The silence in the gym was louder than any roar from his old NBA life. Ten teenage boys stared at Alex, their expressions a cocktail of confusion, resentment, and outright mutiny. The phrase "listening to the math" hung in the air like a bad smell.
Marcus Jones was the first to break. A scoff escaped his lips, sharp and dismissive. "Math? This is basketball, man. Not a calculator class." A few of the other players snickered, their loyalty clearly with their star.
Alex felt the old, familiar walls slam down inside him. He was the outsider, the nerd, the guy who didn't get it. He took a slow breath, forcing the tidal wave of percentages and probabilities in his vision to recede. He had to simplify. He had to speak their language.
"Fine," Alex said, his voice low and steady. "Forget math. Let's talk about winning. How's that working out for you? Two and fifteen?"
The laughter died. The snickers vanished. He had struck a nerve.
"Coach Miller didn't know what he was doing," Marcus shot back, defensively.
"And you do?" challenged Diego, twirling a basketball on his finger.
Alex ignored the question. He walked over to the ball rack and picked up a basketball. It felt foreign and familiar all at once.
"Ben," he said, pointing to the spot under the basket. "Stand right there."
Ben looked like a deer caught in headlights, but he shuffled to the spot.
"Marcus, you're on defense. Guard him."
Marcus smirked, sauntering over and planting himself in front of Ben, his athletic frame making Ben look even more awkward.
"Now," Alex said, tossing the ball to Ben. "Ben, you have one job. Put the ball in the hoop. Marcus, you have one job. Stop him."
Ben caught the ball, his hands trembling slightly. He made a weak, half-hearted pump fake. Marcus didn't even jump. Ben then turned and launched a clumsy, off-balance hook shot that missed the rim entirely.
Shot Quality: 8%. Result: Miss.
"Pathetic," Marcus muttered.
"Again," Alex commanded, his voice devoid of emotion.
He rebounded the ball and passed it back to Ben. The same thing happened. A timid move, a terrible shot. 12%. Miss.
The rest of the team watched, some looking bored, others amused by Ben's suffering. Alex saw the numbers, but he also saw the real problem: a complete lack of confidence, a mental block so severe it overrode even the most basic mechanics.
"Stop." Alex walked onto the court. "You're thinking too much. You're not a shooter. You're a finisher. The hoop is bigger than you think. You don't need to shoot. You just need to finish."
He positioned Ben directly under the rim. "Your job is to jump straight up and lay the ball directly up against the backboard. No spin. No fancy stuff. Just up." He demonstrated a simple, fundamental layup. It was the most boring, un-athletic move imaginable.
Shot Quality: 99%. Result: High Probability.
"Now, you try."
Ben took the ball. He looked at Alex, then at the hoop. He took a deep breath, jumped, and did exactly as he was told. The ball left his fingertips, kissed softly off the glass, and dropped through the net with a quiet swish.
The 99% glowed, then vanished, its prediction confirmed.
For a moment, nobody spoke. Ben stared at his hands as if he'd just performed magic.
"See?" Alex said, looking directly at Marcus. "That's a ninety-nine percent shot. Your contested fadeaway?" He turned his gaze to Marcus. "What would you call that? A thirty percent shot? Maybe thirty-five on a good day? You'd need to take three of them to statistically match one of Ben's."
Marcus's smirk was gone, replaced by a scowl. "Game ain't played on a spreadsheet, Coach."
"No," Alex agreed, a flicker of his old fire igniting. "But it's won by the team that takes the most high-percentage shots. It's that simple. From now on, we're going to hunt for ninety-nine percent shots. And we're going to eliminate the thirty percent shots. That's our system."
He turned to the rest of the team. "Practice is over. Tomorrow, we play Southside. Be here, ready to warm up, one hour before tip-off."
The team dispersed, grumbling and shuffling out of the gym. Ben lingered for a moment, looking at the hoop again before heading to the locker room.
Alex was left alone in the vast, empty space. The adrenaline faded, leaving a cold hollow in its place. He had done it. He had stepped back onto the sideline. He had thrown down the gauntlet.
He pulled out his phone and pulled up the scouting report for Southside High. They were 16-1. Their star player, a kid named Jamal Reynolds, was being scouted by Division I colleges. As he watched the grainy game footage, the numbers started to dance.
*Jamal Reynolds: Drive & Finish - 68%. Pull-up Jumper - 62%. Three-Pointer - 41%.*
They were good numbers. For a high school kid, they were great.
But Alex wasn't looking at the strengths. He was looking for the weaknesses. He saw the tell when Jamal was going left instead of right. He saw the slight dip in his percentage when a defender went under a screen. He saw the 12% probability when he was forced into a double-team on his weak side.
A grim, determined smile touched Alex's lips for the first time in two years.
Southside had a star.
But Alex Corbin had the data. And tomorrow, he was going to introduce them to a variable they had never accounted for.