The immediate aftermath of Jason's on-court demonstration left an unspoken ripple through the Frank Michaels Youth Program. Scrimmages resumed, but the easy rhythm had fractured. Players moved differently, heads turning at unexpected moments, glances darting towards the analytical figure on the bench. Naseru, especially, carried the shift. He moved through the remaining drills with his usual precision, but a subtle change had settled over him. His steps, while still accurate, lacked the almost fluid naturalness they typically possessed. He seemed to hold himself with a fraction more tension.
Jason had caught Naseru off guard and had defeated him. Over the next few days, Naseru was rarely seen during the short breaks between drills. He found the quieter corners of the gym or the distant, less-trafficked courts. He carried a small, worn notebook, its pages filled with intricate, almost geometric patterns that, to an outside observer, bore no resemblance to anything on a basketball court. Yet, his gaze would drift from the lines on the page to the faint arcs of the basketball hoops, then back again. When players joked or called out to him, his responses were polite, brief, his posture already turning away, seeking solitude again.
Kenji watched him. He had seen the subtle stiffening in Naseru's shoulders, the way his eyes seemed to lose their sharp focus on the ball for a split second after Jason's plays. He'd seen how Naseru now gravitated to the edges, a deliberate disconnection from the team's casual camaraderie. It wasn't frustration, Kenji recognized, but something else—a deep absorption, a turning inward.
The following evening, after the last of the coaches had departed and most players had scattered to the dinner hall or their dorms, Kenji found Naseru alone on Court 3. The large windows overlooking the court were dark squares against the fading light, reflecting the single strip of fluorescent lighting that hummed overhead. The vast space, usually echoing with shouts and whistles, was now filled only with the faint, rhythmic thud of a distant basketball—likely Big Mo still practicing free throws on another court.
Twelve years old and too small for his uniform, Naseru sat alone by the wall, knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped around them like a makeshift shield. His eyes weren't on the court; they were on the horizon beyond the chain-link fence, where the wind tousled the trees and the sky felt just out of reach.
Kenji approached, casually dribbling a ball. The sound bounced like a heartbeat in the quiet space, steady and patient. He let the ball settle under his palm, then spoke, his voice light, not unkind.
"You always sit this one out?"
No answer from Naseru. His posture remained unchanged, his gaze fixed on the fading light outside.
Kenji moved closer, dropping onto the court a few feet away. "What's your story?"
The words hung in the air, brushing against something raw. Naseru flinched inside, a slight tightening around his jaw, but his face gave nothing away. His gaze stayed fixed on the trees, mouth closed. He didn't want to answer. Not to someone like Kenji. Not to anyone.
But then the wind shifted—soft, almost gentle. It tugged at the edges of his sleeves, swept dust in little whorls across the court.
And in that moment, something released itself within Naseru.
He looked up.
Not in challenge.
Not in hope.
But with a rare kind of honesty children carry before the world teaches them to lie.
"My parents didn't want me."
The words floated out, stripped of drama, hollowed out by their truth.
Kenji didn't flinch. He didn't offer a sympathetic sound, or any of the usual comforting phrases. He simply crouched so they were eye-level, the distant sound of the basketball fading into background noise.
Naseru's hands tightened around his knees, his knuckles white against the fabric of his uniform. "If I lose one more game, I won't have anywhere to go. I... won't have anywhere to go..." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper, each word carrying the weight of sleepless nights. "And I don't like basketball. I don't want to disappoint Mr. Michaels."
The confessions hung between them—raw, desperate. The weight of conditional belonging pressing down on a twelve-year-old's shoulders, the cruel irony of excelling at something that brought him no joy because it was his only lifeline.
"I used to tell people my dad died," Kenji said, voice low, steady. "That he was in the SDF. But he left. I was a baby. He left when I was 5. And I hated myself for still caring."
Naseru's eyes flickered. Just a crack. But Kenji saw it.
"You're not alone in that kind of pain," Kenji continued. "And if you stick with this program... with me... I won't promise to fix anything. But I'll be here. Every game, every practice."
He stood, held out a hand.
"I don't care where you came from, Naseru. I care about where you're going."
Naseru looked at the hand. His fingers twitched. Hesitation clung to him like shadow—the fear of another disappointment, another person who might leave.
Then, slowly, he reached out.
Their hands met—awkward, unsure, but real.
The wind swept over them again, warmer this time. The kind of breeze that whispered of change, of spring breaking through winter.
Kenji didn't rush to fill the silence. He simply nodded, like he was tucking the words somewhere safe inside him. "You don't have to play," Kenji said after a moment. "But if you ever feel like it… you don't have to play alone either."
He walked back to the court, picking up the ball and resuming a soft, rhythmic dribble. The quiet hum of the gym resumed. Naseru sat still, the wind rustling through the trees again. For the first time, he watched. Not the game, but Kenji. Something small shifted inside him—just a degree. The weight on his shoulders hadn't disappeared, but perhaps it had found someone willing to help carry it.
And somewhere, watching from the small, elevated office, Frank Michaels let out a long breath. He lowered the binoculars he hadn't meant to bring to work that late, and scribbled something terse and decisive in his worn notebook. Then, he simply watched the court for a few more moments, the faint outline of the two boys visible through the large, darkened windows. He folded his hands, a quiet satisfaction settling over his stern features. The foundation, he knew, was starting to form.