Coach POV
Up on the second-floor bleachers, Coach Bobby Hurley sat like a coiled spring, tension radiating off him in waves. His suit jacket lay crumpled beside him, tossed aside sometime during the scrimmage when his patience had finally cracked. At his feet, two crushed Red Bull cans told their own story the only way he'd managed to sit still for this long.
He wasn't just watching the tryout. He was living it.
Every pass, every shot, every mistake twisted in his chest like a fist. His knuckles had gone white from gripping the metal railing too tightly, and his restless foot tapped against the cold steel floor. He couldn't help it. Basketball wasn't just his job; it was his life.
This was the game that had shaped him trough high school, into college, where he'd set records as one of the greatest playmakers in NCAA history. He'd made it to the NBA, playing on courts most kids could only dream about.
A couple of years ago, he'd moved to Japan with his wife and kids, a choice made for her family. But coaching kept him tethered to the game, to the fire that never stopped burning inside him.
Every mistake made his body itch to jump in and fix it. A bad pass. A lazy shot. A missed rotation. He could see the right moves as clearly as if he were still out there playing. It drove him crazy.
But when a player did something right when someone hit the perfect pass or made the right decision, Hurley leaned forward, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his lips.
This was why he was here.
Several times too many times he had been seconds away from shouting down corrections. A lazy pass. A sloppy cut. A forced drive into collapsing defenders. Each one chipped away at his restraint. He'd leaned forward, mouth half-open, ready to bark out an order before clenching his jaw and pulling himself back.
Let them play, Bobby, he'd reminded himself through gritted teeth. This isn't your show. Not yet.
Holding back had been torture. But when a good play unfolded when someone finally made the right read, the right pass, the right shot, he couldn't stop the involuntary nod of approval, the small grin that felt like muscle memory. It was like he was back out there, making the play himself.
And that was why he couldn't walk away.
And then there was Taro Sugimoto.
Hurley's sharp blue eyes zeroed in on Taro every time the ball touched his hands. The kid was a paradox. Broad, slow-moving, and drenched in sweat like he'd already played three games… yet every single thing he did mattered.
Taro didn't just play basketball, he saw it.
When he caught the ball in the post, he didn't rush. Everything was deliberate. A slow, smooth drop-step into a hook shot that spun cleanly through the net. Textbook. But that wasn't what made Hurley's foot stop tapping, it was everything that came after.
The passes.
Hurley had seen glimpses of genius in young players before, but nothing like this. Taro was reading the floor like a seasoned pro. He delivered crisp behind-the-back bounces, sharp overhead darts, and then there was that pass.
Hurley's fingers twitched just thinking about it.
The full-court bullet.
The ball had soared the length of the gym like a quarterback's perfect spiral, slicing through the defense and dropping into the hands of a stunned teammate streaking toward the rim. It wasn't luck. It wasn't guesswork. Taro had seen it.
Hurley nearly shot out of his seat when it happened, gripping the railing so hard he thought it might break.
Where the hell did that come from?
Even now, as Taro stood back on defense, his broad shoulders rising and falling with every breath, his focus hadn't wavered. Sweat poured off him like rain, but his eyes still tracked everything, processing the game in ways most kids couldn't dream of.
Hurley leaned forward, his voice a whisper of disbelief. "This kid…"
Taro wasn't just talented. He wasn't just smart. He had the potential to change the game. Hurley had seen plenty of scorers, plenty of athletes who could take over with speed or power. But Taro had vision. He had a court map burned into his brain, and Hurley could see it as clear as day.
What level can you reach?
The thought made his pulse race, the excitement buzzing under his skin in a way it hadn't for years. Taro's ceiling was higher than anyone else's in the gym, maybe even higher than the so called Generation of Miracles.
If your body catches up to your mind, Hurley thought, his fists clenching, you'll be unstoppable.
Hurley's eyes shifted to Kaede Rukawa, standing at midcourt. The kid's raw talent was undeniable explosive drives, sharp jab steps, and a jumper that was deadly when he didn't force it.
Rukawa's first step was electric. Every time he attacked, defenders scrambled to recover, and when he rose into the air, twisting his body through contact, it was impossible not to watch.
But there was no control. No finesse.
Hurley had seen players and even pros like Rukawa before, kids who relied on raw talent and athleticism to bulldoze through games. Every possession was a sprint, every decision a gamble. He attacked like he was chasing something only he could see, driving headfirst into defenders, forcing shots that had no chance. It wasn't effort, it was desperation disguised as aggression.
And yet, when Rukawa slowed himself down like the pull-up jumper he drained earlier, he looked amazing. That was the player Hurley wanted to see more of.
"Kid could be dangerous," Hurley thought as he moved on
Because today wasn't only a tryout for the first years.
This was also a test for his manager and captain.
Hurley's sharp blue eyes cut to Rin Tohsaka, clipboard in hand, standing like a stone pillar as her pen danced across the page. Her gaze was ruthless, missing nothing, her voice sharp and efficient whenever she needed to call someone out. There was no hesitation, no wasted motion—just focused leadership.
Beside her, Kobayashi lounged near the scorer's table, looking as if he didn't have a care in the world. But Hurley wasn't fooled. The kid's lazy smirk was a mask; his sharp eyes tracked every play, narrowing whenever something went wrong. The way Kobayashi straightened slightly when a player botched a possession, his smirk fading into quiet focus, told Hurley everything he needed to know.
Hurley had spent his career playing and leading at the highest levels. He knew firsthand that a team's success didn't rest solely on its coach. The game was won on the shoulders of its leaders—the players who could hold the team together when the pressure mounted, when the mistakes piled up.
Rin and Kobayashi were proving they could lead from the sidelines, showing him they could handle the chaos when he wasn't there to hold their hands.
And yet, for Hurley, not being there had been the hardest part. Somehow, he'd made it through the entire scrimmage—without shouting, without jumping in to fix everything that went wrong. Barely.
But now? Now it was his turn.
When the final whistle blew, Hurley let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
The gym quieted as players slumped, their bodies heavy with exhaustion. Taro spotted a metal chair against the wall and collapsed into it with a loud thud, sweat pouring down his face as he wiped his brow with his forearm.
Coach rose from his seat. He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the tension that had seeped into his body during the scrimmage. He picked up his crushed Red Bull cans before throwing them in the trash as he descended the metal stairs, his footsteps loud and deliberate.
As his figure emerged into view, the murmurs spread quickly. Players straightened instinctively, their tired eyes widening as they realized the coach had been there the entire time.
Hurley stopped at the baseline, hands in his pockets, his sharp blue eyes sweeping the players like a spotlight. Most of them looked exhausted—some slouched against the wall, others bent over, hands on their knees. Taro Sugimoto sat slumped in his chair, sweat dripping steadily from his face, while Kaede Rukawa stood stiffly near midcourt, his cold mask of indifference still firmly in place.
Coach's gaze lingered on Rukawa first.
"You," he said, his voice carrying through the gym like a hammer. Rukawa's icy blue eyes met his, unflinching.
"You're fast. You're talented. You've got every tool to be dangerous," Hurley said, his tone sharp but measured. "But you're fighting the game, kid. You're forcing it every drive, every shot. Basketball isn't just speed and fire. It's understanding and control."
Rukawa didn't react outwardly, but Hurley caught the flicker of something behind his stare—frustration, maybe.
"If you learn when to slow down and trust your team, you'll be great," Hurley said simply.
He turned his attention to Taro Sugimoto next.
Taro pushed himself upright, his broad frame still rising and falling with each heavy breath. Hurley's gaze stayed on him for a beat longer, as if measuring him.
"You," Hurley said, his voice even. "You see the game better than anyone else here."
Taro blinked, his amber eyes locking onto Hurley's.
"The passes, the reads, that's instinct. That's a gift," Hurley continued. "But your body? It's miles behind your mind. If you don't build the stamina, the strength, the speed to match that vision of yours, it won't matter how smart you are."
Taro nodded faintly, his jaw clenching. He didn't need Hurley to say more. He already knew.
Hurley exhaled softly, turning his head slightly. Ryota Watari stood off to the side, spinning the ball between his hands as if trying to distract himself.
Hurley didn't linger on him long, but his thoughts were clear.
Kid's got rhythm. He's got feel.
Watari wasn't there yet, not like Taro or Rukawa. But Hurley had seen flashes the ball control, the sharp crossover, the way his feet danced through the defense when his confidence didn't waver. If someone taught him how to trust that rhythm, he'd be more than just potential
Hurley straightened, hands still buried in his pockets, his sharp gaze sweeping over the group of exhausted players. Silence blanketed the gym as they stood, chests heaving, sweat dripping to the floor.
"Listen up," he said, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
"The results for who made the team will be posted tomorrow morning, outside the basketball clubroom." He paused, letting the weight of the words settle over them. "If you think you've done enough to see your name on that list, prove it by showing up ready to work harder than you did today."
He let his eyes move deliberately from one face to the next, lingering on Taro Sugimoto, still slumped in the metal chair, his amber eyes unwavering despite the exhaustion, and Kaede Rukawa, who stood tall, fists loose at his sides, his cold blue stare burning with unspoken frustration.
"If your name isn't there, don't come asking why," Hurley continued, his voice low and firm. "You already know. Figure it out. Fix it. That's how this game works. You either get better, or you get left behind."
He turned on his heel, striding toward the gym doors with a deliberate, steady pace. But after a few steps, he stopped. Without turning around, his voice carried back to them.
"And one last thing," he added. "Making this team isn't the finish line. It's just the start."
The tension in the gym was palpable as his footsteps echoed, each tap of his shoes reverberating in the silence. Just as he reached the exit, Hurley glanced over his shoulder and called out, his tone sharp but measured.
"Rin. Kobayashi."
Both of them snapped to attention, their focus shifting immediately to him.
"Follow me," Hurley said simply, jerking his head toward the door. "We're going over the tryout."
Without another word, Hurley walked out of the gym, his presence lingering like an invisible weight. Rin tucked her clipboard under her arm and moved quickly after him, her expression calm but focused, while Kobayashi trailed behind, his usual smirk replaced with quiet seriousness.
As the heavy gym doors swung shut behind them, the first-years were left alone, staring at the spot where their coach had been, the finality of his words ringing in their ears.