The squeak of rubber against the high-gloss maple of the Solar High court had changed. Ten days ago, it was a chaotic screech, the sound of three separate gears grinding against a machine that didn't want them. Now, it was a rhythmic pulse—a heartbeat. Coach Hill said.
Ten days ago, Karl had stood at this same spot, hands on his hips, watching Perk launch a rushed three that clanged hard off the side of the rim while Blake got called for his third offensive foul in five minutes.
"Stop," Karl had said back then, his voice cutting through the empty gym. "Both of you—stop."
Perk had groaned, catching the rebound. "What now, Coach Engine?"
Karl walked toward them, slow, deliberate. "Perk, your problem isn't your shot. It's your impatience. You shoot like the clock is always at one second."
Perk rolled his eyes. "That's because it usually is when I get the ball."
"No," Karl said, shaking his head. "It's because you don't trust the space. You don't let the play breathe. Look—" He pointed to the floor. "You're already open before the pass even comes. But instead of setting your feet, you rush it. Every time."
Perk went quiet.
Karl turned to Blake. "And you… you're trying to prove you're strong."
Blake frowned. "I am strong."
"I know," Karl replied. "That's the problem. You're using strength where you need control. You don't need to bulldoze every defender. Half a step. One pivot. That's all it takes. You're already bigger than everyone here."
Blake glanced down at his hands, flexing them slightly.
Karl stepped back, looking at both of them. "Listen carefully. We're not three players. We're one system."
Perk smirked. "That sounds like some anime speech."
Karl ignored it. "Perk—you move before I see you. Not after. Blake—you seal, not slam. Give me a target, not a collision."
He tapped his chest. "And me? I'll make sure the ball gets there. Every time."
There was a pause. The kind that decides whether people listen or walk away.
"Run it again," Karl said.
Coach hill observing at a corner.
Back to the present,*
"Karl can make his teammates who are also genius like him in basketball improved too, What a sight" Coach Hill said with an unbelievable type of expression.
Karl caught the ball at the top of the key. He didn't look left. He knew Perk was already flaring to the corner, dragging two defenders with him like a magnet pulling iron filings. He didn't look right. He knew Blake was planting his massive frame near the low block, a mountain of meat and bone that even the "Legacy" seniors couldn't move.
"Engine's hot!" Perk yelled, his voice echoing off the glass observation decks. "Feed the fire, Karl!"
Karl dipped his shoulder, a deceptive shimmy that sent Preston stumbling back. He didn't drive. He zipped a chest pass that hissed through the air, hitting Blake's massive palms with a sound like a gunshot. Blake didn't dribble. He simply rose, his head nearly level with the rim, and dropped the ball through the net with the delicacy of a man placing a glass vase on a shelf.
"Again," Coach Hill barked from the sideline. His whistle hung from his neck like a silver pendulum. "Preston, your rotation was late. You're ball-watching. Shewish is playing chess while you're still trying to figure out which way the horse moves."
"It's a knight, Coach," Preston panted, his face the color of a bruised plum.
"It's a seat on the bench if you don't close that gap," Hill shot back. "Take five. Hydrate. Analyze why you just got dismantled by a street signal."
The whistle blew, a sharp, clean note. The players drifted toward the sidelines. Karl grabbed a pressurized water bottle, the mist cooling his face.
In the corner of the gym, a group of three seniors—varsity veterans with names like Kinley and Vane—huddled together. Their voices were low, a buzzing nest of hornets.
"Did you see that?" one whispered, eyes darting to Karl. "He didn't even look. It's like they have a radio in their heads."
"It's playground garbage," another muttered, his lip curling. "Zero fundamentals. Just chaos. How does Sterling expect us to run a system with... *that*?"
"They're taking the air out of the room," the third added. "My dad says if they start over us, the boosters are going to pull the new training center funding."
Preston, who had been leaning against a padded wall, suddenly straightened. He marched toward the trio, his steps heavy.
"What are you three chirping about?" Preston's voice was a jagged blade.
The seniors stiffened. "Just discussing the chemistry, Pres. Or the lack of it."
"Chemistry?" Preston stepped into their circle, towering over the tallest one. "I just spent twenty minutes getting my ankles broken by a kid who hasn't had a professional trainer in his life. You call it chaos because you can't read it. I call it getting beat. If you want to talk about boosters, go find a country club. If you want to play for Solar, shut your mouths and get back on the line."
The seniors exchanged looks of pure poison, but they didn't argue. They grabbed their gear and walked out toward the locker rooms, their silence louder than their whispering.
Preston turned. He walked toward Karl, Perk, and Blake. The three of them stood like a barricade, sweat dripping onto the pristine floor.
"Shewish," Preston said, stopping three feet away.
Karl wiped his brow with his jersey. "Preston."
"Ten days ago, I put a note in your locker. Told you that you wouldn't last a practice. Told you the scholarship was a pity move." Preston reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper—the same one Karl had thrown away. He must have fished it out.
"I remember," Karl said, his voice level. "You want it back?"
Preston ripped the paper in half, then half again, letting the scraps flutter to the floor. "I was wrong. About the pity. And about the grit."
Perk smirked, spinning a ball on his index finger. "Does this mean you're going to stop trying to trip me on the fast break? Because my shins are starting to get offended."
Preston didn't laugh. He looked at Blake, then at Perk, and finally settled on Karl. "My father told me that talent is a birthright. He told me that people like you are just 'fillers' for the highlights. But I've watched you three for ten days. You don't play for highlights. You play like your lives are on the line."
"Because they are," Blake rumbled. The floor seemed to vibrate. "We don't have a safety net made of daddy's money, Preston. We fall, we hit the concrete."
Preston nodded slowly. "I felt that today. When you hit that screen, Blake, I felt like I hit a freight train. And Perk? Your release is faster than the varsity captain's. I'm not saying we're friends. But I'm saying you belong here. More than those three idiots who just walked out do."
Karl stepped forward, extending a hand. "The system at Solar is supposed to be perfect, Preston. But a machine doesn't win games. People do."
Preston looked at Karl's hand—calloused, scarred, and steady. He reached out and gripped it. It wasn't a soft handshake. It was a pact.
"Don't make me regret this," Preston said. "If we lose the opener because you guys are trying to be 'street,' I'll be the first one to tell Sterling he made a mistake."
"We don't lose," Perk said, his grin returning, sharper than before. "We just run out of time."
***