"This brat…"
Number 1's face darkened. He was part of the Youth National Team, and now… some random high school kid was trash-talking him? Who'd put up with that? Certainly not him!
Number 1 stepped forward, waved at Kota like "Come on then," while thinking,
"Sure, this short guy plays decent defense… but no way he can score on me. I've got the physical advantage. He's toast!"
"No problem! I got this! I'll lock him down easy!"
Feeling confident, Number 1 even cracked a smug little smile.
Kota didn't care. He lowered his stance, dribbled slow and steady… then suddenly exploded left with a burst of speed.
Number 1 reacted fast, sliding over to cut him off, mentally congratulating himself:
"Haha… Nice try, shorty. Against this much of a size mismatch, you've got no chance!"
Kota felt the pressure coming from the right and didn't panic. Quick behind-the-back dribble, pulled back two steps.
Number 1 stayed low, re-engaging with tight defense.
As Kota danced with crossovers, retreating bit by bit, he couldn't help but admire the guy,
"Huh... textbook defense. This dude would rank top 5 defenders even at Nationals level."
"Alright… time for an extra credit question."
...
Born Actor.
Any borderline foul? Ref's gut reaction will lean in your favor. Bonus: Draw foul rate up!
Sometimes, the only thing between you and superstar status… is a couple more trips to the free throw line.
...
Kota subtly shifted his dribbling angle, making sure Takeuchi the ref had a clear line of sight.
Then… Kota deliberately leaned in toward Number 1.
Number 1 paused, thrown off for a second.
"Wait... he's coming at me? Not dodging contact? This kid's suicidal!"
With a sneer, Number 1 stepped in hard, determined to show Kota what real physical advantage meant.
As expected, Kota got bumped mid-drive and lost his balance a bit — Number 1 grinned.
"Gotcha!"
He lunged for the steal with his right hand—reaching straight at Kota's dribble.
But Kota… was waiting for this.
Using the knockback's momentum, Kota popped up off one leg, wrapped the ball around with both hands, and launched a quick shot — just as Number 1's arm smacked straight into Kota's elbow.
BEEEEEP!
Takeuchi's whistle echoed loud.
He gave Kota an approving look.
Smart play.
Kota had baited Number 1 into swiping… drawing a textbook shooting foul.
From the ref's angle? Looked clean. From the players' perspective? Total scam.
Number 1's face flushed beet red.
He stormed over to Takeuchi, waving his arms, protesting wildly:
"No way! That's not a foul! He's faking it! No free throws!"
Takeuchi raised an eyebrow. Honestly? If Number 1 hadn't begged for this scrimmage in the first place, Takeuchi would've already thrown him out for annoying the ref.
"Sit down. Play on." Takeuchi waved him off.
Number 1 refused to let it go, still yapping… until half his teammates sprinted over, physically dragging him away.
"Dude, this is their gym… that guy's a former National Team player… and you're arguing like this? You trying to get us banned?"
Their team captain—calm, serious, the responsible type—signaled for a quick timeout.
Next thing you know, Number 1 was subbed out to cool off.
His replacement?
A nervous-looking kid with a baby face… roughly Kota's age… but nearly as tall as Number 1.
The kid's whole vibe screamed: "Please don't make me guard that guy."
Timeout over.
At the line, Kota calmly sank both free throws.
Next possession: Youth Team's ball.
The new kid dribbled up, visibly jittery as he crossed half court. Against Kota's pressure defense, he started with a couple careful dribbles… then, the moment Kota tugged up his shorts into full defensive mode…
The poor kid panicked and yeeted the ball off to a teammate like it was radioactive.
Kota blinked.
"…Bro, what?"
Amused, Kota tilted his head and called over:
"Hey kid, how old are you anyway?"
The rookie froze like a deer in headlights. After a solid two-second delay, he stammered:
"Uh… s-sixteen…"
"Ohhh… sixteen? Makes sense. You look fresh outta middle school."
Kota nodded like that explained everything… then suddenly paused.
"…Wait. Hold up. This is the U22 National Youth Team. Why's there a sixteen-year-old here??"
His tone shifted automatically—more serious now.
The kid jumped at the sudden edge in Kota's voice.
Still stammering:
"I'm… not really on the team… My dad works for the basketball federation… He just told me to come here… for practice…"
"…Oh. Nepo baby, huh?"
Kota snorted.
Didn't think Japan played that game too, but hey, guess some things were universal.
Kota grinned and pushed further:
"What's your name? High school next year?"
"Uh… Yuki… Yuki Hashimoto… I'm still in ninth grade…"
The kid relaxed a bit, seeing Kota wasn't yelling at him.
Then, confused, Yuki glanced up:
"Wait… how'd you even know these guys were the Youth National Team?"
"…Bro. Even if I were dumb, there's limits."
Kota rolled his eyes. Then smirked, suddenly hit by a mischievous idea.
"Didn't know before… now I do… thanks for the info."
Yuki's face turned pale.
"N-no wait! Please! Don't tell anyone I said that! My dad'll kill me if this leaks out!"
Kota licked his lips, grinning like a cat with a trapped mouse.
"Hmm… that's a problem for you, isn't it? I'm terrible at keeping secrets… What if I accidentally let it slip?"
He gave Yuki a teasing smile.
"But… if you were, say… at Kaijo next year keeping an eye on me… maybe I wouldn't… y'know… accidentally spill anything?"
That was right. Kota was already recruiting him.
Dad's a bigwig in the basketball world? Check.
Kid's 6'3"+ at 16? Check.
Solid fundamentals? Check
.Mentally soft? Even better—easy to mold.
Locker room influence: Loading…
Yuki froze, then stammered:
"I-I'll… I'll talk to my dad about it…"
Kota gave a satisfied nod.
Meanwhile… the game still continued.
"Kota! Stop flirting and come run the offense already!"
Kise yelled from the frontcourt, hands on hips.
The Youth Team's captain was shouting too:
"Yuki! Get your head back in the game! That blonde guy's a problem!"
"R-right! Coming!"
Yuki scrambled away, leaving Kota to stroll upcourt whistling casually.
Passing Kise, Kota teased:
"Why not just go one-on-one and score yourself? Why you need me?"
"Not fun without your passes, man!"
"Tch… brat… gimme the ball then, I'll run your show."