The used car was a ten-year-old sedan, but it ran. Alex had spent the better part of Saturday morning with Ben and his mother, a weary-faced woman named Lena, at a small, no-frills dealership. The down payment had cleared out what little savings Alex had left, but the look on Ben's face—a mixture of shock, gratitude, and overwhelming relief—was worth more than any NBA salary.
"You didn't have to do this, Coach," Lena said, her voice thick with emotion.
"Yes, I did," Alex replied simply. "The team needs him focused. This helps the team."
It was only half the truth, the part he could say out loud. The full truth was that he saw the 98% probability of Ben's potential being permanently derailed by circumstances beyond his control, and he had chosen to intervene.
On Monday, the atmosphere at practice was different. Ben moved with a new lightness, his screens were sharper, his finishes more confident. The anchor had been lifted. But as one weight was removed, another, more subtle pressure began to build.
It started with Marcus. He was quieter than usual, his trademark swagger replaced by a brooding intensity. During a scrimmage, Diego broke free on a fast break, a guaranteed 95% layup. But Marcus, trailing the play, yelled for the ball. Diego, surprised, dished it back. Marcus took two dribbles and launched a powerful, unnecessary dunk.
The percentage had been a team-oriented 95%. Marcus's solo act had been a statistically irrelevant, if flashy, 96%. He landed and let out a roar, not of team victory, but of personal vindication. He glanced toward the bleachers, where a few students were watching, as if hoping one of them had a camera.
Alex said nothing, but he filed the moment away. The data point was clear: External influence affecting optimal play. Probability of recurrence: 78%.
The real bomb dropped after practice. Principal Evans approached Alex, but this time, he wasn't holding a complaint. He was holding a single sheet of paper, his face unreadable.
"Another call for you, Alex," Evans said, handing him the paper. It was a call log. "From a Coach Rick Masters. At Southside."
Alex's blood ran cold. The rival coach. The man who had called him a robot. Calling him the week of the state finals?
"He didn't want to talk to me," Evans continued. "He insisted on speaking directly to you. He said... he has a proposition."
Suspicion warred with a dark curiosity inside Alex. That night, in the silence of his apartment, he made the call.
"Masters," Alex said when the line connected.
"Corbin," a gruff, familiar voice replied. There was a long pause. "I saw the tape of your semi-final. Breaking the Jefferson press... that was smart coaching."
"Get to the point," Alex said, his guard up.
"The point is, you're wasting your talent," Masters said, his tone shifting to blunt. "You're a chess master playing checkers with these kids. You think beating me in the finals will prove something? It won't. The only people watching are a few local reporters and some parents."
Alex remained silent, letting him talk.
"I'm retiring after this season," Masters revealed. "And I've been asked to recommend my successor. I'm recommending you."
The world seemed to tilt. It was the last thing he expected. An offer from his arch-rival. A prestigious, well-funded program. A chance to implement his system with real talent from the start.
"It's a real program, Corbin. Not a rebuild. We have boosters, facilities, a pipeline to Division I scouts. You could do something real there. The pay is... triple what you're making now. Enough to solve a lot of problems."
The offer was a 85% solution to every external problem he faced: financial security, professional validation, a bigger stage. It was seductive in its perfection.
"And my team?" Alex asked, his voice dangerously calm.
"A condition of the offer," Masters said, as if discussing a trade. "You bring your point guard, Samir. And your center, Ben Carter. We'll find a place for them. The others... they had a good run."
And there it was. The trap, baited with everything he wanted. Sterling's influence was a subtle poison in the water supply. He couldn't get Alex fired directly, so he was offering him a golden cage. Lure him away, break up the team that was proving him wrong, and absorb the key pieces, all under the control of a program that would ultimately credit itself for their success.
If he took this offer, he was admitting that his system only worked with "real" talent. He would be abandoning Marcus, Diego, and the others. He would be proving that his philosophy wasn't about building people up, but about using them as stepping stones.
The percentage in his mind, once a clear 85%, now flickered with new variables.
text
*Betrayal of Trust: 100%.*
*Destruction of Team Cohesion: 100%.*
*Validation of Sterling's Worldview: 100%.*
The new calculation was undeniable.
"I have a team," Alex said, his voice final. "We have a game on Friday. Good luck with your retirement."
He hung up before Masters could respond. The phone felt heavy in his hand. He had just turned down the easiest path forward. The path of least resistance.
He looked at the photo on his wall, a team picture taken after the Jefferson win. They were all there, a unit. Ben, finally smiling. Marcus, his arm slung around Diego. Samir, looking at the camera with newfound confidence.
They weren't just pieces in his system. They were the reason for it.
The offer wasn't a test of his ambition. It was a test of his character. And for the first time in a long time, Alex Corbin knew exactly who he was.
He was their coach. And on Friday, he was going to war with them.