After training with my seniors for a few months, I finally got used to how they played.
It became part of me already—knowing when to pass, how strong to move my wrist for each teammate, where they would go before they even called for it.
Their movements, their screens, their timing… all of it matched my rhythm now.
When our first game came, Coach chose me as the starting point guard, even though I was the youngest.
That game… I'll never forget it.
"Please, pass the ball, Osaka!!" a player cried out, legs wobbling beneath him as sweat dripped from his chin onto the wooden court.
"Here! Hurry, take the shot!" Osaka's voice came out sharp, his pass rushed and unsteady.
Makoto's eyes stayed sharp, his steps light as he cut in and snatched the ball before the exhausted player could touch it.
He turned on his heel, pulling the ball close to his chest, and burst toward the rim.
The hard scrape of his shoes echoed across the polished floor, the sound bouncing through the half-silent gym.
"No way I'll let you score," Osaka's voice came low and rough as he pushed off the floor, the sound of his breath harsh behind Makoto.
Makoto pulled him in, waited for that single heartbeat, then sent the ball out.
Takumi caught it mid-air, his body rising smoothly as the white lights glimmered over his arms.
The slam rang out through the court, the backboard trembling under the impact.
"This score… it's the worst I've ever seen, and it's only the second quarter," a teacher whispered, his voice low as he leaned forward on the bleachers, eyes fixed on the scoreboard.
"I can't watch anymore… this is just too sad." A girl's voice came out small as she lowered her head, her fingers pressed over her face.
Coach Izanagi… that man is ruthless, a man watching the match thought, eyes following the movement on the court. But he's also a genius. Most of his time must have went into shaping those defensive traps and rotations. He wants complete control of the game.
The man's gaze lowered to the boy wearing number thirteen—Makoto. That kid… he thought, his expression tightening slightly.
Still, this kind of system will only hurt them later. They won't learn to think for themselves and take their skills to the next level. He knows it too… but he keeps pushing them this way.
"Damn it… the score's seventy-two to twelve." Osaka's voice came low, his eyes dull as he stared up at the board.
His fists tightened, shoulders trembling slightly before he straightened his back. "We can't lose like this."
Makoto intercepted another pass, his body turning smoothly before finishing the drive with a quick layup.
Osaka grabbed the ball and threw it in to a teammate, who dribbled twice before stopping short as Makoto slid into his path.
The teammate's breath hitched, and in panic, he pushed the ball away.
Takumi leapt forward, catching it clean before it could touch the floor.
He broke through the defenders, his steps sharp and steady.
As he lifted toward the rim, Osaka jumped to block him.
Takumi twisted in the air, his eyes locking on Daichi.
The ball left his hand in one fast pass.
Daichi stopped at the line, brought up his arms, and released.
The ball spun tight through the air and dropped through the net without touching the rim.
Play after play, Musashi took control.
Makoto caught another loose pass and pushed it to Basara, who laid it in without slowing.
On the next possession, Basara slipped in behind Osaka and stripped the ball clean, sending it right back to Takumi.
Takumi rose high, both hands gripping firm as he drove the dunk through.
The numbers on the scoreboard kept rising, and by halfway through the fourth quarter, the other team had no choice but to forfeit.
The final score showed 107 to 20.
After that game, my name started to spread.
I was the youngest starter, the point guard known for reading the court fast.
Reporters began calling me the future of Japanese basketball.
My average was ten steals, thirteen point four assists, and ten points each game.
That was when Takumi and I were called the "Killer Duo."
Our faces started showing up everywhere—magazines, sports sites, even interviews.
But not everyone was celebrating.
Even then, I didn't notice how Hidesuke was feeling about it all. Maybe it was jealousy. Or maybe something worse.
Before I knew it, we had made it to the quarterfinals.
Our opponents were strong—two standout players led their team.
One was Yukio Hamaguchi, now the captain of Toshigawa Academy's basketball team.
The other was Kogure Kobayashi, a pure scorer who could rack up points before you even realized it.
They dominated us—plain and simple.
Even so, we didn't give up.
We fought until the very end, and the final score was 76 to 58.
Kogure alone dropped forty-three points on us.
We lost that day... but somehow, it didn't feel like defeat.
We'd earned something else—respect.
After the game, Yukio walked over, a towel slung around his neck, his shoulders rising and falling with each breath.
A thin sheen of sweat still clung to his arms.
The sharp, clean scent of his deodorant mixed faintly with the musk of the gym.
"Hey kid, what's your name?"
Makoto hesitated for a second.
His hands were still resting on his knees, breath just beginning to settle.
He straightened up, eyes meeting Yukio's.
"…Makoto Kurai."
"You're a really good player." Yukio's voice carried across the court, steady but rough from the match.
He straightened his posture, sweat still running down his neck.
"When you get older and graduate, why don't you come to Toshigawa Academy? I'll be there next spring. We can play basketball together."
Makoto adjusted his arm sleeves, the fabric clinging faintly to his skin.
His breathing was uneven, heart still beating fast from the game. That sounds nice. Maybe I'll think about it.
"Good. Then it's a promise."
A short laugh escaped Yukio as he wiped his face with the towel, his half-smile still showing.
"Make sure you study hard—it's not an easy school to enter."
He turned toward his bench, shoes squeaking softly on the polished floor as he walked away.
Yukio and Kogure went on to win the championship.
Kogure was later named the tournament's MVP.
Later that week, Makoto stepped into Coach Izanagi's office.
His shoes made soft taps on the floor as he entered, the air inside still and heavy with the scent of whiteboard markers and old sweat.
The faint hum of a flickering fluorescent light buzzed overhead.
"Coach Izanagi." Makoto's voice came low as he stepped forward.
Coach looked up from his clipboard, brow tight as he focused on the player in front of him.
His jaw clenched briefly before relaxing. "Come in, Makoto. What is it?"
"For the Junior Under Fifteen Winter Cup matches coming up... I was wondering if we could change our formation."
Makoto's voice stayed calm as he looked toward the coach.
Coach's brows lifted slightly, his pen stopping mid-circle.
He pressed the inside of his cheek, hesitation flickering in his eyes.
"What are you trying to say? My tactics are not good enough to win these teams?"
Makoto straightened his back, keeping his gaze steady.
"It is not like that, Coach. I only want to make sure we can win all our games. A good seeding for next season begins from now."
The chair creaked as Coach leaned back.
He rolled the pen slowly against his palm, eyes lowering toward the floor.
"I see... Maybe you have a point. We will face teams who already lost in the Cup. Half-court defense after quarterfinal... maybe not bad. I will think about it."
Even though his words carried agreement, silence stretched in the space between them.
It was not said aloud, but Makoto could feel it—his reservation, his doubt.
There was still a wall between them, one not yet crossed.
Especially while his own son remained on the roster.
The team breezed through the early rounds of the Winter Cup, riding the momentum and discipline of the new strategy.
Bodies moved like clockwork, spacing clean, defensive traps landing where they needed to.
By the time they reached the finals, Coach Izanagi gathered the team in the locker room, his voice cutting through the low hum of sneakers squeaking and water bottles being passed around.
"Thanks to Makoto's good idea, we have won our quarter and semi-final matches."
Coach Izanagi's voice carried firmly across the locker room.
"Today, we play against Shoyo Junior High. They lost to the champions, but they are still a strong team. We will use Makoto's defensive plan again. Let us secure our seeding."
Across the room, Hidesuke folded his arms tight against his chest, his expression already set in frustration.
His jaw moved once, a faint sneer forming as his eyes narrowed.
"But Coach, why we must use this kid's idea in the finals? If we lose, it will be because of him."
"Yeah, he is right." Daichi rolled the towel slowly between his hands, leaning forward a little.
His smile looked relaxed, but there was a faint light in his eyes—steady, sharp, and watching.
"Sometimes keeping to the old way feels safer, does it not? No need to shake the boat at the most important moment."
Coach's jaw tightened.
His gaze moved slowly across the team before settling on Makoto, then flicking away.
His fingers clenched into fists for a moment, then relaxed.
"Makoto and Takumi are the reason we're here. I don't want to hear any more excuses. Go out there and do as I say."
Without waiting for a response, Hidesuke turned and walked out, the soles of his shoes tapping hard against the locker room floor.
A Shoyo player slipped past the perimeter and laid the ball in off the glass.
The scoreboard beeped.
Musashi Junior High 64, Shoyo Junior High 67.
Their bench erupted with cheers and claps.
Makoto snatched the ball off the baseline, the rough texture pressing into his palms.
His heart thundered, breath sharp and quick.
Sweat stung his eyes.
He fired it quickly to Takumi.
Takumi caught it mid-stride, sneakers skimming the court, then sliced through the defense and scored a layup.
66 to 67.
He wiped his palms on his shorts and scanned the court.
"Come on, guys, concentrate. Let's stop this one," Makoto said, voice hoarse and low.
Shoyo's shooter pulled up beyond the arc and fired a three-pointer.
The ball struck the rim hard and bounced off once.
Every player's eyes tracked the ball.
Hidesuke boxed out fiercely, grabbing the rebound and landing hard on the court.
Their bench leapt to their feet.
"Great, now pass me the ball so that we can run the play, Captain!" Makoto called, stepping into position.
Hidesuke met Makoto's gaze, lips curling into a smirk that didn't reach his eyes—cold, calculating.
His fingers twitched briefly on the ball, then he pushed it to the floor and sprinted forward, dribbling fast, pounding like a drumbeat.
He split two defenders.
Makoto took a step forward, shouting, "Hidesuke! Stop!"
Hidesuke ignored him.
He planted his foot near the right block and leapt for a layup.
A Shoyo defender met him midair and swatted the ball away.
The ball ricocheted off the backboard and was scooped up by their point guard, who dashed up the court and pulled up for a mid-range shot.
The ball left his hands cleanly and sank through the net as the buzzer echoed.
66 to 69.
The gym filled with roaring cheers from the opposing side.
Their bench spilled onto the court.
Makoto stood frozen for a moment, chest heaving, breath hitching as a cold fire flickered behind his eyes.
Then he spun and stormed through the tunnel.
The distant roar still ringing in his ears, he pushed open the door to the hallway outside the locker rooms and shoved Hidesuke hard, pinning him against the wall.
The sharp crack echoed down the corridor.
"Hidesuke, you idiot! You cost us this whole game! What the hell is wrong with you? Why didn't you pass the ball?" Makoto spat, voice thick with hurt and fury.
Hidesuke did not move.
His eyes shone coldly, voice steady as his lips curved into a thin, mean smile.
"There is no way I will let you have the last laugh, you arrogant kid. If we had won that match, my father would make you look like something special. I did not want that. That is the reason."
Makoto's arms trembled, breath catching, a storm of anger and pain coiling tight in his chest.
He turned sharply toward Coach Izanagi, who appeared just then at the corner.
The coach's eyes flickered with conflicted emotion—jaw clenched, fists tight at his sides, clipboard bending slightly under the pressure.
The silence stretched long.
Finally, Coach Izanagi exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw tight.
"I don't want to hear it. You disappointed me today. They were right. I shouldn't have let an inexperienced player like you take charge of this team. This lost...was on me."
From behind, Daichi's laugh cut through the tension—light, almost friendly—but with an edge beneath.
"Everyone, take your things. We are leaving now."
Coach Izanagi's voice cut through the tension as he turned toward the door, the sound of his shoes against the tile echoing faintly as he walked out of the locker room.
"What's wrong? Coach didn't give you the answer you were expecting?" Daichi said, stepping into the locker room with a calm, reassuring smile.
His eyes flicked briefly toward Makoto, calculating.
"Don't forget that Hidesuke is his son," Daichi added with a shrug, voice smooth. "No matter what you say, you'd still be in the wrong."
Makoto stepped back, arms trembling—not from fatigue, but from cold fury and hurt.
The grip in his fingers loosened.
"Screw this. I am done here. I will not waste my time on this anymore. I am quitting for good."
Makoto's voice trembled, but the weight behind it did not falter.
His hand tightened around his bag strap before he turned toward the exit.
"Go ahead and leave!" Hidesuke's voice rang out across the locker room, sharp and loud.
"We do not need you anymore, useless point guard!"
His words carried an edge that lingered even after Makoto's footsteps faded down the hall.