The phantom buzz of Sterling's call lingered on Alex's skin for the rest of the day. It was a toxin in his veins, a reminder that his past was not a ghost but a predator, and it had just caught his scent. He spent the evening not on scouting reports, but digging through old emails and news archives, reconstructing the timeline of his own professional execution. He found the sanitized press releases, the anonymous quotes from "team sources" painting him as an arrogant, disruptive presence. All of it traced back to Sterling's office.
The next morning, a new email landed in Principal Evans's inbox. Alex was summoned before first period. Evans's face was graver than it had been over the viral video.
"Mr. Corbin," he began, not offering Alex a seat. "I received a concerning call from the district athletic director. It seems your... methods... have attracted attention at a higher level."
Alex felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. "What kind of attention?"
"They've decided to send an observer to our next game. A 'qualitative review' of the program's direction." Evans leaned forward, his voice dropping. "The call was prompted by a conversation the AD had with a... a Vance Sterling. He was quite vocal about your professional history. He used the word 'liability.'"
There it was. The Sterling Sanction. He couldn't fire Alex from a high school job, so he was going to get him declared radioactive. He was applying pressure to the weak link in the chain: the bureaucracy.
"The game is against Ridgeview on Friday," Evans continued. "If this observer, Dr. Althea Vance, reports negatively, the school board will have the ammunition it needs to terminate your position. Regardless of your stipend." He looked genuinely pained. "I'm sorry, Alex. But my hands are tied."
The Ridgeview Rockets were not Southside. They were middling, beatable. A 9-8 team that relied on physicality and hustle over pure talent. It was the perfect opportunity for a statement win. Or, Alex thought darkly, a perfect trap.
He explained the situation to the team at practice, stripping it of emotion. "There will be an observer in the stands on Friday. From the district. Her report will determine if I continue as your coach."
The team exchanged glances. The news of the viral video had bonded them in a siege mentality, but this was different. This was institutional.
"What did you do, Coach?" Marcus asked, his earlier defiance replaced by a wary confusion.
"I trusted data over a superstar's ego," Alex said, the simplified version of his truth. "The same thing I'm asking you to do. Now, the man I did that to is trying to end my career. Again. He's using this game to do it."
He let the silence hang, allowing the weight of it to press down on them. This wasn't just about a win anymore. It was a referendum.
"So," Diego said, breaking the quiet. "We win, you stay. We lose...?"
"We lose, and you probably get a coach who wants you to run suicides until you puke and tells you to 'play with heart,'" Alex finished for him. "Your choice."
The practice that followed was the most focused they had ever had. The drills were sharp. The passes were crisp. The players communicated, calling out cuts and screens with an urgency that had been absent before. The threat of losing the strange, number-driven world Alex had built for them was a more powerful motivator than any pep talk.
But Alex knew focus wouldn't be enough. Sterling was too clever. The observer, Dr. Vance, would be looking for a specific thing: chaos. A coach losing control. Players rebelling. She would be waiting for him to play the villain.
He needed a new variable. A counter-algorithm.
On game day, the Northwood gym was packed. The viral video had drawn spectators like moths to a flame, eager to see the "Robot Coach" in action. In the front row, next to Principal Evans, sat a severe-looking woman in a blazer, a tablet balanced on her knees. Dr. Althea Vance.
The game began, and Alex executed his plan. He was different on the sideline. Calm. Quiet. He didn't bark percentages. He called out plays by name—"Horns!" "Flex!"—plays they had drilled all week. He subverted the "robot" narrative by being intensely human—focused, strategic, but not a calculator.
And it was working. The Titans, empowered by their crisp practice, executed beautifully. They built a small lead. Ben hit two 98% layups. Diego took only optimal threes. Even Marcus was passing out of double-teams.
Then, with three minutes left in the half, Sterling's trap was sprung.
Marcus drove the lane, drew the defense, and kicked the ball out to Samir, who was wide open for a corner three. The percentage glowed a healthy 72% in Alex's vision. It was the right shot.
Samir shot. The ball rimmed out.
A Ridgeview player grabbed the rebound and launched a full-court pass. Their fastest guard caught it and sprinted for an uncontested layup.
As the ball went through the net, Alex saw it. Marcus, frustrated, turned to Samir and yelled, "You gotta hit that, man! That's a gimme!"
Samir shriveled, his confidence visibly shattering.
On the sideline, Dr. Vance made a note on her tablet.
This was it. The moment of chaos Sterling had predicted. The team fracturing under the pressure of his system. The "human element" rebelling against the machine.
Alex called a time-out.
The players trudged to the bench, their heads down. Marcus was fuming. Samir looked on the verge of tears. The observer was watching, her pen poised.
This was the crossroads. The old Alex would have cited the 72% probability, telling Samir it was the right shot and to take it again. It was the logical, defensible move. And it would have confirmed every negative stereotype about him.
He looked at Samir's despondent face, then at Marcus's angry one. He saw the numbers, but for the first time, he saw past them. The 72% was a team percentage. It didn't account for Samir's fragile psyche or Marcus's frustration.
He crouched in front of them, his voice low and steady.
"Samir," he said. "That was the right shot. I want you to take it again every single time."
Samir nodded weakly.
Then Alex turned to Marcus. "And you. You saw the opening. You made the right pass. That's your job. His job is to shoot. Your job is to have his back when he misses. Because he will. The math says he will. We don't win with one shot. We win as a unit."
He wasn't talking to them as assets. He was talking to them as a team.
Marcus held his glare for a moment, then looked away, a flicker of shame replacing the anger. He gave a short, sharp nod.
The timeout ended. As the team headed back to the court, Marcus clapped Samir on the shoulder. "My bad, Samir. Next one's going in."
It was a small gesture. But from Marcus, it was a seismic shift. Dr. Vance watched the exchange, her head tilted. She made another note on her tablet.
They didn't win the game in that moment. But as the second half began, Alex saw a new number appear above his team, a percentage he'd never calculated before. It wasn't for a shot or a pass. It was an intangible, a feeling.
Cohesion: 81%. And rising.
The Sterling Sanction had failed. The machine had learned heart.