After training with my seniors for a couple of months, I had finally adapted to their playstyle. It was now muscle memory—knowing exactly when to pass, how hard to flick my wrist for each type of teammate, where they'd move before they signaled. Their cuts, screens, and spacing were ingrained into my rhythm.
For our first game, I was named starting point guard, despite my age. I'll never forget how it went.
"Please, pass the ball, Osaka!!" a player cried out, legs wobbling beneath him as sweat dripped from his chin onto the wooden court.
"Here, quickly try and score!!" Osaka yelled, his pass fast and frantic.
Makoto, eyes sharp and steps light, intercepted it cleanly before the tired player could reach it. He pivoted, tucked the ball close, and exploded toward the rim. The sharp scrape of his sneakers against the polished floor echoed through the half-silent gym.
"Oh hell no, you will not score," Osaka growled and chased after him.
Makoto drew him in, then dished it off at the last second to Takumi, who caught it mid-air. The gym lights flashed across his arms as he rose and slammed the ball down with both hands.
"This is the worst score I've seen in history, and it's only the second quarter," muttered a teacher from the bleachers.
"I can't watch anymore. This is really sad," a girl whispered, hiding her face behind her hands.
"Dammit, the score is seventy-two to twelve," Osaka muttered, eyes glassy. His fists clenched as he forced himself to stand tall. "We can't lose like this."
Makoto picked off another pass, pivoted, and finished with a layup. Osaka in-bounded to a teammate, who took two dribbles before freezing as Makoto slid in front of him. Panicked, the teammate passed, only for Takumi to jump the lane and snatch the ball.
Takumi cut through the defense, lifted, and nearly dunked again—but this time Osaka rose to contest. Takumi adjusted mid-air, slinging a pass to Daichi, who stopped at the arc and pulled up. The ball left his fingers with a tight rotation and swished through cleanly.
Possession after possession, Musashi dominated. Makoto stripped another pass and fed Basara for a layup. Next play, Basara stole the ball straight from Osaka and tossed it back to Takumi, who dunked again.
Makoto stripped Osaka directly on the next play and scored another layup. Daichi dribbled up, crossed his defender, and drained another three.
The scoreboard kept climbing until the other team finally had no choice but to forfeit. Final score: 107 to 20. The air in the gym was suffocating, the silence from our bench loud. The sharp smell of sweat and disinfectant hung thick, and the distant echo of sneakers squeaking on the polished floor filled the void.
After that match, I rose to fame. I was the youngest starter, the point guard with a sharp read on the court. News outlets started calling me the future of Japanese basketball. I averaged ten steals, thirteen point four assists, and ten points per game. That's when Takumi and I got dubbed the "Killer Duo." We were everywhere—sports magazines, blogs, interviews.
But not everyone was celebrating.
Even then, I didn't realize how Hidesuke was taking it. You could say it was jealousy. Or worse.
Eventually, we reached the quarterfinals. The team we faced had two exceptional players: Yukio Hamaguchi, currently captain of Toshigawa Academy's basketball team, and the scoring machine, Kogure Kobayashi.
They dominated, plain and simple.
Still, we fought hard, and the final score was 76 to 58. Kogure scored forty-three on us. Despite that, we earned respect.
After the game, Yukio walked over, a towel slung around his neck, his shoulders rising and falling with each breath. A thin sheen of sweat still clung to his arms. The sharp, clean scent of his deodorant mixed faintly with the musk of the gym.
"Hey kid, what's your name?"
Makoto hesitated for a second. His hands were still resting on his knees, breath just beginning to settle. He straightened up, eyes meeting Yukio's.
"…Makoto Kurai."
"You're a real good player. How about, when you get old enough and graduate, you come to Toshigawa Academy with me to play basketball? I'll be attending that school next spring."
"That sounds nice. Maybe I'll think about it," Makoto responded, adjusting his arm sleeves, heart still thudding from the match.
"Great! Then it's a promise. Be sure that you study hard because it's not an easy school to get into," Yukio added with a half-smile, then walked off, wiping his face with the towel.
Yukio and Kogure would go on to win the championship, with Kogure named MVP.
Later that week, Makoto stepped into Coach Izanagi's office. His shoes made soft taps on the floor as he entered, the air inside still and heavy with the scent of whiteboard markers and old sweat. The faint hum of a flickering fluorescent light buzzed overhead.
"Coach Izanagi," Makoto said.
Coach looked up from his clipboard, brow tight as he focused on the player in front of him. His jaw clenched briefly before relaxing. "Come in, Makoto. What is it?"
"For the Junior Under Fifteen Winter Cup matches coming up... I was wondering if we could change our formation," Makoto said, voice even.
Coach's brows rose slightly, his pen pausing mid-circle. He chewed the inside of his cheek, eyes flickering with hesitation. "What are you implying? Are my tactics not good enough to beat these teams?"
Makoto straightened his posture. "It's nothing like that, Coach. It's just... I want to make sure we win all our games. A good seeding next season starts now."
Coach leaned back in his chair, pressing the pen against his palm. His jaw moved slightly as he swallowed hard. His eyes dropped briefly, avoiding Makoto's gaze. "You know what? Maybe you're onto something. I mean, we'll be facing teams who already lost in the Cup. A half-court defensive formation after the quarters... not a bad idea. I'll give it some thought."
Though he agreed, the pause before his answer lingered like a weight in the room. It wasn't spoken, but it was felt—his reservation, his doubt. There was still a line he hadn't crossed when it came to trusting Makoto completely. Especially while his son was still on the roster.
The team breezed through the early rounds of the Winter Cup, riding the momentum and discipline of the new strategy. Bodies moved like clockwork, spacing clean, defensive traps landing where they needed to. By the time they reached the finals, Coach Izanagi gathered the team in the locker room, his voice cutting through the low hum of sneakers squeaking and water bottles being passed around.
"Thanks to Makoto's brilliant idea, we've won our quarter and semi-final matches," Coach Izanagi announced. "Today, we're up against Shoyo Junior High. They lost to the champions, but they're a strong team. We'll use Makoto's defensive tactics again. Let's secure our seeding."
"But Coach," Hidesuke said, arms crossed over his chest, a scowl already planted on his face. His jaw twitched, and a faint sneer played at his lips. "Why do we have to use this kid's idea in the finals? What if we lose because of him?"
"Yeah, he's right," Daichi added, spinning a towel between his hands as he leaned forward slightly. His smile was casual, but his eyes held a glint—a practiced calm masking something sharper underneath. "Sometimes sticking to the old ways feels safer, doesn't it? No need to rock the boat at the biggest moment."
Coach's jaw tightened. His gaze moved slowly across the team before settling on Makoto, then flicking away. His fingers clenched into fists for a moment, then relaxed. "Makoto and Takumi are the reason we're here. I don't want to hear any more excuses. Go out there and do as I say."
Hidesuke scoffed, voice low but sharp. "Oh, so you're all Team Makoto now, huh?" He shot a cold glare at Makoto, nostrils flaring.
Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked out, the soles of his shoes tapping hard against the locker room floor.
A Shoyo player slipped past the perimeter and laid the ball in off the glass. The scoreboard beeped. Musashi Junior High 64, Shoyo Junior High 67. Their bench erupted with cheers and claps.
Makoto snatched the ball off the baseline, the rough texture pressing into his palms. His heart thundered, breath sharp and quick. Sweat stung his eyes. He fired it quickly to Takumi. Takumi caught it mid-stride, sneakers skimming the court, then sliced through the defense and scored a layup. 66 to 67.
He wiped his palms on his shorts and scanned the court.
"Come on, guys, concentrate. Let's stop this one," Makoto said, voice hoarse and low.
Shoyo's shooter pulled up beyond the arc and fired a three-pointer. The ball struck the rim hard and bounced off once. Every player's eyes tracked the ball.
Hidesuke boxed out fiercely, grabbing the rebound and landing hard on the court. Their bench leapt to their feet.
"Great, now pass me the ball so that we can run the play, Captain!" Makoto called, stepping into position.
Hidesuke met Makoto's gaze, lips curling into a smirk that didn't reach his eyes—cold, calculating. His fingers twitched briefly on the ball, then he pushed it to the floor and sprinted forward, dribbling fast, pounding like a drumbeat.
He split two defenders. Makoto took a step forward, shouting, "Hidesuke! Stop!"
Hidesuke ignored him.
He planted his foot near the right block and leapt for a layup. A Shoyo defender met him midair and swatted the ball away. The ball ricocheted off the backboard and was scooped up by their point guard, who dashed up the court and pulled up for a mid-range shot. The ball left his hands cleanly and sank through the net as the buzzer echoed.
66 to 69
The gym filled with roaring cheers from the opposing side. Their bench spilled onto the court.
Makoto stood frozen for a moment, chest heaving, breath hitching as a cold fire flickered behind his eyes. Then he spun and stormed through the tunnel. The distant roar still ringing in his ears, he pushed open the door to the hallway outside the locker rooms and shoved Hidesuke hard, pinning him against the wall. The sharp crack echoed down the corridor.
"Hidesuke, you idiot! You cost us this whole game! What the hell is wrong with you? Why didn't you pass the ball?" Makoto spat, voice thick with hurt and fury.
Hidesuke didn't flinch. His eyes gleamed cold, voice steady, lips curling into a nasty smirk.
"There's no way I'd allow you to get the last laugh, you cocky brat. If we had won that game, my father would've made you out to be something special. I didn't want that to happen. That's why."
Makoto's arms trembled, breath catching, a storm of anger and pain coiling tight in his chest.
He turned sharply toward Coach Izanagi, who appeared just then at the corner. The coach's eyes flickered with conflicted emotion—jaw clenched, fists tight at his sides, clipboard bending slightly under the pressure.
The silence stretched long.
Finally, Coach Izanagi exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw tight. "I don't want to hear it. You disappointed me today. They were right. I shouldn't have let an inexperienced player like you take charge of this team. I feel so stupid."
" Everyone get your things together, we're leaving" the coach said as he left the locker room.
From behind, Daichi's laugh cut through the tension—light, almost friendly—but with an edge beneath, like a knife hidden in silk.
"What's wrong? Coach Didn't give you the answer you were expecting?" Daichi said, stepping into the locker room with a calm, reassuring smile. His eyes flicked briefly toward Makoto, calculating.
"Don't forget that Hidesuke is his son," Daichi added with a shrug, voice smooth. "No matter what you say, you'd still be in the wrong."
Makoto stepped back, arms trembling—not from fatigue, but from cold fury and hurt. The grip in his fingers loosened.
"Screw this, I'm out of here. Not going to waste my time on this crap. I'm quitting for good," he said, voice shaking but resolute.
"Go ahead and leave," Hidesuke called after him, voice louder now, dripping with certainty. "We don't need you anymore, you useless point guard."