“Continue!”
Ikeda Yuho tossed the ball back to Kogure.
Outside the three-point line, Kogure took a probing step forward.
His defender shifted his weight.
Perfect.
Crossover—left, then exploding right.
The change of rhythm caught Ikeda off-balance for just a heartbeat.
Kogure drove past him.
Ikeda recovered quickly, veteran instincts kicking in.
But Kogure planted hard and stopped on a dime.
Ikeda hit the brakes—ready this time.
Not fast enough.
With maxed reaction speed, Kogure read Ikeda’s deceleration the instant it happened.
Instead of shooting, he exploded forward again before Ikeda could restart.
Two strides into the paint, and he went up for the layup.
Swish.
“Kogure, you’re really something!” Ikeda’s grin was genuine.
As captain, he’d rather have strong teammates than protect his ego.
Next possession, Ikeda went to work.
Outside the arc, he backed Kogure down.
His post game wasn’t refined, but at his size, he didn’t need finesse.
Just weight and leverage.
Kogure dug in, but physics was physics.
At under sixty kilograms, he couldn’t hold ground against someone twenty pounds heavier.
No five-second back-to-the-basket rule in this era meant Ikeda could bully him all the way to the paint.
Step by step, Kogure gave ground.
Shoulders burning, legs straining—he was getting a crash course in post defense.
Near the basket, Ikeda spun for the turnaround jumper.
Clang.
The shot rattled off the rim.
His footwork had been sloppy, release point too flat.
Kogure grabbed the rebound.
By now, more Shohoku players had filtered into the gym.
They lined the sideline, watching silently.
The one-on-one continued.
Neither could consistently stop the other.
Points traded back and forth—offensive showcase masquerading as competitive basketball.
Really, it was two players near the same level finding their range.
If Ikeda was destined to be a starter on a weak team, then Kogure was rapidly approaching that threshold himself.
Finally, Kogure rose up for another pull-up jumper.
The defense was tight, his balance slightly off—he aimed to miss it.
Better to let the captain save his rep.
He needed that gym key, after all.
The ball left his hands with too much spin, trajectory wrong.
Bang-swish.
Backboard, then basket.
The lucky bounce gave Kogure the game by one point.
Are you kidding me?
Kogure stared at the hoop, speechless.
He’d literally tried to miss.
“Kogure, I didn’t expect you to be this strong!”
“Just luck.” Kogure’s modesty was genuine this time.
“Play another game and you’d win easily, Captain.”
They shared a knowing look, both understanding and accepting the result.
From the sideline, Akagi’s voice boomed.
“Kogure!
After three years of hard work, you’ve finally broken through!”
The gorilla-faced freshman looked genuinely thrilled.
He’d watched Kogure struggle for years—this improvement meant everything.
But confusion creased his features.
“Yesterday in the freshman scrimmage, you were…
well, average.
What changed?”
Kogure wiped sweat from his forehead.
“I’ve been training all day.
Plus I got some coaching from an expert—learned a few new skills.”
“All day?” Akagi blinked.
“Wait, I didn’t see you in class today.
I thought you were sick!”
They were in the same homeroom, though they lived in opposite directions and rarely commuted together.
“I took a sick day,” Kogure said simply.
“I promised Mitsui we wouldn’t get eliminated before he recovers.
To keep that promise, I need to get stronger—fast.”
Given their friendship, no point hiding it.
Besides, his parents had approved the leave and his grades provided cover.
The teachers would look the other way unless his scores tanked.
Akagi’s eyes widened, then blazed with determination.
“You really surprised me, Kogure.
But I’m not letting you carry this alone—I made that promise too.” He straightened, decision made.
“I’m taking sick leave too.”
Like Kogure, Akagi would need to convince his parents.
But not everyone had guardians as understanding as Kogure’s.
The other teammates crowded closer, especially the three from Takeishi Junior High.
“What promise with Mitsui?” one asked.
Kogure explained everything—Mitsui’s injury, the one-month recovery, the vow to keep the team alive until he returned.
Energy rippled through the group.
“I’m taking sick leave too!” Okamoto Nobuhiko from Takeishi suddenly declared.
“Your grades aren’t good enough,” Yamamoto Kuma said flatly.
Cold water on hot enthusiasm.
Okamoto’s face fell, then hardened with resolve.
“Fine.
Then I’ll train twice as hard during practice.
We’re not getting eliminated before Mitsui comes back!”
“Hell yeah!
Let’s do this together!”
The freshmen’s passion was infectious.
Unlike the upperclassmen who’d tasted defeat year after year, these first-years still believed.
Their fire rekindled something in the veterans—a warmth they’d thought extinguished.
Subtle but unmistakable.
Captain Ikeda watched it happen, satisfaction warming his chest.
The team was still weak, sure.
But that defeated energy after Mitsui’s injury?
Gone.
“I love seeing this fighting spirit,” Ikeda called out.
“But remember—train smart.
Injuries help no one.
Now let’s get to work!”
Daily practice began.
Conditioning laps, suicide sprints, dribbling circuits, passing drills, layup lines.
Foundation work to build stamina and fundamentals.
When Ikeda finally dismissed them to free practice, Kogure grabbed Tanaka Jiro—another Takeishi player who wanted to improve his defense.
“Guard me.
Hard as you can.”
Tanaka set up.
Kogure went to work.
Crossover into pull-up jumper.
The two skills chained together perfectly, each rep improving both.
This combo would become his bread and butter—a reliable scoring sequence when the game mattered.
[Crossover: Proficiency +2]
[Pull-Up Jump Shot: Proficiency +2]
The notifications appeared with each clean repetition.
Live defense doubled the gains compared to solo practice.
Coach Anzai never showed.
According to Ikeda, the retired legend only dropped by once every few days.
Technically still coach in name, practically a mascot to boost the school’s reputation.
A mutually beneficial arrangement that left the players to fend for themselves.
The sun sank toward the horizon, painting the gym windows gold and crimson.
Rep after rep.
Kogure drove, stepped back, rose up, released.
Swish.
[Crossover: Proficiency +2]
[Pull-Up Jump Shot: Proficiency +2]
Check the numbers.
Pull-up jump shot was close now.
So close.
One more.
Kogure broke Tanaka’s ankles with the crossover, created separation, went up for the jumper.
Bang-swish.
Backboard, then net.
Not the prettiest make, but points counted the same.
[Crossover: Proficiency +2]
[Pull-Up Jump Shot: Proficiency +2]
Kogure checked his skill window.
His heart rate kicked up.
Two points away.
Just two more proficiency points until his pull-up jump shot leveled up.