The bell's sharp ring reverberated through the halls as Taro slid into his final class of the day, barely making it before the teacher walked in. He was out of breath, his chest rising and falling heavily as he collapsed into a seat near the back of the room. The hurried sprint to get here in time had left him feeling like he'd just finished a marathon.
The students around him cast quick glances his way, their eyes flickering over his broad frame before darting back to their notebooks. Taro caught a few of them staring, but when their eyes met his, they quickly looked away—some with slight nervousness, others with a hint of something sharper, meaner.
Taro exhaled slowly, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his uniform. He hated the way their looks made his chest tighten, but he wasn't surprised. His size always had a way of making people uncomfortable, whether it was curiosity, fear, or disdain.
The teacher began the lesson, his voice droning on as he wrote equations across the whiteboard. Numbers and formulas danced in neat rows, but Taro barely needed to glance at them. Classes weren't a problem. He knew how to handle the academic workload, thanks to his cram school days and the memories of college lectures that sometimes surfaced in his mind.
Taro let his gaze drift toward the window, where the late afternoon sun filtered through the glass, bathing the classroom in golden light. The rhythmic scratching of pens on paper filled the quiet as the teacher continued, but Taro's focus was already elsewhere.
The soft ring of the bell broke the silence, signaling the end of the school day. Desks creaked as students began packing up their things, their chatter rising into a low hum.
Taro stood and slung his bag over his shoulder, letting out a slow breath. He was tired not from the classes, but from the weight of the day itself.
The sun hung low on the horizon as Taro trudged up the steps to his house. The familiar smell of dinner drifted through the air as he pushed open the door. It was warm and inviting, but he didn't feel it—not yet.
His mother's humming floated from the kitchen, soft and familiar, grounding him in a way nothing else could. He kicked off his shoes and dropped his bag by the door, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.
"Taro! You're home!" Sofija called out, her voice bright. "Dinner will be ready soon. Go wash up!"
He stepped into the kitchen briefly, leaning against the doorframe. Sofija was at the stove, stirring something in a pot, her hair tied back in a loose braid. Plates and bowls were already set out on the counter, each arranged with the precision of someone who always put care into the little things.
"How was your first day?" she asked, glancing at him over her shoulder with a smile.
Taro hesitated. "It was… fine," he said finally, his voice subdued but still focused. Before she could press further, he added, "I'm going to my room until dinner."
Sofija's smile faltered, but she nodded. "All right. Dinner will be ready soon."
Taro shut the door to his room and leaned against it, letting out a long sigh. His bag slumped to the floor as he made his way to the desk. The textbooks he'd been issued that morning sat in a neat stack, their spines uncreased.
He ignored them. Academics weren't his priority right now. He pulled out a notebook instead, flipping to a blank page.
Tryouts are in a week, he thought, tapping his pen against the paper.
At the top of the page, he wrote in bold letters: Keisuke Kobayashi:
The name stirred something in Taro's mind—a fleeting memory from the anime. Kobayashi had been briefly mentioned as a standout player from Ōnita High, a point guard with enough skill and athleticism to carry his to the winter cup. But he'd been crushed by Midorima from the Generation of Miracles.
Taro frowned, gripping his pen tighter. Not this time, he thought. Kobayashi has the potential to be more than just a good player.
Kobayashi wasn't the type to dominate a game on his own, but Taro knew he could make him into something greater. A player who could handle some of the offensive load, capitalize on scoring opportunities, and create plays when defenses focused too heavily on Taro.
He began listing ideas beneath Kobayashi's name:
Scoring: Kobayashi's ability to score efficiently needed to be maximized. He could step into open shots, attack mismatches, and exploit gaps in the defense.Cutting: Quick and instinctive, Kobayashi could thrive as a cutter. Taro envisioned himself backing down defenders in the post, drawing double-teams, and then feeding a perfectly timed alley opp to Kobayashi.Playmaking: Kobayashi's ball-handling and court vision could relieve some of the pressure when Taro was too heavily covered. He needed to take control when necessary, breaking down defenses and setting up teammates for open looks.
When I'm too covered, Kobayashi will take over. When he's pressured, I'll be there to back him up.
Taro wrote the words Second Star on the page. If he evolved into the player he needed to be, Kobayashi could become the perfect complement—a dynamic scorer, cutter, and secondary playmaker.
Taro moved on to the team then. He didn't know anyone on the roster yet—tryouts were still a week away, and the players already on the team were a mystery beyond Kobayashi. But some things didn't require familiarity. The foundations of a successful team could be outlined, and for the team to succeed, certain elements would be non-negotiable.
Defense had to come first.
Taro tapped his pen against the notebook as he visualized it. No matter how skilled or athletic the team was offensively, they wouldn't go far without a disciplined, relentless defensive mindset.
He pictured players scrambling to switch on screens, fighting through picks, and contesting every shot with a hand in the air. No easy buckets, no lapses in focus. Taro envisioned a team that could pressure opponents into mistakes, force turnovers, and protect the basket with pride.
"Everyone has to pull their weight," he thought. There was no room for laziness on defense. Sharp rotations, constant communication, and effort were the bare minimum.
Next was motion.
Stagnation killed offenses. Taro could already picture it: players standing still on the perimeter, passing the ball back and forth, waiting for something to happen. The defense would clamp down, suffocating the offense until someone threw up a desperate shot.
That couldn't happen.
The team needed to move constantly—cutting, screening, finding open lanes, keeping defenders on edge. Taro wanted a fluid, dynamic offense where no one was ever idle. He scribbled a note in the corner of the page: "Keep moving. Always create options."
Motion created opportunities. Opportunities created points.
And finally, hitting open shots.
Taro tapped the notebook again, this time more forcefully. He already knew how opposing defenses would respond if he grew into the player he envisioned. They'd collapse on him in the paint, doubling or even tripling him to force the ball out of his hands.
When that happened, his teammates had to make them pay.
He pictured it clearly: a defender scrambling to rotate, leaving a teammate wide open at the arc. The ball flying from Taro's hands to the open man. A quick release. Nothing but net.
A team that couldn't capitalize on open shots wouldn't last. The players surrounding him needed confidence and consistency. A wide-open jumper from the corner, a pull-up from the elbow—those shots had to go in. No hesitation. No second-guessing.
Taro stared at the notebook, his pen hovering over the page.
He didn't know who his teammates would be yet, but he knew what they needed to do. Defense, motion, and hitting open shots. It wasn't glamorous, but it was the backbone of every great team he'd ever watched.
The system wasn't about individual stars. It wasn't about showboating or flash. It was about synergy—about everyone knowing their role and playing it perfectly. A single weak link could break the chain, and it was his responsibility to ensure that didn't happen.
But the success of the system hinged on one thing.
Him.
Taro's grip on the pen tightened. Everything he envisioned for the team depended on him becoming the player they needed—a dominant presence in the paint, a facilitator who could draw defenses and create opportunities, and an anchor on defense.
He flipped to a clean page and wrote in large, bold letters:
BE THE PLAYER THEY NEED.
Taro stared at the words for a long moment. They were simple, but they carried the weight of everything he needed to accomplish. It wasn't just about making the team. It was about transforming himself into the centerpiece that held everything together.
The sound of his mother calling from the kitchen broke his thoughts.
"Taro! Dinner's ready!"
He closed the notebook and set his pen down, a flicker of determination in his eyes.
Tryouts are in a week, he thought as he stood and headed toward the dining room. And I'll be ready.
The table was neatly set when Sofija called him back. Taro sat across from his father, Akio, who was already helping himself to a portion. Taro served himself less than usual, his appetite not dulled by sadness but by a sharp, simmering anger. He picked at his food with quick, deliberate movements, his thoughts firing in a hundred directions at once.
Sofija's brow furrowed as she set down her chopsticks. "Not hungry?" she asked gently.
Taro shook his head, his jaw tightening. "I'm fine," he muttered, though his voice carried a sharper edge than usual.
Akio glanced up, his sharp eyes narrowing as he studied Taro. "How was school today?"
Taro hesitated, his chopsticks pausing midair. His hand clenched slightly before he set them down on the table with a quiet clink. He exhaled sharply, then spoke.
"It wasn't anything special."
Sofija leaned forward, her expression softening. "What happened?"
Taro looked up at her, his amber eyes flashing. "It's just the usual," he said, his voice steady but with an undercurrent of heat. "Stuff like, 'How does he even fit in the desk?' He gave a sharp laugh, one without humor. "Nothing new."
Sofija's face darkened, her hands tightening on her chopsticks. "That's horrible," she said sharply, her voice rising slightly. "You worked hard to get into that school, Taro. Those kids have no right to say such things!"
"They're not wrong," Taro replied, his voice flat but not defeated. He jabbed a piece of food with his chopsticks, his movements firm. "I don't look like I belong there. Not yet. But that's going to change."
Akio set his cup down with deliberate care, his gaze steady and thoughtful. "It's not new, though, is it?"
Taro shook his head, meeting his father's eyes. "No," he admitted, his voice carrying a quiet fury. "But I'm done with it."
Akio leaned back slightly, his hands folded in front of him. "So, what are you going to do about it?"
Taro's chopsticks snapped together in his hand. He glanced between his parents, his face hardening with resolve. "I'm going to change," he said firmly. His voice wasn't loud, but every word carried weight. "I'm going to train seriously. I'll eat better, work harder, get stronger. I'm not going to let them see me as a joke anymore. I'm going to prove them wrong. Every single one of them."
Sofija raised an eyebrow, her arms crossing. "Training seriously?" she repeated, her skepticism sharp. "Taro, you're still growing. This isn't something you can rush into just because you're mad."
"It's not about being mad, Mama," Taro said, his voice unwavering. "It's about control. I need to take control of how they see me. Of who I am."
Sofija studied him for a long moment, her lips pressed together in thought. Finally, she exhaled and nodded, though her gaze was still firm. "Fine. But if we do this, we do it my way. You'll eat clean, but you'll eat enough to keep your strength. No skipping meals, no starving yourself. Agreed?"
Taro nodded immediately. "Agreed."
"And your training?" Akio asked, tilting his head.
Taro's gaze hardened. "I'll handle it myself," he said. "The weights, the drills whatever I need to do. I don't need anyone else to hold my hand."
Akio smirked faintly. "Good answer." He leaned back, taking another sip of tea. "If you need gear or weights, let me know. I'll make sure you have what you need to get the job done."
"Thanks," Taro replied, his tone sharp with gratitude.
Taro stood in his room, staring at the floor. The quiet hum of the desk lamp filled the space, but his thoughts drowned it out. Without hesitation, he dropped to the ground, planting his hands firmly.
Push-ups came first. Each movement steady, deliberate. His arms strained, but he pushed through, his breathing quickening. He rose, shook out his shoulders, and dropped into squats.
Up, down. His legs burned, but he didn't stop.
Next came sit-ups, his core tightening with every motion. He kept his focus sharp, imagining himself stronger, faster, in control. Finally, he dropped into a plank, holding his body still despite the shaking in his limbs.
When he let himself collapse onto the floor, sweat clung to his skin, and his breaths came heavy. The room felt small, but his purpose loomed large.
Taro grabbed a towel and stepped into the bathroom. Hot water poured over him, washing away the day and the tension in his muscles. His mind sharpened, filled with images of the court—the defenders closing in, teammates cutting through lanes, the ball flying to the open man.
It starts with me.
When he climbed into bed, his body felt heavy, but his thoughts were lighter.
Tomorrow, he thought, staring at the ceiling. I'll be better tomorrow.
And with that, he closed his eyes, his purpose driving him forward.