After unlocking the Eurostep, Cory Grant knew it wouldn't be long before his scoring reached a new level. Most importantly, the move itself gave him a highly efficient way to strengthen his related attributes.
After a short rest, Cory went back onto the court to practice. Step by step, sway by sway, he repeated the Eurostep sequence—feet, torso, layup—until his muscles began to memorize it.
Each attempt, he adjusted pace and rhythm, searching for the flow that best suited him. Soon, his side-to-side steps glided smoother, almost visibly sharper with every repetition.
By the time team training wrapped up, Cory's system pinged in his head:
[Eurostep – LV1 → LV2]
[Explosive Power: 58 → 60]
[Flexibility: 75 → 76]
[Layups: 75 → 76]
He grinned. "Four attributes at once. Perfect."
The leap in explosive power boosted the most—mainly because that stat had been on the lower side. He could feel his entire body evolving again.
"Well done, Cory," Coach Anderson finally commented aloud. "Your learning ability… I've rarely seen anything like it."
Though he praised him, Cory knew the truth. In Anderson's heart, he still placed more value on future stars like Harvey Sakurai and Lucas Rivers—the rough talents seen later in the storyline. Cory's work ethic impressed him, yes, but it would never outweigh "pure talent" in Anderson's eyes.
After dismissing practice, Anderson signaled for everyone to line up. Daniel Irving called the team to neat formation.
"Training's over. Make sure to rest properly tonight—dismissed!"
The players began tidying the gym, returning balls, and mopping the floor.
"Coach!" Cory called out just as Anderson was about to leave.
Anderson turned, puzzled. "What is it, Cory?"
Cory drew a deep breath. "Coach, could you please visit Mitch Harris at the hospital?"
He had thought hard about this. Coach Anderson was the person Mitch respected most. If Mitch saw him visit, it might soothe his restless spirit and anchor him through recovery.
Anderson froze. For a moment, the habitual indifference flashed. But then, with a quiet sigh, he nodded. "Very well. We'll go."
Relief washed through Cory. Good. Once Mitch feels the coach's support, he won't make reckless choices again.
So Cory, Charles Ackerman, Daniel Irving, and three of the Takeishi players set off with Coach Anderson to visit Mitch.
Along the way, Cory shared low-post theory with Charles. "Don't rely only on brute strength. Use spins. Use fakes. Work angles on your footwork so defenders can't predict you. Create confusion, then attack."
Charles's eyes widened while Anderson, amused, added in a few professional tips of his own. The combination left Charles brimming with fresh ideas.
At the hospital, Mitch Harris lay sprawled on his bed, idly staring up at the ceiling, boredom steeping in his expression.
Knock knock.
"Come in," he sighed, expecting a nurse.
The door swung open—and Coach Anderson stepped in first.
"Coach!" Mitch bolted upright, eyes bright for the first time in weeks.
"Mitch," Anderson said gently, concern rare in his voice. "How are you feeling?"
"Better," Mitch admitted, almost boyishly excited. Then, hesitating, his restless side slipped out: "Coach… can I be discharged early?"
Cory groaned internally. There he goes again.
Anderson's stern gaze cut sharp. "Absolutely not. Injuries are no joke. Even NBA legends retire early for that mistake. Ever heard of Larry Bird?"
The room stilled.
Anderson explained, "1988. Bird injured his back doing heavy yard work for his grandmother. By the time he came back from surgery, he was never the same. Even greatness can be ruined by ignoring an injury. Don't make that mistake."
Mitch lowered his head, chastened. "…I'll follow the doctor's orders, Coach."
Anderson's expression softened into a smile. "Good."
Then it was the teammates' turn. Each had brought something.
"Mitch, here's the newest basketball magazine—to keep you sharp."
"Here's Weekly Shonen Jump, so you won't be bored."
"This is Izumi Sakai's debut CD—Hold Me. Thought you'd like it."
Mitch's eyes misted. "Everyone…"
And then, suddenly—Nick Okamoto grinned and slid something out of the bag. "And this… your favorite Playboy."
The ward erupted.
Mitch flushed scarlet. "W-what?! I'm not—don't talk nonsense!"
"Then why're you red as a tomato?" Nick teased mercilessly. "Come on, admit it."
"Idiot! That's slander!" Mitch barked, voice cracking.
The entire group broke into laughter—even Mitch finally cracked into a sheepish grin he hadn't shown in weeks. The tension in the air dissolved completely.
Eventually, Anderson stood, signaling it was time. "Mitch… it's late. Stay here and recover well. We'll wait for you to come back strong."
His words landed warmly, filling Mitch with emotion. He nodded hard. "Yes, Coach! I promise I'll take recovery seriously."
Anderson chuckled his trademark laugh and headed for the exit.
As they left, Cory turned back with a smile. "Mitch, get well soon. We'll visit you again."
Mitch's throat tightened as he whispered, "Thanks, Cory."
For the first time, the anxiety clouding his heart finally cleared.