The gym buzzed with energy, even as the final buzzer echoed across the court. The scoreboard flashed the final score: 67-30. Onita had delivered a resounding victory, and the fans in the stands couldn't stop talking about what they'd just witnessed. Many had stayed after school, expecting a routine practice game, but what they saw was something else entirely a statement of intent that left them wondering what this season might hold.
As Onita's players exchanged handshakes and packed up, Shinkyō's team lingered on the opposite side of the court, their mood somber. The weight of their loss hung heavy in the air, the sting of a decisive defeat reflected in their downcast expressions. Their captain, Yūsuke Tanimura, stood apart from the group, his arms crossed tightly against his chest as if trying to hold in his frustration. His sullen demeanor was a stark contrast to the confidence he'd carried into the season.
At the start of the year, everything had seemed promising. Shinkyō had secured Papa Mbaye Siki, a player whose towering height and ridiculous wingspan were unmatched in their league. Tanimura had been certain that Papa was the missing piece they needed, the kind of player who could carry them to victory against anyone. They had spent weeks building their strategies around him, planning for a season where dominance seemed inevitable.
He'd even dismissed the growing rumors about the Generation of Miracles. The stories of their skill and invincibility had felt like nothing more than exaggerations, the kind of mythos that surrounded prodigies but rarely lived up to reality. Tanimura had thought, How much better could they really be? Surely, even the so-called best couldn't outmatch Shinkyō's size, discipline, and strategy.
But now, as he stood on the sidelines of a game where everything had unraveled, Tanimura felt his confidence cracking. His gaze shifted to Taro Sugimoto, standing among his teammates, his demeanor masking the havoc he had wrought on the court. A first-year. A nobody who no one had even known before today. And yet, Taro had just dismantled Shinkyō with 28 points, 16 assists, and 10 rebounds, leaving them in shambles.
If someone like him could do this… what are the Generation of Miracles capable of?
The thought gnawed at him, an unwelcome reminder of just how much further they might have to go. For the first time all season, Tanimura wasn't so sure his team was ready for what lay ahead. Worse, he wasn't sure he was ready.
The thought sent an unsettling chill through him. Tanimura exhaled sharply and glanced at Papa, who leaned against the wall, his frame somehow diminished by the loss. Papa's frustration was clear, but there was something else in his expression a mix of disbelief and determination.
Finally, Papa pushed off the wall and stepped forward, his deep voice cutting across the hum of Onita's post-game banter. "You," he called, his tone commanding attention. The Onita players turned toward him, their conversations halting.
Taro raised an eyebrow but didn't move, his calm demeanor as steady as ever.
"You're good," Papa admitted, though the words seemed to taste bitter. "Better than I expected. But next time, I'll be ready. Next time, I'll beat you."
Taro held Papa's gaze, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, to the surprise of his teammates, he offered a faint smile one that wasn't mocking but genuine.
"You helped me today," Taro said, his voice steady but carrying a hint of warmth. "I watched the way you played, how you used your size. It made me realize what I was missing. So, thanks for that."
Papa blinked, his frustration flickering into something closer to confusion. Taro let the words hang for a moment before continuing, his tone sharpening slightly.
"But," he added, his calm demeanor hardening into something more competitive, "next time? I'll be better too. You'll need more than just being ready."
Papa's jaw tightened, his expression caught somewhere between irritation and reluctant respect. He huffed, shaking his head before finally turning to follow his team toward the locker room.
As he walked away, Taro's teammates exchanged glances, a mix of amusement and admiration flickering in their expressions.
"Well, looks like you made an impression," Kobayashi said with a faint smirk, stepping into the teasing role. "Even got him to admit you're good."
"I don't know if calling him his next target counts as a compliment," Hachiman muttered, his dead fish eyes staring blankly ahead. "It's more like a death threat."
Watari shifted nervously, glancing between the two of them. "Why are you the way that you are?" he asked Hachiman, his voice a mix of exasperation and genuine confusion.
"I exist to bring balance," Hachiman replied flatly, his tone dripping with disinterest.
"Forget him," Tokuichi chimed in, leaning casually against the wall. "Let's talk about what we just did. Sixty-seven to thirty? That's not just a win. That's a beatdown."
"And most of it was because of you," Kobayashi said, his voice steady but filled with genuine approval as he looked at Taro. "You didn't just play well. You made us better."
"Yeah," Rukawa said, his tone measured, but his usual stoic facade cracked enough to reveal a flicker of surprise. He glanced at Taro, his expression respectful but thoughtful. "If you keep playing like this, we might actually win it all… though I've seen better. We've got a long way to go."
Hachiman sighed, glancing toward the scoreboard. "Sure, but let's not get carried away. This is just one game. We're not exactly raising trophies yet."
Hachiman's words earned a few eye-rolls from the team, but Taro simply shrugged, his calm demeanor never wavering. "It's not about me," he said simply. "You all made the plays. I just gave you the ball."
"Still too humble," Tokuichi said with a laugh. "I like it. But seriously, if you play like that every game, the other teams are going to be terrified of us."
Coach Hurley, standing near the bench with his arms crossed, had been quiet during the exchange. But his sharp eyes hadn't missed a single detail, and as the team's chatter began to die down, he stepped forward, his presence commanding as always.
"Good game," he began gruffly, his tone measured but carrying an undercurrent of pride. "But don't let this get to your heads. One game doesn't make a season. It doesn't make a team, either. We've got a lot of work to do if we want to make this more than just a one-off."
The players nodded, some murmuring their agreement, but Hurley wasn't done. His gaze swept over the group before landing squarely on Taro. His tone softened slightly, though it lost none of its weight.
"And you," Hurley said, pointing a finger at Taro, "you were absolutely amazing out there. Dominating the paint, creating plays, controlling the flow of the game, that's how you lead a team."
Taro's eyes widened slightly at the direct praise, though he said nothing, his expression steady.
"And that pass at the end," Hurley continued, his lips curling into the faintest of smiles. "That was something else. I don't know where you pulled that from, but it was damn near perfect. The kind of play that doesn't just win games it inspires confidence in your team."
The rest of the players glanced at Taro, their expressions ranging from nods of agreement to faint smiles of their own. Watari, still fidgeting nervously, looked at Taro like he was processing the same awe he'd felt on the court.
"Keep that up," Hurley said firmly, his eyes narrowing slightly. "And you're not just going to help us win. You're going to make this team better than it's ever been. But don't let it go to your head," he added quickly, his smirk returning. "Because if I see you slacking off, you'll be running drills until you're old enough to retire."
The team chuckled nervously, and Taro allowed himself a small smile, his calm demeanor masking the surge of pride and determination welling up inside him.
Beside him, Rin nodded, her clipboard clutched tightly against her chest. "He's right," she added, her voice more measured but no less firm. "Shinkyō's defense was weak once we figured them out. The real test will be when we face teams who can adapt and rotate on the fly."
Her gaze swept over the players before settling on Taro. "And you…you're good, but you're not untouchable. Don't forget that."
Taro tilted his head slightly, his calm expression unchanged. Rin continued, her tone sharpening as she addressed him directly.
Taro tilted his head slightly, his calm expression masking the unease creeping up inside him. Rin continued, her tone sharpening as she delivered her critique with the precision of a marksman.
"Other teams won't let you control the paint like that," Rin said, her voice steady, each word slicing through the air like a blade. "They'll force you to step out and shoot threes, and from what I've seen, you're not consistent enough out there yet."
Taro flinched internally, his eyes widening slightly. Arrow one, he thought, as if he could see it sinking into his chest, accompanied by a sharp, invisible thud. A faint bead of sweat slid down his temple. That's not wrong... but ouch.
"Or they'll try to tire you out," Rin continued, her gaze sharp and relentless, like a general issuing orders. "You're slower than most players, and if they start running the floor in transition, they'll make you a liability."
Taro physically leaned back a fraction, as if he'd been struck by an actual blow. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, and a nervous laugh bubbled up in his throat before he swallowed it down. Arrow two, he thought, imagining it joining the first with a harsh impact. That... that hurt.
"And your vertical jump isn't great," Rin said, delivering the final blow without hesitation. Her tone was almost clinical, as if she were diagnosing his weaknesses. "The right player could jump over you to contest shots or passes if they time it right."
Taro's heart sank, and in his mind's eye, the third arrow struck home with devastating precision, complete with the sound effect of a critical hit. His face twitched slightly, his jaw tightening as he struggled to keep his composure. Arrow three, he thought, hearing a dramatic echo of her words in his mind. Is this a critique or a finishing move?!
The team fell silent, the weight of Rin's words settling over them like a storm cloud. Each sentence landed with surgical precision, her critique cutting through the air like a finely honed blade. There was no malice in her tone, only cold, calculated honesty, but that only made the impact sharper. It felt less like preparation and more like an unavoidable boss fight, each point a perfectly executed combo attack.
Taro's eyes darted to his teammates, their expressions a mix of shock and quiet understanding. She's not wrong, he thought, the sting of her words still reverberating in his chest. But does she have to say it like that?!
The faint sound of a dramatic gust of wind only present in his imagination wept through the court as the critique hung in the air, heavy and unrelenting. Brutal, Taro thought, clenching his fists. But that's what makes it true.
Coach Hurley smirked, stepping forward with a deliberate calm that made the players instinctively straighten up. His sharp eyes locked onto Taro, and his voice cut through the gym like a blade. "She's right," he said, gesturing casually toward Rin. "You've got holes in your game. Fix them before someone else does it for you."
He took a step closer, his tone dropping slightly, carrying an edge of quiet menace. "And about that timeout stunt, don't do it again." Hurley's smirk sharpened, but his eyes stayed cold. "You want a timeout? You tell me. You give me a signal. Hell, I'll take interpretive dance if that's your thing. But don't you dare go calling one without my say-so again. You understand?"
Taro nodded, his expression steady, though the weight of the warning hung heavy in the air. "Yes, Coach."
Hurley's smirk lingered as he straightened, his hands slipping into his pockets. "Good. Now get out of here before I change my mind and make you run suicide all night."
The team exchanged uneasy glances, half-amused and half-intimidated, before scurrying to grab their things. Hurley watched them go, his smirk softening as he muttered under his breath, "Kids these days…"
Taro slung his bag over his shoulder, walking toward the exit with an even stride. Rin fell into step beside him, clipboard still in hand. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the faint sound of the team's chatter filling the air behind them.
"You did good today," Rin said finally, her tone even and matter-of-fact. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "But don't let it get to your head. You've got a lot to work on."
Taro nodded. "I know."
They walked in silence for a few more steps before Rin hesitated, tapping her clipboard lightly against her thigh. "Look," she started, her voice softer but still direct. "I'm not saying you're bad or anything. You played well. Really well. It's just… you've got to work on those weaknesses if we're going to win."
Taro glanced at her, his calm expression steady. "I'll work on it," he said simply.
"Good." Rin nodded once, her gaze forward. "Just… make sure you do!" she added sharply as she stepped ahead to rejoin the team.