The fourth quarter began with the score locked at 58-58. The air in the arena was thin and sharp, every possession feeling like the last. The game had been stripped down to its bare essentials: will, heart, and a desperate, clawing desire to be the last team standing.
Alex's "Sight" was a storm of flickering percentages, most hovering in the 40s and 50s. There were no more 98% layups. Every shot was contested, every pass a risk. The system had provided the map, but they were now in uncharted territory, navigating by instinct and grit alone.
With four minutes left, Southside's Jamal Reynolds, playing like the superstar he was, hit a miraculous, fading three-pointer as the shot clock expired, putting Southside up by three. The roar from the crowd was deafening.
The Titans' ensuing possession was chaos. The play broke down. The ball ended up in Ben's hands fifteen feet from the basket, a place he never shot from. The Southside defender sagged off, openly daring him.
Shot Quality: 12%.
Ben's eyes flickered to the sideline, a silent plea for instruction, for a nod, for anything. Alex saw the number, a glaring, damning red. The system screamed NO.
But Alex saw something else. He saw the defender's disrespect. He saw the hours Ben had spent alone in the gym, the newfound confidence in his eyes. He saw the trust his teammates had placed in him.
He gave a single, sharp nod.
Ben caught the pass, turned, and without a moment's hesitation, launched the jumper. His form was pure, born of countless repetitions. The ball arced high, a silent prayer against the roaring noise.
Swish.
Result: Score.
The net barely moved. The Northwood bench erupted. Ben, stunned, backpedaled on defense, a look of pure, unadulterated shock on his face. The 12% had somehow, miraculously, come through.
The game was tied again.
But the miracle came with a cost. On the next defensive stand, Marcus, fighting through a screen to contest Reynolds, came down wrong on his ankle. A collective gasp went through the arena as he crumpled to the floor, his face contorted in pain.
The timeout was called. The Titans' heart and soul was carried to the locker room, his status unknown. The air was sucked out of their comeback. Despair, cold and familiar, began to creep back in.
Alex knelt in the huddle, his team looking at him with lost, frightened eyes.
"He's gone," Diego said, his voice hollow.
Alex looked at their faces—at Samir's panic, Diego's defeat, Ben's shock. The numbers in his vision were a wasteland. Without Marcus, their probability of winning plummeted to 22%.
He looked at the scoreboard. 72-72. One minute left.
He thought of the journey. The first day of practice. The viral video. The school board inquiry. Ben's car. Marcus's father. The trust they had built, piece by fragile piece.
The system had no data for this. There was no percentage for a heart.
He threw his clipboard. It clattered against the seats, a shocking sound that made every player jump.
"FORGET THE NUMBERS!" Alex roared, his voice raw with an emotion they had never heard from him. He wasn't a robot. He was a man fighting for his team. "There is no system right now! There is just you, and the guy next to you, and this court!"
He grabbed Samir by the jersey. "You are the general! You run this team!"
He turned to Diego. "You are the spark! You create something from nothing!"
He put his hands on Ben's shoulders. "You are the anchor! You hold this down!"
He looked at all of them, his eyes blazing. "Marcus is not here. So we win this for him. We win this for us. One possession. Defense. Everything you have left. Leave it all on this floor."
The whistle blew. The players stood, their fear replaced by a ferocious, final resolve. They were not a machine anymore. They were a promise.
As they took the court, a figure emerged from the tunnel. Marcus, his ankle heavily taped, was hobbling out, leaning on an assistant coach. He wouldn't play, but he would be there.
He met Alex's eyes across the court and gave a single, grim nod.
The message was clear.
Finish it.
Southside had the ball, thirty seconds left. The championship was in their hands. Alex's "Sight" was useless, a blur of frantic percentages. All that was left was trust.
And as Jamal Reynolds drove for the game-winning shot, Ben Carter, reading the play not with data but with heart, left his man and rose from the weak side, his hand meeting the ball at its apex for a monumental, season-saving block.
The 0% chance had just arrived.