asleep on a fat ass.