The morning after Wallace Memorial’s opening victory, Fergus discovered that winning did absolutely nothing to make his legs hurt less.
He noticed it before he had even properly woken.
Rolling onto his side produced a dull ache through his thighs, and sitting upright revealed stiffness in muscles that had been perfectly content to remain still.
Fergus had played only a fraction of the minutes Arthur, Jaime and William had, but his role had required him to spend most of those minutes chasing number twenty-three through screens, fighting to stay in front of drives and sprinting whenever Wallace forced a turnover.
By the time he shuffled downstairs for breakfast, he felt as though his body had saved every collision from the previous evening and waited until morning to complain about them.
Hamish had already left for work, while Diane was preparing for a later hospital shift and Angus sat at the table eating cereal with considerably more energy than anyone should possess that early on a Saturday.
“Eight points,” Angus announced when Fergus entered.
Fergus stopped halfway towards the cupboard.
“Are you going to say that every time you see me now?” “Eight points.” “Apparently.” Diane smiled while pouring herself tea.
“You encouraged him by asking whether he counted.” “He didn’t count.
Dad did.” “I counted some.” “You thought I had twelve.” Angus shrugged as though four imaginary points were an understandable margin of error.
“You should’ve scored twelve.” Fergus couldn’t argue with that logic, so he made breakfast and tried to ignore his younger brother reenacting several moments from the game with a spoon.
Angus’s version became less historically accurate with each retelling.
By the time Fergus finished eating, his reverse layup had apparently involved jumping over two Dalry players, while his close jumper had moved several metres farther from the basket.
Fergus eventually escaped upstairs under the excuse that he had homework.
He did actually have homework, which prevented the excuse from being entirely dishonest, and he spent most of the next hour finishing what had been assigned for Monday.
Only after putting his schoolbooks away did he allow himself to think properly about basketball again.
The game replayed easily in his memory.
Some moments still produced the same rush of excitement they had the night before.
His first basket, the reverse layup, the jumper late in the game and McKenzie’s decision to put him back onto the court with the score tied all stood out.
Yet once Fergus stopped enjoying the memory and began examining his performance more critically, there were plenty of things he could have done better.
His passing was among them.
Two assists looked respectable enough for someone who wasn’t handling the ball frequently, but Fergus remembered several passes that had reached their targets less cleanly than they should have.
One simple pass towards Arthur had forced him to reach backwards, disrupting the beginning of an offensive set, while another towards William had floated enough that a Dalry defender nearly recovered into the lane.
Neither had become a turnover, but against quicker defenders the margin would have been smaller.
McKenzie had already identified the weakness during training.
Fergus often recognised the correct pass slightly late, and even when he saw it, the basketball didn’t always arrive with the speed or placement required to make the decision useful.
That reminded him of something.
Fergus opened the System and entered the Skill Library.
He hadn’t checked Bullet Passing for several days.
The skill had first caught his attention during the summer because its natural unlock requirement appeared straightforward compared with many of the others he had discovered.
One thousand successful wall passes and fifty successful passes during recognised games or practice scrimmages had seemed like an enormous number when he first read it, particularly because Fergus hadn’t even made the Wallace team at the time.
The wall passes had been the easier part.
Throughout the summer, Fergus had spent hours throwing a basketball against brick walls, painted targets and whatever other solid surface was available without annoying someone.
Sometimes he worked from close range and concentrated on accuracy; other times he stepped farther away and tried to put enough force behind the ball that it returned quickly.
The repetitions became so routine that he eventually stopped thinking of them as progress towards Bullet Passing and simply incorporated them into his training.
By the end of summer, the first requirement had already been completed.
The second had taken longer.
Fergus hadn’t possessed recognised games in which to accumulate passes, but the System counted competitive practice scrimmages and structured team situations.
Tryouts had provided some progress, particularly during the final scrimmage, and Wallace’s team training had added more whenever McKenzie organised proper live play.
Last night’s game against Dalry had apparently supplied the final few.
The card that had remained locked for weeks was now available.
‘Bullet Passing’ ‘Tier: Grey – Basic Understanding’ ‘Natural Unlock Requirements Completed.’ ‘1,000 successful wall passes: Complete.’ ’50 successful passes during recognised games or practice scrimmages: Complete.’ ‘Unlock Skill?’ Fergus smiled.
There was something considerably more satisfying about seeing the requirements marked complete than purchasing Form Shooter from the Shop.
He had spent every Hooper Coin he owned on that skill, while Bullet Passing had cost nothing except time and repetition.
“Unlock.” The card changed.
‘Bullet Passing acquired.’ ‘Tier: Grey – Basic Understanding.’ Fergus waited for the description to appear.
‘Passing begins with delivering the basketball accurately, efficiently and at an appropriate speed.’ ‘Bullet Passing develops the host’s understanding of fundamental direct passing mechanics, including force generation, hand placement, release timing, target selection and pass placement during standard situations.’ ‘At Grey Tier, emphasis is placed on reliable chest passes, push passes and other basic direct deliveries to stationary or predictably moving teammates.’ ‘Bullet Passing does not provide advanced court vision, anticipation or playmaking ability.
Bullet Passing does not guarantee successful passes through contested passing lanes.
The host must identify an appropriate target before the skill can assist in executing the pass effectively.’ Fergus read the description twice.
The name had made Bullet Passing sound much more impressive when he first discovered it.
During the summer, Fergus had imagined passes rocketing across the court so quickly that defenders could barely react.
The actual description was considerably less dramatic.
It wouldn’t allow him to thread impossible passes through three defenders, wouldn’t give him Arthur’s awareness and apparently wouldn’t even help him recognise opportunities faster.
Still, after several weeks of training with McKenzie, Fergus understood why those limitations didn’t make the skill useless.
Knowing where to pass and being able to deliver the basketball were separate abilities.
Fergus was currently mediocre at both.
Bullet Passing addressed one of them.
He focused on the description and asked, “Will this stop me from throwing bad passes?” The System responded almost immediately.
‘No.
Bullet Passing improves understanding and execution of fundamental passing mechanics.
Poor target selection, late decisions, obstructed passing lanes, defensive pressure, and inadequate practical experience may still result in turnovers.’ Fergus had expected that answer.
“What if I see an open teammate?” ‘When the host correctly identifies an available target, Bullet Passing may assist the host in understanding the appropriate mechanics, force and placement required for a fundamental direct pass.
Successful execution remains dependent upon physical ability, timing and practical application.’ That was more useful.
Fergus closed the System and picked up the basketball lying beside his desk.
There wasn’t enough room to test anything properly upstairs, and Diane would be furious if he decided his bedroom wall was an acceptable passing partner, so he carried the ball downstairs.
“I’m going out for a bit,” he called.
Diane appeared from the kitchen.
“You’re not doing another two-hour training session the morning after a game.” “I’m just going to the court.” “That sentence normally means you’re disappearing until somebody comes looking for you.” Fergus adjusted the basketball beneath his arm.
“Half an hour?” “Forty-five minutes, and you’re taking it easy.
You played last night.” Fergus decided negotiating upwards from thirty minutes would be unwise.
“Fine.” The public court was quiet when he arrived.
Fergus resisted the temptation to start shooting and instead moved towards the brick wall beside the playing area where he had completed hundreds of his summer repetitions.
The wall still carried several faint marks from repeated basketball impacts.
Fergus selected one of them as a target.
His first pass struck the wall and returned directly towards his chest.
The difference wasn’t dramatic.
He tried again, this time paying closer attention to the movement.
Bullet Passing directed his awareness towards details Fergus had previously understood only vaguely.
His hands weren’t merely pushing the basketball forward; force began through his body and transferred through the arms before the final extension of his wrists and fingers.
The target mattered as well.
Throwing directly towards where a moving teammate currently stood wasn’t always the same as delivering the basketball where that teammate needed to receive it.
He increased the speed.
The ball struck the wall and returned sharply enough that Fergus had to react quickly to catch it.
Again.
Over the next several minutes, he varied the target and angle rather than standing in one place mindlessly repeating identical chest passes.
Bullet Passing didn’t transform the exercise into something effortless.
Fergus still misplaced passes when he hurried, occasionally applied too much force and discovered that his left side felt noticeably less coordinated whenever he tried releasing from an unfamiliar angle.
The improvement was in his understanding.
When a pass struck too far to the right, Fergus had a clearer sense of why.
When one lacked force, he could recognise where the movement had broken down instead of simply deciding he needed to throw harder next time.
A Star’s Work Ethic made those corrections easier to absorb, but the process still required repetition.
That suited Fergus.
He had become rather good at repetition.
The more interesting test came at Tuesday’s team training.
McKenzie began with ordinary drills before moving into transition work, placing players into small groups and forcing them to advance the basketball without unnecessary dribbles.
Fergus had struggled with similar exercises before because the pace exposed both of his passing weaknesses at once.
He needed to recognise the available teammate quickly and then deliver the ball accurately enough that the receiver could continue moving.
Bullet Passing solved only the second problem.
That became obvious almost immediately.
Fergus caught a pass near halfway and saw William moving ahead along the right side.
He hesitated for perhaps half a second while deciding whether the lane was safe, which gave a defender time to shift towards William.
Fergus passed anyway.
The delivery itself was excellent.
The decision wasn’t.
William caught the ball but immediately found himself trapped near the sideline, forcing him to send it backwards.
McKenzie blew his whistle.
“Robertson.” Fergus already knew what was coming.
“You saw Campbell earlier than you passed it.” “Yeah.” “Then why did you wait?” “I wasn’t sure the pass was there.” “It was there when you first looked.
It wasn’t there by the time you finally decided to throw it.” McKenzie pointed towards William.
“A good pass delivered late is still a bad decision.
Trust what you’re seeing.” Fergus nodded.
“Got it.” They reset.
On the next repetition, Fergus received the ball and found Arthur moving ahead.
This time he made the decision earlier and delivered the pass towards Arthur’s outside shoulder, away from the defender trailing him.
Arthur caught it without breaking stride.
The difference was immediately noticeable.
Arthur took two more steps before sending the ball towards Jaime, who finished the possession at the basket.
McKenzie didn’t stop the drill.
That was approval enough.
Later, during a half-court scrimmage, Fergus began discovering where Bullet Passing might actually help him stay on the court.
McKenzie wasn’t asking him to orchestrate the offence or create difficult passing angles.
Arthur handled most of that responsibility whenever they shared the floor.
Fergus’s job was usually much simpler: move the basketball when necessary, avoid holding it too long and don’t turn an ordinary possession into a disaster.
Before acquiring the skill, even those simple passes occasionally caused problems.
Now, when Fergus received the ball on the wing and Arthur relocated towards the top, he could deliver it cleanly without forcing Arthur to reach away from his body.
When William established position near the elbow, Fergus placed the pass where William could catch it securely rather than floating it into an area a defender might attack.
None of those passes would appear impressive to anyone watching.
That was precisely why Fergus liked them.
During one possession, Jaime drove from the opposite wing and kicked the ball towards Fergus after drawing help.
Fergus caught it with a defender beginning to close towards him.
For a moment he considered the jumper, but the defender was arriving quickly enough to make the shot uncomfortable.
Arthur had moved into space above the arc.
Fergus saw him and passed immediately.
The basketball travelled directly towards Arthur’s shooting pocket.
Arthur caught it cleanly, set his feet and knocked down the jumper.
As they ran back, Arthur looked towards Fergus.
“Nice pass.” Fergus grinned.
“You made it look better.” “I usually do.” “Should’ve known you’d ruin the compliment.” Arthur laughed and picked up his defensive assignment.
McKenzie had been watching from the sideline.
He didn’t praise Fergus, but he didn’t stop the scrimmage either, and that mattered more than Fergus would have understood a month earlier.
Every interruption from McKenzie usually meant somebody had made a mistake.
Fergus wanted to become boring enough that the coach had no reason to interrupt him.
That thought would once have sounded ridiculous.
Fergus had grown up watching players such as Stephen Curry, LeBron James and other NBA stars create moments that seemed impossible, and naturally he had imagined becoming the sort of player who produced highlights rather than the sort who simply moved the basketball safely from one teammate to another.
His current reality was different.
He was a thirteen-year-old reserve on a school basketball team, fighting to establish himself as someone McKenzie could trust.
He wasn’t going to earn additional minutes by attempting passes Arthur could make and Fergus couldn’t, nor would the coach reward him for trying to create something spectacular every time the basketball reached his hands.
Sometimes staying on the court meant not making the mistake that gave McKenzie a reason to remove him.
Bullet Passing could help with that.
It wouldn’t fix his slower reads, and it wouldn’t suddenly transform him into a point guard.
Fergus still needed to learn how to recognise openings sooner, understand defensive rotations and make decisions under pressure.
Those weaknesses would require games, training and probably skills he hadn’t unlocked yet.
For now, however, one part of passing had become easier to develop.
When Fergus recognised the correct target, he had a better chance of putting the basketball where it needed to go.
For somebody trying to earn another few minutes off the bench, that was more than enough.