[Nationals (Junior High)- Year 2006]
The ball hit the hardwood once. Kagao Ōri stood at the top of the key, jersey number 1, and stared down at Sōta Sasaki. He'd scored seventy-eight points so far, and it was the fourth quarter with three minutes left.
The scoreboard showed 98-75. Kamata West was done. They'd been done since halftime, but Sōta still stood in his way.
"Come on then," Kagao said. "Show me something."
Sōta clenched his jaw in anger. He'd been talking shit all game - him and his twin brother both, flopping and whining to the refs like it would change anything. Now his smug expression was gone, and he looked tired.
Kagao dribbled like the ball was an extension of his hand. His eyes never left Sōta's face. He saw it before he moved - the invisible domain covering them both. A domain only he could see, a circle of inevitability two players wide. It followed him everywhere. Always had, ever since he was eight and first touched a basketball. Within this space, he didn't just play the game.
He was the game. Kagao drove right. Sōta moved to cut him off, feet planted, hands up, doing everything he could, but it didn't matter. Kagao's shoulder dipped, and Sōta's reached forward a fraction too late. The space opened up like it had been waiting. Kagao exploded through it, two steps, and rose.
Sōta jumped, later than he wanted to. His timing was off, legs sluggish, like pushing through water. He stretched his arm up, fingers grasping for the ball that was already past him.
Kagao cocked back and slammed it through, shaking the backboard. Sōta landed hard, stumbling backward. The crowd cheered. Meiko's bench was on their feet, screaming in joy. Even Kamata West's supporters had gone quiet.
Kagao looked down at Sōta. "Thought you were gonna make me work for it."
"Shut up." Sōta wiped the sweat from his forehead, breathing hard. "Just - shut your damn mouth."
"Make me." Kagao smiled. "Oh, wait. You can't."
The ref blew the whistle. Kamata West inbound. Sōta's twin brother Shōta took the ball and passed it immediately to his brother. Trying to give him a chance to save face.
Sōta caught it and turned toward the basket. Kagao was already there, body low, arms spread, cutting off every angle before Sōta even decided which way to go.
The domain wrapped around them again. Sōta tried a crossover, which was slow and predictable. Kagao's hand flashed out and stripped the ball clean, so fast Sōta was still moving through the motion when it was already gone. The ball bounced once. Kagao scooped it up, turned, and took two dribbles back toward Kamata's basket.
"Hey!" Sōta screamed behind him. "That's-"
Kagao didn't look back. He could hear Sōta's footsteps chasing him, and three Kamata West players surrounded him. 'Triple team. Cute.'
Kagoa rose ten feet, doing a jumper, with perfect form, elbow in, wrist snap, follow-through. The ball traced an arc through the air, rotation smooth, and dropped through the net without touching the rim.
Swish.
"Pass the damn ball!" Sōta yelled. He stood at half court, fists clenched, shaking. "You never- you don't even-"
"Why would I?" Kagao walked past him. Close enough, their shoulders almost brushed. "You gonna score on me? Any of you?" He raised his voice so the whole gym could hear. "I'm the one putting on a show here. You're just in the way."
Kamata West's coach called a timeout. The scoreboard showed 100-75 now - one of Kagao's teammates had hit a layup while he wasn't looking. It didn't matter; the game was already over.
Kagao's coach said something during the timeout. Probably about passing. He didn't listen. His teammates stood around him in the huddle, and none of them made eye contact. They knew their roles. They'd learned fast: give him the ball, stay out of the way, win the game.
Ogiwara was the only one who still smiled about it. "Nice shooting, Kagao."
Kagao grunted and didn't say thanks. Ogiwara was the previous ace, before Kagao transferred in. Now he was just another supporting player. The timeout ended with ninety seconds left. Meiko inbound.
The ball found Kagao's hands in three passes, like gravity pulling it toward him. Mochida passed it from the wing without hesitation, not even considering shooting it himself.
Kagao caught it at the three-point line. Sōta was on him immediately, desperate now, reaching, slapping at the ball. The domain expanded around them.
Everything slowed. Kagao could see it all - Sōta's weight on his front foot, his hands reaching too high, the gap opening at his left hip. Every possibility was mapped out with clarity, and only one mattered: the one where Kagao won.
He drove left. Sōta lunged, trying to stay in front, but his foot landed wrong. He stumbled, arms windmilling for balance, and Kagao was already past him.
Shōta tried to rotate over, hands up, but he was half a second late. Kagao gathered, rose, and threw it down one-handed, rattling the rim. The ball bounced high off the court, and Shōta flinched away from it.
"Stop him!" Kamata West's coach was screaming from the sideline. "Double team! Triple team! Do something!"
They tried. All five of them got into the paint on the next possession, leaving Kagao's teammates wide open on the perimeter. Mochida had a clean look from the corner. He pump-faked instead, waited for Kagao to flash into the post, and zipped the pass inside.
Kagao caught it with three defenders draped on him. Arms everywhere. Hands grabbing the jersey, pushing his back, reaching for the ball. He didn't care.
The domain tightened. He spun baseline, and the defender fell away, Kagao elevated through contact, and the ref's whistle blew as the ball touched the glass and dropped through.
And-one.
Eighty-four points, then eighty-five, he, of course, made the free throw. Thirty seconds left, and Kamata West had stopped trying to score. They just wanted the clock to die. Sōta held the ball at half court, and when Kagao approached him, he passed it away immediately. Wouldn't even face him anymore.
"Coward," Kagao said.
Sōta's eyes flashed. "What did you-"
"You heard me." Kagao stepped closer. The ref wasn't looking. "You were talking all that shit in the first quarter. Where'd it go?"
"I'm not-"
"You're not what? Not scared?" Kagao laughed. "You figured it out, didn't you? This is my court. You're just visiting."
The buzzer sounded. Final score: 104-75. Twenty-nine-point blowout. Kagao finished with eighty-five points, seven rebounds, four steals, and three blocks. He'd taken forty-three shots and made thirty-five of them.
During the handshake line, Kamata West's players mumbled their good games, not meeting his eyes. Sōta avoided him entirely, walking past with his head down.
In the locker room, Meiko's team celebrated. Shouting, laughing, spraying water bottles. They'd made it to the quarterfinals, another step forward to getting that trophy.
Kagao sat on the bench and untied his shoes. He didn't smile or join in the celebration. Ogiwara clapped him on the shoulder, said something about an amazing game, and Kagao nodded without really hearing him.
It was a dominant victory; everyone was talking about how unstoppable he was, but he felt nothing.
'Not enough.'
Kamata West was trash. Sōta couldn't guard him, couldn't score on him, couldn't even look him in the eye by the end. Where was the challenge in that? Where was the competition worth remembering?
He'd heard the whispers all season about another team. Teiko Middle School. The Generation of Miracles. Five players who made the Nationals look like a joke. Kids his age who supposedly played basketball on a different level entirely.
'Main actors,' he thought. 'That's what they think they are.'
This victory meant nothing; these players meant nothing. They were all just extras in his story. Kagao stood, grabbed his bag, and headed for the showers. He had work to do because somewhere out there, the real competition was waiting. The players who thought they were the main characters, the ones who believed the stage belonged to them.
He'd find them, face them, and he'd show them exactly what happened when the supporting cast forgot their place.