The victory against Jefferson should have felt sweeter. Instead, a different kind of pressure was settling over Alex, cold and administrative. The letter from the school board, phrased in sterile legal jargon, sat on his kitchen table like a bomb. A "formal inquiry into pedagogical methods and student welfare." The timing wasn't a coincidence; it was a calculated move. Sterling was no longer just whispering to scouts. He was pulling legislative levers.
The weight of it was a fog in Alex's mind during Wednesday's practice. He called plays, but his focus was split, the numbers in his vision flickering with uncharacteristic instability.
"Fist 95! Let's go!" he barked, his voice sharper than intended.
The players ran the set, but the pass from Diego was a half-second late. The 92% look for a corner three dissolved into a 60% contested shot. Samir missed.
"Again!" Alex snapped. "The timing is point-eight seconds! Not one-point-five! It's basic math!"
The team reset, the air thick with a tension they hadn't felt in weeks. As they ran the play again, Alex's phone buzzed in his pocket. A notification from his bank. A missed payment warning. Another stone added to the load.
He saw Marcus clap his hands in frustration after another broken play. "My bad," Marcus muttered, but his body language screamed something else: a coiled, restless energy that hadn't been there before.
That restless energy had a source. Across town, in the well-appointed living room of the Jones household, Marcus was getting an earful.
"A system?" Marcus's father, David, a broad-shouldered man who still carried himself like the college power forward he once was, scoffed. He pointed a remote at the TV, pausing a highlight reel of a flashy NBA point guard. "This is basketball, son. Not a science project. This Corbin guy is turning you into a cog. Where are your highlights? How are you supposed to get a scholarship if you're just making the 'high-percentage' pass?"
Marcus stared at his plate. "We're winning, Dad. We're in the finals."
"Winning by committee!" David countered, his voice rising. "Scouts don't look for committee players. They look for stars. They look for dogs. This 'system' is killing your killer instinct. I didn't raise you to be a robot."
The words hit their mark. They always did. The ghost of his father's own near-miss career was the third player in their driveway games, the silent critic in the stands.
The fog in Alex's head hadn't lifted by Thursday's practice. He was drilling them on defensive rotations against Southside's motion offense when he noticed Ben was off. His movements were sluggish, his reactions delayed. During a rebound drill, a ball he should have easily secured bounced off his fingertips.
Rebound Probability: 95%. Result: Miss.
"Ben! Eyes on the ball!" Alex called out, the frustration from his own life bleeding into his tone.
Ben flinched, a full-body recoil that was more than just a reaction to criticism. He looked... exhausted. Defeated.
After practice, as the team headed to the showers, Alex stopped him. "Ben. A word."
The tall center followed him to the sidelines, his gaze fixed on the hardwood.
"You were off today," Alex said, trying to soften his voice. "The state finals are in four days. We need you at a hundred percent. What's going on?"
For a long moment, Ben was silent. Then, the words tumbled out in a quiet rush. "It's my mom. She's been picking up double shifts. The car broke down last week and... it's just a lot. She's tired. I'm tired. I'm sorry, Coach."
Alex stared at him. The numbers in his vision, so constant and reliable, offered nothing. There was no percentage for this. No algorithm to calculate the stress of a struggling family. Ben wasn't just a player with a mental block; he was a kid carrying an anchor.
The school board letter, the bank notice, Sterling's shadow—it all suddenly felt small and selfish. He was so consumed with his own battles, he'd missed the war his player was fighting just to stand on this court.
"Look at me, Ben," Alex said, his voice now quiet and firm.
Ben reluctantly met his eyes.
"From now on, you have a standing appointment," Alex said. "You come to my office during your free period. Not for basketball. You bring your homework. You get an hour of quiet. No questions asked. Understood?"
Ben's eyes widened, confusion and a flicker of relief warring on his face. "But... practice film..."
"The film can wait. Your foundation is more important than any play." Alex put a hand on his shoulder. "The system only works if the people in it are strong. We're going to make sure you're strong."
It was a patch, a temporary fix for a deep problem. But it was a start. It was coaching the person, not just the player.
As Ben walked away, looking slightly taller, Alex made a decision. The school board, Sterling, the pressure—it was all noise. His system wasn't just about winning games. It was about building up the people who trusted him with their dreams.
He pulled out his phone and finally opened the school board email. He wouldn't ignore it. He would fight it. But on his terms. His first move wouldn't be a legal counter. It would be to get Ben's family a reliable used car.
The game against Southside wasn't just for a trophy anymore. It was for Ben. For Marcus. For all of them. It was to prove that his system, his way, could protect and elevate the very people the traditional world was so quick to overlook.
The real battle wasn't on the court. It was in the lives of his players. And for the first time, Alex knew exactly what play to call.