The halftime buzzer sounded with the Titans clinging to a narrow two-point lead. The locker room hummed with a new, unfamiliar energy. It wasn't the frantic panic of the Southside game or the sullen resentment of earlier practices. It was a focused intensity. They were following the system, but the machine now had a pulse.
Alex stood before them, but he didn't have his clipboard. He didn't need it.
"They're adjusting," he began. "In the first half, their center was dropping back on the pick-and-roll, giving us the mid-range jumper. That's why we shot fifty-two percent." He saw the players nodding, understanding. They were starting to see the game through his eyes. "Now, they're going to switch. They're going to try to create mismatches and disrupt our rhythm."
He walked over to the whiteboard, but instead of drawing Xs and Os, he drew a single, large "T."
"Top," he said, pointing to the left side of the T. "And Bottom." He pointed to the right. "This is all that matters now. When they switch, we have the advantage. Every time. Marcus, if their point guard switches onto you in the post, your probability of scoring is eighty-nine percent. It's a top-tier look."
Marcus's eyes lit up with a predatory gleam. He was being handed a license to hunt.
"Ben," Alex continued, turning to his center. "If their big man gets switched onto Diego or Samir on the perimeter, you have one job: seal your man. Create a path. The probability of a successful drive to the basket skyrockets. That's a bottom-tier foundation play. It's a ninety-four percent chance of a quality shot."
He looked at each of them, his gaze finally resting on Samir, who met his eyes with a new steadiness. "They think by switching, they're creating chaos. They're wrong. They're giving us a menu of high-percentage options. Our job is to simply read the menu and order. No heroics. Just execution."
As the team headed for the door, Alex stopped Marcus with a hand on his shoulder. "The post-up is the read. But if the double-team comes, the pass to the weak-side corner is the right play. It's a ninety-one percent look for a three. Understood?"
Marcus held his gaze, and for the first time, there was no rebellion, only calculation. "Ninety-one percent," he repeated, as if committing the number to memory. "Understood."
The second half was a revelation. Ridgeview came out exactly as Alex had predicted, aggressively switching on every screen. And the Titans feasted.
The first possession, Diego came off a screen, and a larger defender switched onto him. Diego didn't force a shot. He didn't over-dribble. He saw Marcus, who had instantly recognized the mismatch and planted himself in the low post. The pass was crisp. Marcus caught it, took one power dribble, and scored over the smaller defender with ease.
89%. Result: Score.
On defense, they were just as disciplined. Alex called out the plays before they developed. "Weak-side flare! Sixty percent chance!" Samir would cheat that direction, and sure enough, the pass would come, and he'd be there to deflect it or force a difficult shot.
They were no longer just a team running plays. They were a single organism, connected by an invisible network of probabilities and trust. Alex called the numbers, and they moved with a synchronized purpose that was beautiful in its efficiency.
With five minutes left, they had built a twelve-point lead. The Ridgeview coach, flustered, called a desperate timeout.
On the sideline, Alex saw Dr. Vance watching them, her tablet forgotten in her lap. There was no more note-taking, just observation. Principal Evans was actually smiling.
In the huddle, the players were buzzing, but it was a controlled energy. They knew they had the game in their hands.
"One more push," Alex said. "They're going to full-court press. Probability of success against our inbound set: thirty-three percent. We break it, and it's a ninety-seven percent chance of a layup on the other end. Diego, you're the release valve. Ben, you set the screen at half-court. Everyone else, run to your spots. No panic."
The whistle blew. Ridgeview applied the press, a frantic, chaotic swarm. The Titans, however, were a study in calm. They inbounded the ball to Samir, who immediately passed to Diego in the backcourt. Diego dribbled once, used Ben's perfect screen at the midline, and saw the entire court open up ahead of him. Just as Alex had said, one defender was left scrambling. Diego drove, drew the last man, and dished to a cutting Marcus for an uncontested dunk.
97%. Result: Score.
The Northwood gym erupted. It wasn't just the parents and a few students anymore; it was a genuine, roaring crowd, celebrating not a fluke, but a dismantling.
The final buzzer sounded. Titans 68, Rockets 52.
As the teams shook hands, Alex saw Dr. Vance approach Principal Evans. He couldn't hear the words, but he saw Evans's shoulders slump in relief, then straighten with pride. She gave a small, professional nod before turning and leaving.
The team mobbed Alex, not with the wild celebration of an underdog, but with the satisfied whoops of a group that had just proven something to themselves and the world.
Later, as the gym emptied, Marcus walked up to him, his game jersey slung over his shoulder.
"Coach," he said, his tone unreadable.
Alex braced for a sarcastic comment, a reminder that they'd just done things his "robot" way.
Marcus looked him dead in the eye. "What's our probability of beating Southside when we see them in the playoffs?"
Alex almost smiled. The question wasn't a challenge. It was a commitment. The system was no longer his. It was theirs.
"We'll calculate it tomorrow at practice," Alex replied.
Marcus nodded, a slow, determined grin spreading across his face. "Good."