Coach Scheyer POV
The gym echoed with the sharp squeak of sneakers and the low thud of basketballs. Coach Jon Scheyer leaned against the baseline, his arms crossed, clipboard in hand. The team had settled into a rhythm; this was their fourth practice of the week. While progress was slow, it was steady. Scheyer's sharp blue eyes scanned the court, but they kept returning to one player: Riku Matsuda.
The kid was a paradox a mix of raw potential and glaring limitations. Riku's movements were stiff, his body visibly lagging behind the intensity in his mind. Yet, there were flashes moments when everything aligned. When the ball entered the paint, Riku transformed. His instincts took over, and for those fleeting seconds, he wasn't just keeping up he was dominating. His presence in the lane was suffocating, cutting off passes before they reached their target, forcing bad shots, and boxing out with a ferocity that belied his age.
Then it would fade. The spark would dim as his body betrayed him. His footwork slowed, his shoulders sagged, and fatigue took its toll. Scheyer watched him struggle, a mix of frustration and recognition swirling in his mind.
I've seen this before, Scheyer thought. That spark. That raw fire.
It took him back to his own days as a player. In 2010, he had led Duke to the NCAA championship as captain. That season had been his pinnacle, his name etched into college basketball history as he cut down the nets. He could still see it clearly: the final seconds of the championship game against Butler, Gordon Hayward's desperate shot from half-court sailing through the air. Time had seemed to stop. If that ball had gone in, Scheyer knew the story would have been different. He'd have been the player who almost won, the guy Hayward had outshined.
Instead, it clanged off the rim. Duke won, and Scheyer was immortalized as the leader who brought his team to glory.
But the years after that? That was a different story. His body never gave out the way Riku's did now, but his potential ran dry. The talent that had carried him to college greatness suddenly seemed ordinary compared to the players who came after—players like Kyrie Irving, who replaced him the very next year, and opponents like Hayward, who seemed to grow into something uncontainable. Those guys had something special inside them, something Scheyer could never quite match. It wasn't just skill; it was a spark that burned brighter, louder, and longer than his own.
Scheyer straightened, his focus snapping back to the present. Riku was locked in the shell drill now, calling out commands with a voice that was steadily growing stronger: "Switch! I got ball!" He was trying to control the defense, forcing his teammates to talk and adapt. For a few seconds, it all clicked. The rotations were sharp, the pressure suffocating. Riku's body moved as if it finally understood what his mind wanted it to do.
Then came the collapse. His movements slowed, and he stumbled on a closeout, hands dropping to his knees as he gasped for air. Scheyer blew his whistle, letting the drill reset.
"The kid has it," Scheyer muttered under his breath, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "If only his body could keep up."
After practice, Scheyer lingered as the players filed out. Riku stayed behind, catching his breath while taking slow, deliberate dribbles under the basket. Scheyer approached him, clipboard tucked under one arm.
"Riku," Scheyer called out, and the boy straightened immediately. His exhaustion was evident, but so was the fire in his eyes. "What drives you? Why are you out here, pushing yourself like this?"
Riku hesitated, his gaze falling to the floor for a moment before he looked back up, resolute. "It's... something I need to do."
Scheyer studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Good. Because if you're serious about this, we're going to take it up a notch."
He flipped open his clipboard, revealing a personalized training regimen he had scribbled down during the practice. "This is for you," he said, handing it over. "Your body isn't ready to keep up with your mind, but we'll get it there. This is a mix of stamina, strength, and endurance work. You'll be doing core exercises, explosive movements, and recovery routines. It's going to hurt, but it's what you need."
Riku scanned the sheet, his brow furrowing as he read the list: morning runs, weight training, resistance bands for lateral movement, explosive box jumps, and an intense core workout schedule. Recovery days were marked with stretching routines and yoga, a testament to how much Scheyer valued longevity.
"One more thing," Scheyer said, interrupting Riku's focus. "I'm reaching out to Teppei Kiyoshi. You need a mentor—someone who understands what it's like to do everything for the team. Teppei's the best player we've had in this program, and he knows how to push past limits. But more importantly, you need to go up against someone you can't just bully to the hoop. Teppei will challenge you, physically and mentally."
Riku's eyes widened slightly at the mention of Teppei, but he quickly nodded. "I'll do whatever it takes."
Scheyer smirked. "Good. Practice is one thing, but you've got to want this outside of these walls too. Next time, show me you're ready for it."
As Riku walked out, paper in hand, Scheyer glanced back at the empty court. That spark he'd seen during the shell drill—the fire that had burned so brightly for those few fleeting moments—it reminded him of the players who had once surpassed him. But this time, he wasn't going to let that fire burn out.