The three of us sat on the curb, the evening breeze carrying the last heat of the sun. Mitsui kept his arms crossed, glaring at Ryota like he was still one breath away from lunging. Ryota, stubborn as ever, sat forward with clenched fists, glaring back.
I broke the silence. "So… why the hell were you two fighting?"
Mitsui scoffed, jerking his thumb at Ryota. "This brat sucker-punched me the other day. No reason, no warning. Just came at me like a dog."
Ryota shot to his feet, eyes blazing. "No reason? Don't play dumb! You were bothering Ayako!"
Mitsui's brows furrowed. "What? Bothering her? I wasn't. She dropped her notebook in the hallway, and I picked it up. That's it."
Ryota blinked, taken aback. His mouth opened, then closed again. His anger faltered into something else—embarrassment.
"You… you weren't?" he muttered.
"No," Mitsui said flatly. "I don't waste my time with that kind of crap."
A heavy pause stretched between them before Ryota finally lowered his head. "Then… I was wrong. Sorry."
Mitsui stared at him, clearly fighting his pride. Then he smacked Ryota on the back of the head with an open palm. "Tch. Fine. Now we're even."
Ryota rubbed his head but managed a small grin. "Guess so."
I exhaled, relieved. "Good. If there's no fight left, then I'm taking Mitsui with me. There's something I need to talk to him about."
Ryota gave me a puzzled look, but then nodded. "Got it. Thanks, Sakuragi." With that, he left, jogging down the street until he was out of sight.
Words That Cut
Now it was just me and Mitsui. He glared at me like a cornered wolf. "So what the hell do you want from me now?"
I met his stare without flinching. "Why are you wasting your life as a delinquent… when you were meant to be a basketball player?"
That hit him like a slap. His jaw clenched, his fists tightening. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know enough," I said evenly. "I've seen your shot. I've seen your form. That doesn't come from playing around in alleys. That's the work of someone who loved this game."
Mitsui's voice cracked with anger. "Loved. Past tense."
"No," I shot back, my tone sharp. "You still love it. You're just running from it."
The words lit a fuse. He exploded into a verbal storm—anger, frustration, bitterness spilling out. "You don't get it! I had everything! I was the best in middle school, the MVP, a champion! I thought I'd dominate high school too… but then my knee snapped. I tried to come back, pushed too hard, and it went again. And then—Akagi. That damn gorilla. He stood in my way. My pride, my team, everything—gone!"
His voice broke. He turned his face away, eyes wet. "And what was left for me? Nothing. Nothing but this." He gestured vaguely at the streets, at himself.
I stayed quiet, letting him spill it all. When he finally slumped forward, breathing heavy, I spoke.
"You're an idiot."
Mitsui snapped his head toward me, furious. "What did you just say—?!"
I leaned in, my voice calm but cutting. "You're a shooting guard. And you tried to beat a center… at his own game. In the paint. In his fortress. That's not pride. That's stupidity. No guard can win that way, not against someone like Akagi."
His eyes widened.
I continued, my tone sharper now. "But if you had played to your strengths, no center in Japan could've stopped you. Your shot, your rhythm—Akagi would've been helpless. And you know what else? No championship is won alone. Even the brightest star needs strong teammates. A superstar surrounded by mediocrity will always fall short."
Images of Shaq flashed through my mind. The glory, the dominance, the collapse. If only we had set aside our egos longer…
Mitsui's shoulders trembled. His face twisted, the anger breaking into something deeper. His fists hit his knees, and the tears finally came.
"Damn it…" he whispered. "Damn it all."
The Truth
I reached out and pressed a finger firmly against his chest, right where his heart beat.
"Answer me this, Mitsui. Do you still love basketball?"
He froze, his breath catching. For a long moment, the silence stretched. Then, his lips parted, voice low, trembling but clear.
"…Yes. I love it. I still love basketball."
I smiled faintly, leaning back. "Then it's not too late. Forget the gangs. Forget the excuses. If you love it, you can come back."
Mitsui stared at me, tears streaking his face, a storm raging behind his eyes. Finally, he exhaled, shaky but steady.
"…I want to play again."
And just like that, a fire that had almost died out began to burn once more.