The last time Alex Corbin stood on a professional sideline, he saw a number flicker above the league MVP's head.
It was a swirling, sickly orange: 11%.
The air in the arena was thick with popcorn grease and roaring anticipation. The game was tied. One possession left. The ball, as it always did, found its way into the hands of Damian "The Sword" Sharpe. He was the superstar, the closer, the man who made highlight reels for a living.
And from Alex's perspective, he was about to throw the game away.
"No! Time out! Call a time out!" Alex's voice was a raw, desperate thing, tearing from his throat. He wasn't the head coach; he was just the data guy, the man with the tablet and the probabilities. But he had the head coach's ear.
Coach Harkness glanced at him, annoyance warring with pressure in his eyes. "What?"
"The double-team is coming from the weak side. Sharpe's percentage on step-back threes against a double-team is eleven percent. Eleven!" Alex's finger stabbed at his tablet, where the damning data was displayed. "We have a 94% look if we get it to Jenkins on the pop-out. It's the optimal play."
On the court, Sharpe was sizing up his defender, the play clock ticking down. Five… four…
Harkness hesitated. The weight of ten thousand fans, of a national TV audience, of the entire season, pressed down on him. Go with the cold, unfeeling math of a 28-year-old nerd? Or trust the heart of a superstar?
He turned away from Alex. "Let him cook."
The phrase made Alex want to vomit. Cooking was for chefs. This was a science.
Three… two…
Sharpe took the step-back, the double-team arrived exactly as predicted, and he launched a heavily contested three-pointer. The ball left his fingertips, and Alex's world narrowed to that single, arcing trajectory. He didn't see a basketball; he saw the 11% probability hurtling towards the rim.
It clanged off the back iron with a sound that felt like a nail being hammered into Alex's career.
The buzzer blared. Overtime.
They lost in overtime. The next day, Alex Corbin was officially "relieved of his duties." A carefully placed leak from the front frame painted him as an arrogant, meddling statistician who didn't understand the "human element" of the game. He was blacklisted. A pariah.
Now, two years later, the only numbers that concerned Alex were the ones on the overdue rent notice taped to his door. The apartment smelled of stale instant noodles and despair. His "office" was the small kitchen table, littered with the carcasses of failed freelance data analysis projects.
His phone buzzed, shattering the silence. It was a number he didn't recognize, with a local area code.
"Mr. Corbin? This is Principal Evans over at Northwood High."
Northwood. The school where he'd been temping as a substitute for the past six months. A place where his biggest achievement was not losing any of the students.
"Yes, Principal Evans?"
"We have a… situation. Coach Miller for the Varsity Titans has just resigned. Effective immediately."
Alex almost laughed. "Resigned" was a generous term. The Titans had a 2-15 record. The man had probably just driven off a cliff to escape the shame.
"That's… unfortunate."
"It is. And our game against Southside is tomorrow. I need a warm body on the sideline, Mr. Corbin. You're the only staff member with any basketball knowledge on your file. However… limited that knowledge may be." The principal's voice was heavy with unspoken meaning. He'd Googled him. Of course he had.
A cold dread pooled in Alex's stomach. Step back into that world? Even at this level? It was a waking nightmare.
"Sir, I'm not sure I'm the right—"
"It's this or your substitute position is terminated," Evans said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "The pay is a small stipend. Enough to cover that rent you're behind on, according to Mrs. Gable in the office."
The mention of his landlady's name was the final, humiliating push. He was cornered.
"Fine," Alex said, the word tasting like ash. "I'll do it."
The Northwood High gymnasium was a cathedral of faded glory. The banners hanging from the rafters were from a different century. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and industrial floor wax.
Ten young men in mismatched practice jerseys were engaged in what could charitably be called a scrimmage. It was chaos. A festival of terrible decisions.
And for the first time in two years, the numbers came back.
It was a trickle at first, then a flood. A shimmering, silent overlay on reality that he had tried so hard to suppress.
Marcus "Jumpshot" Jones, the team's nominal star, drove into a thicket of three defenders. A floating, flickering 28% appeared above his head. He shot anyway. The ball ricocheted wildly off the backboard.
Diego "Slick" Rivera attempted a behind-the-back pass through a non-existent gap. Turnover Probability: 91%. The ball sailed into the stands.
Alex's eye twitched. This was torture.
Then he saw him. Ben Carter, a tall, lumbering kid with clumsy feet, found himself wide open under the basket after an offensive rebound. A teammate passed him the ball. It was a gift. A gimme.
And above Ben's head, a number glowed with a beautiful, solid, emerald-green certainty: 99%.
It was the highest percentage Alex had seen all day. A statistical near-certainty.
Ben caught the ball, fumbled it, and in a panic, passed it back out to the perimeter where Marcus was already swarmed.
The 99% vanished, replaced by Marcus's new 22% look.
Alex couldn't take it anymore.
"STOP!"
The word echoed through the gym, sharp and commanding. The scrimmage ground to a halt. Ten pairs of eyes turned to him, a mixture of surprise, annoyance, and outright disdain.
"You," Alex said, pointing at Ben, his voice tight. "You were under the basket. The highest percentage shot in basketball. Why didn't you take it?"
Ben shrank, his face turning red. "I… I don't know. Marcus was open."
"Marcus was not open," Alex stated, his gaze sweeping over the team. "He was contested. You had a ninety-nine percent chance of scoring. He had a twenty-two percent chance. The math is simple. You take the shot."
Marcus stepped forward, puffing out his chest. "Who are you, man? The new clip-board guy? Let us play."
Alex met his glare. The old, familiar feeling of being dismissed, of being the smartest person in the room who nobody would listen to, rose like bile in his throat.
"I'm the coach," Alex said, the title feeling alien on his tongue. He looked at Ben, then back at the team. "And from now on, we're going to start listening to the math. Whether you like it or not."
He saw the rebellion in their eyes. The utter lack of understanding. He was back at square one, surrounded by chaos, the only one who could see the clear, logical path through the noise.
And for the first time in two years, despite the dread, despite the humiliation, a tiny, stubborn part of him felt alive.