"Continue!"
Daniel Irving passed the ball to Cory Grant.
Outside the three-point line, Cory tested with a small step, then burst into a cross step. He changed pace sharply—hesitate, sway, stop—his rhythm tricking Daniel into shifting his weight.
Cory instantly seized the gap and blew past him.
Daniel reacted, planting hard to chase, but Cory froze—abrupt stop, shoes screeching on the floor.
Daniel braced for it this time, forcing himself to match Cory's halt. But the moment he checked himself, Cory restarted explosively. By the time Daniel lunged again, Cory was in the paint for an easy layup.
"Cory, you're good," Daniel admitted, exhaling with respect. He wasn't bitter—he liked seeing his teammates grow stronger.
Next possession, Daniel returned fire. Backing Cory down hard, he used his physical advantage. At under 130 pounds, Cory had no chance against his captain's size. Daniel bodied him deep into the paint and spun for a turnaround jumper—only to clang it. He hadn't mastered that move yet, but the pressure left Cory gasping.
Time passed. More Shohoku players filtered into the gym, quietly gathering at the sideline to watch the duel.
Back and forth the battle went—neither defending well, both trading buckets. They were evenly matched, though hardly elite. To the onlookers, it was entertaining.
Finally, Cory pulled a quick stop jumper that kissed backboard and dropped in—winning by a single point.
He froze in awkward silence.
Because Cory had planned to throw it—intentionally miss—so Daniel, the captain, could keep his pride. But the ball had bounced, rolled the rim, and fallen anyway.
Daniel stood at midcourt, disappointment flashing, then quickly replaced by a wry smile.
"Cory Grant," he said warmly. "You're stronger than I thought."
Cory raised his hands in protest. "It was just luck, Captain! If we played another one, you'd probably win."
They exchanged smiles, understanding unspoken.
From the bench, Charles Ackerman's eyes widened.
"Cory… after three years of struggling, you've finally improved!" His voice carried both admiration and pride.
He knew, better than anyone, how hard Cory had worked—day in, day out. And now, it was finally surfacing.
Yesterday, in the freshman match, Cory's performance had seemed average at best. Today, something was different—sharper, stronger.
Cory wiped sweat, replying, "Charles—I trained all day yesterday, got some extra advice, and picked up new techniques."
Charles blinked, realization dawning. "No wonder you weren't in class—I thought you were sick."
Cory nodded. "I promised Mitch I'd keep this team alive until he returned. That's why I took an official sick leave from classes—to train full-time."
Charles stared a moment in shock, then smiled resolutely. "...Cory, you amaze me. But I can't let you carry that promise alone. I swore to Mitch too. I'll apply for sick leave as well!"
Cory grinned. Whether Charles would convince his stricter parents was another matter. But the resolve in his teammate's eyes was fierce and real.
Their words energized everyone. The younger freshmen, especially those from Takeishi Junior High, burned with passion.
"Then I'll do it too!" shouted Nick Okamoto.
But his friend Kyle Yamamoto frowned. "Nick, don't forget—your grades are already weak. Can you even manage?"
Nick flinched, then grit his teeth. "Fine. If I can't take leave, I'll train twice as hard. Either way—we're not getting eliminated before Mitch comes back!"
"Yeah!" The gym echoed with fresh voices, freshmen united in determination.
The veterans, worn down by years of failure, found themselves swept up by the new blood's passion. Their slumped shoulders straightened again.
For the first time in months—Shohoku's gym felt alive.
Daniel watched with a relieved smile. Even if the team was still weak, morale was reborn.
"Alright," the captain barked. "Let's train! But remember—push yourselves wisely. Overwork leads nowhere."
They launched into drills: running laps, shuttle sprints, dribbling circuits, layup lines. Sweat soon fogged the gym.
Afterwards, Daniel announced free time. Cory didn't waste a second—he grabbed Justin Tanaka, another former Takeishi player, for focused work.
"Guard me," Cory said with a grin.
Justin dug in, while Cory worked on fusing his Crossover Step directly into his Pull-Up Jumper.
[Crossover Step: +2 Proficiency]
[Pull-Up Jump Shot: +2 Proficiency]
Executed together, they flowed like a single deadly attack. This combination, Cory realized, would be his primary scoring weapon.
Coach Anderson never showed. Daniel admitted quietly that their coach only came by every few days now, semi-retired, more a name than a leader. The school didn't mind—it hired him for prestige. But the players remained coachless in practice.
So, under the sunset glow pouring through the windows, Cory grinded on. His shirt soaked, legs heavy—but his bar nearly full.
"One more jumper… then it'll hit max."
He executed: Crossover, sharp stop, elevation. The shot banked off the glass—rolling, bouncing—then dropped through with a swish.
Cory exhaled, a smile breaking across his tired face.
Almost there. His second weapon was nearly mastered.