The Frank Michaels Youth Program gym hummed, thick with the scent of rubber and sweat. Basketballs slapped, sneakers shrieked, and coaches' whistles cut through the din. Kenji moved through his drills, footwork precise, passes crisp. He saw Ethan's defensive efficiency sharpening, Big Mo's powerful presence becoming more refined. Kenji had also grown more attuned to the nuances of Naseru's play, his inherent focus, his intricate movements. Naseru's game relied on precise anticipation, reacting a fraction of a second faster, a delicate dance of timing and calculated risk.
On the main court, bodies moved with urgent purpose. Sweat darkened jerseys. The scoreboard flickered above: "Slate - 10, Blue - 8." Slate's unit: Kenji, Naseru, Maurice "Big Mo" Williams, Eli Park, and Santi Orozco. Blue's starting five: Rico Mendez, Caleb Hart, Rhea Dalton, Kojo Mensah, and Dax Hollowell. Coach Varga's voice boomed: "Two losses, you're out. Remember that."
Naseru drove baseline, Dax Hollowell sealing him off. Naseru opted for the cross-court whip to Eli, but the pass flew a hair wide. Caleb Hart intercepted. Naseru's eyes, usually a laser, flickered for a fraction of a second. Too fast. I was off. He recovered, but the ball was out of his hands. Big Mo, crashing the boards, secured the defensive rebound off Rico Mendez's contested layup and roared.
From his usual bench spot, Jason Anderson sat, a laptop closed beside him. His posture was still. His eyes, however, tracked Naseru's movement, then Big Mo's, then the flow of the entire play. Kenji caught the movement. A cold feeling settled in his gut. He knew that stillness. He's dissecting. Jason watched Naseru, noting the almost imperceptible pause, the subtle, unconscious lean. There it is. The tell.
A moment later, Jason shifted. He set his notebook on the bench with deliberate care and stood. He walked towards the scorer's table without a word, pulling a Blue jersey over his long frame. Kenji's jaw tightened. He knew that measured stride.
The scrimmage halted. Players looked around. Jason rarely entered live games. He didn't stroll; he moved with an unnerving precision.
"What's going on, Jason?" a startled assistant coach called out.
Jason didn't reply. His gaze swept across Naseru and Big Mo before settling on the assistant. He tapped the scorer's table. "Substitution. I'm in. Point." His voice was flat.
The assistant coach, confused but responding to the unyielding demand, pointed to Rico Mendez from the Blue unit. "Blue ball. Rico, off."
Jason stepped onto the court. He bit the inside of his cheek, a familiar habit Kenji knew, and took the inbound from Caleb Hart.
"My slot," Jason said to Caleb. His eyes scanned the Slate unit. "Dax, short roll. Caleb, flare."
Rico, already jogging to the bench, gave a terse nod. Caleb and Dax shifted into position.
On the other side of the dividing line, Kenji's Slate unit huddled instinctively. Kenji caught Naseru's eyes and nodded once.
"Clear a side, Nas," Kenji said, his voice low, steady. "Let him work."
Eli clapped his hands. "Wing's yours, Nas. Go at him."
Santi thumped his chest. "We got your back, man. Hit him."
Jason held the ball at his hip, the soft leather barely leaving his palm. His eyes were not on the ball, but on Naseru's hips.
"You dip before you go. Point-three," Jason spoke, his voice quiet, conversational, as he drove forward. He's reacting to the body. Not the ball.
Naseru's jaw set. His posture tightened, ready to counter. Let's see.
Jason, lights of the gym reflecting in his eyes, lightly tossed the ball out forward. Naseru coiled, gauging whether to lunge. In that last fraction of a second, with a barely perceptible flick of his wrist and a shift of his body that seemed to open an invisible window Naseru hadn't anticipated, Jason was past him. The ball zipped past Naseru's outstretched hand, not through a wide gap, but around a blind spot in Naseru's customary timing. One long, fluid step, an inside-hand layup off the glass before Dax Hollowell could even shift. The net swished. Blue - 12.
Jason backpedaled, raising a single finger without looking back. "Window one."
"Again!" Santi yelled, a mix of awe and frustration. "Give him air—he wants it!"
"Flatten!" Eli barked, urging the team to trust Naseru. "Live with it! Take him!"
Naseru took the inbound, the bounce tight, three inches off the floor. No wasted movement. A short jab-step, then he went—shoulder tight, feet precise, generating the half-step of separation he lived on. Not that one. The counter.
The hand flashed. Not a swipe, but a precise, surgical cut. It arrived across his dribble pocket the exact instant the ball left Naseru's palm. Pop—clean.
"Hip!" Kenji warned, already moving to cover. "Stay attached!"
He didn't explode to the rim. Instead, he skipped, dragging Kenji's angle past the lane, then floated a two-foot push shot off his wrong foot over Kojo Mensah's desperate swipe. The scoreboard clicked. Blue - 14.
Caleb, a wide grin spreading across his face, laughed aloud. "Talk to us, then!"
Jason held eye contact with Naseru from across the court. He bit the inside of his cheek. "Next. Ghost. Rhea, lift." He subtly gestured for his teammates to adjust. The counter will be faster. But the setup is the same.
Blue ran a ghost action. Caleb faked a screen, then sprinted to the corner. Kojo hovered at the elbow. Jason rejected the screen, slid into space, then executed a left-to-right stepback from well beyond the arc—a distance few would attempt with Big Mo in the paint. Mo read the recoil, reacting to the space, and lunged out to peel, his massive frame moving with speed.
"AHHHH!" Mo roared, already airborne, his massive hand high. He stretched his arm to its limit.
But the ball was already in its arc. Net. Blue - 17.
Jason landed softly. "Why play your strength? Paint's your eighty-six. This isn't." His voice was low, matter-of-fact. His gaze swept over Mo. Mass is fixed. The variables are fluid.
"Make him pass!" Mo roared, frustration boiling over as he pounded the floor.
"Force it out," Kenji said, his voice strained but steady.
"Spain," Jason called out. "Caleb back screen. Kojo roll. Rhea, fill to top."
"Backscreen!" Kenji snapped, recognition dawning. "Talk it! Talk that backscreen!"
Too late. Caleb clipped Mo's thigh at the exact moment Mo had dropped to the rim to prepare for a lob. Jason froze his hang dribble, feigned the lob, then zipped a one-hand dart to Kojo popping the nail. Mo, caught off balance, lurched. Kojo swung to Rhea filling to the top. Catch. Raise. Nylon. Blue - 20.
"Again!" Mo grunted, fury etched on his face. "Again!"
Naseru stood still for a moment breathing out, his jaw tight, eyes narrowed. The scoreboard was a stark display of Jason's precise dissection. Kenji saw the flicker in Naseru's eyes, the subtle stiffening. Eli and Santi thumped Naseru's chest, offering encouragement, but Kenji knew. This specific challenge had been met. It was time for a different approach.
Kenji walked up to Naseru, placing a hand on his shoulder. "My turn, Nas. Let me handle this." Naseru nodded, his gaze still fixed on Jason. Kenji took his spot, pointing Naseru to the wing.
Jason's eyes, usually flat, showed a flicker of interest. Big brother. Expected.
Kenji took the inbound. He dribbled slowly, deliberately, meeting Jason's gaze.
"Alright, Jase," Kenji said, his voice calm, but with an underlying steel. "Let's see if you can solve this."
Jason bit the inside of his cheek. "The parameters change."
Kenji orchestrated the court, directing Eli and Santi with subtle glances, keeping the ball moving. Jason stayed tight on him, pressing, trying to funnel Kenji into the same predictable situations. Kenji read Jason's over-commitment on a double-dribble step and hit Mo on a backdoor cut. Mo finished with a thunderous two-handed dunk.
"SLAM-DAMN!" Mo roared, the backboard shaking. Slate - 12.
"That's it, Mo!" Eli cheered.
"Gotta feed the big man right!" Caleb Hart yelled, a grin on his face. "Still gotta beat us, though!"
Kenji met Jason's gaze. He simply raised an eyebrow.
Seventh Possession: Kenji Restores Balance – More Feeds
Kenji brought the ball up again, this time initiating a tight pick-and-roll with Big Mo. Jason hedged hard, trying to force Kenji wide, knowing Mo's bulk. Kenji spun, hitting Mo with a crisp pocket pass down the lane. Mo took one power dribble, rose, throwing down a powerful one-handed dunk over Dax Hollowell, who barely moved in time.
"Slam-damn, again!" Mo yelled, hitting his chest. Slate - 14.
"And one, big man!" Santi yelled.
The rhythm of Slate's offense began to find its flow again, less about individual duels, more about collective movement. Kenji's voice was clear, directing, calming. The tension in the gym shifted. The game felt less like an execution, more like a contest.
The scoreboard clicked. Slate - 15. Jason watched. He saw Kenji direct Eli to a flare. He saw Santi setting a cross-screen for Mo. He saw the precise passing. Kenji's subtle re-alignment of Slate, the small adjustments countering his earlier observations. The game was no longer a precise, isolated dissection.
He dribbled to the sideline without taking another shot, without making another move. He held the ball out to Rico Mendez, who had just subbed back in.
"Objective complete," Jason stated, his voice flat.
Rico, surprised, took the ball.
Jason walked off the court, not to the bench, but straight towards the gym exit, pulling his jersey over his head.
The Aftermath
The scoreboard clicked. An assistant raised his clipboard beside the court. "Scrimmage over! Final score, Slate 35, Blue 20."
Jason walked straight toward Kenji's Slate huddle. He ignored the scattered high-fives and shouts from his own unit.
"Stop giving him lanes," he said to Mo, his gaze unwavering. "Be the low man. Be low." He can be taught. He just needs to be shown, precisely.
Mo's nostrils flared; Santi and Eli held him back.
Jason then pointed to the top of his own left thigh. "This twitches before you go. Fix it." The flaw is obvious once isolated. Now, the adaptation.
Kenji stepped between them, palms up, not touching anyone. "That's enough, Jason. It's over."
Jason bit the inside of his cheek. "For now. Next time, Kenji, I'll break the structure. The player doesn't matter." His voice held a dispassionate certainty. He needs to understand the depth of it. The deeper game.
From the sideline, Ethan Eldridge's voice cut clean through the buzzing aftermath, stark against the silence Jason had created for Slate.
"Were you waiting the whole entire time for Nas to be weak enough for you to go after him?"
Jason shifted his gaze to Ethan. The answer was a flat, unyielding verdict.
"I was waiting for the window," he said. "Weakness was your word. Timing was mine." Always timing. Always the window. The precise opportunity.
He turned from Ethan and walked towards the gym exit. As he passed Naseru, he paused, his voice barely a whisper, a cold breath against Naseru's ear.
"Two losses closer to nowhere, Nas."
Naseru's eyes widened, a tremor running through him. His face remained still. He nodded once, a single, measured beat, his eyes still fixed on the floor. Every twitch, every tell, each false window—he'd replay them. His mind was already re-tuning the metronome. He mentally replayed Jason's whisper. Two losses closer to nowhere, Nas. The words echoed, a chilling promise.
Kenji watched the back of his brother's head as he disappeared through the gym doors. A cold dread settled in, sharp and familiar.