The block echoed.
It wasn't a loud sound, just the clean, sharp smack of leather against palm, but in the tense hush of the arena, it was deafening. Ben Carter, the kid who once passed up 98% layups, had just rejected the state's best player at the rim.
The ball squirted loose. A scrum of bodies hit the floor. Whistles shrieked. A jump ball.
The arrow pointed to Northwood.
Twelve seconds left. 72-72.
The timeout was chaos. Alex's mind, usually a river of cool data, was a white-water rapid of adrenaline. His "Sight" flickered, offering useless probabilities. Inbound pass success: 65%. Game-winning shot probability: 38%.
The numbers were noise. They didn't account for the fire in Samir's eyes, the grim set of Diego's jaw, the quiet, unshakable certainty on Ben's face. They didn't account for Marcus, standing at the end of the bench, fists clenched, living and dying with every second.
He had one last whiteboard. One last play.
He drew it quickly, his marker squeaking. "Fist 12." A simple, high pick-and-roll for Samir and Ben. It was their bread and butter. The play had a hundred variations, a hundred reads.
"Samir, you have the ball," Alex said, his voice remarkably calm. "You have three options. Read the defense." He tapped the board. "One: If they switch, you have Ben rolling to the basket. It's a 90% look." He looked at Ben, who nodded, his eyes wide but focused.
"Two: If they trap, Diego will be open in the corner. 85%." Diego gave a sharp, confident nod.
"Three..." Alex paused, his marker hovering. He looked at Samir, seeing not the timid kid from months ago, but the steady general he had become. "Three: If they play you straight up, if you have a sliver of daylight... you take the shot."
He didn't quote a percentage. He didn't need to. He was giving Samir the ultimate gift: his trust.
The whistle blew. This was it.
The arena was a wall of sound. The five Titans on the court were an island of intense focus. Samir received the inbound pass. He dribbled calmly, watching the clock tick down.
10... 9...
Ben lumbered up, setting the screen. Southside's defense, coached perfectly by Masters, switched. The bigger defender was now on Samir. The first option was gone.
8... 7...
The trap came. Two defenders converged on Samir. For a heart-stopping second, he was swallowed. Diego waved frantically in the corner, wide open. The 85% look. The safe, system-approved play.
6...
Samir's eyes met Diego's. He saw the opening. But he also saw something else. He saw the Southside defender on Ben take a half-step toward Diego, anticipating the pass.
It was a split-second decision, made not by a calculator, but by a point guard who had earned his courage.
He didn't pass.
He took one hard, decisive dribble backward, creating a foot of space from the lunging defenders.
5...
He rose. It wasn't a clean look. A hand was in his face. From Alex's perspective, the percentage glowed a desperate, flickering 35%.
But for Samir, in that moment, it was 100%.
The ball left his fingertips as the clock hit :04. It arced high and true, a perfect parabola against the bright lights of the state championship.
3... 2... 1...
The buzzer blared.
Swish.
Nothing but net.
For a full second, there was absolute silence, as if the world had stopped to absorb the impossibility. Then, the Northwood side of the arena detonated.
The Titans on the court stood frozen in disbelief before they were swallowed by a tidal wave of teammates rushing from the bench. Samir was at the bottom of the pile, his face a mask of pure, shocked joy. Ben was openly weeping, his arms raised to the sky. Diego was screaming, hugging anyone within reach.
On the sideline, Alex Corbin didn't move. The roar of the crowd was a distant hum. The numbers in his vision had vanished, replaced by a single, overwhelming image: his players, his team, champions.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned. It was Marcus, balancing on one foot, tears streaming down his face, a grin so wide it looked like it might split his head in two. He didn't say a word. He just pulled Alex into a crushing, brotherly hug.
The disgraced analyst. The robot coach. The man who saw the world in percentages had just won a state title on a 35% shot taken by the most unlikely of heroes.
As the confetti began to fall, Alex finally understood. The system was never about the numbers. The numbers were just the language he used to teach them how to talk to each other, how to trust each other. The final, winning play hadn't been in the playbook. It had been written in the heart of a point guard who had learned to believe.
The last number that flashed in Alex's mind wasn't a percentage. It was the final score.
Northwood 75, Southside 72.
He had his redemption. But as he watched his team hoist the championship trophy, their cheers echoing through the arena, he knew he had found something far more valuable.
He had found a family.