Kogure checked the ball to the manager and cleared to the wing.
The manager attacked immediately—no hesitation, just explosive movement that didn’t quite match his age.
Matsushita tried to cut him off, but the manager changed speeds with practiced ease, his dribble rhythm shifting unpredictably.
He’s still got it, Kogure thought, watching closely.
When Matsushita’s weight shifted forward even slightly, the manager planted his right foot and exploded.
Two dribbles and he was past, leaving Matsushita scrambling to recover.
But Matsushita was quick.
He caught up in three strides, using his body to bump the manager, trying to disrupt his momentum toward the basket.
SCREECH.
The manager stopped on a dime.
Matsushita’s momentum carried him forward—just one step, but in basketball, one step was everything.
The separation created was clean, perfect.
The manager rose into his shooting motion without hesitation.
His form was textbook: square shoulders, high release point, smooth follow-through.
The ball traced a graceful arc against the afternoon sky.
Swish.
Chain net music.
“How about that?” The manager turned to Kogure with a satisfied grin.
“My pull-up jumper.
Won the scoring title with this move back in the day!”
What he didn’t mention was the miss—the final shot against Kainan, fifteen years ago, the same pull-up that had cost them the prefecture championship.
He’d spent his entire university career perfecting it afterward, making sure that failure would never repeat.
Kogure barely heard him.
[Learnable skill detected: Pull-Up Jump Shot.
Learning progress: 3%]
The system notification sent a thrill through him.
Got it.
He’s the real deal.
“That was incredible, Manager-san,” Kogure called out, injecting genuine admiration into his voice.
“Could you teach me that move?”
“You want to learn?” The manager looked pleased, his vanity clearly satisfied.
“Sure, I’ll show you after we finish playing.”
No hesitation.
No conditions.
Just a basketball player happy to pass knowledge to the next generation.
Matsushita’s expression had shifted to respect.
That’s…
that’s incredible, senior.”
The other Tsukubu players were staring at the manager with new eyes.
Anyone who’d played Kanagawa basketball knew how competitive the prefecture was.
Kainan’s fifteen-year dynasty, Ryonan’s consistent excellence, Shoyo’s athleticism—being the top scorer in that environment meant something.
The manager waved off the praise, though his smile lingered.
“That was fifteen years ago.
I’m old now.”
“Senior, you’re still amazing.” Matsushita bowed slightly.
“If you have time, we’d be honored to receive your guidance.”
“Let’s finish the game first,” the manager said, but he looked pleased.
Play resumed.
Kimura tried to use his speed to lose Matsui again, but the older man had learned his lesson.
He used positioning and experience instead of trying to match Kimura’s quickness, staying just close enough to contest without chasing.
No opening.
Matsushita recognized the stalemate and went to work himself, attacking the manager one-on-one.
But fifteen years of rust hadn’t erased fundamentals.
The manager’s defensive footwork was solid, his positioning sound.
Every move Matsushita tried, the manager countered.
Finally, Matsushita nearly lost the ball to a reaching steal and had to gather it with both hands.
“Oh, did I mention?” The manager grinned.
“I was also the steals champion that year.”
“Captain!” Godai called, cutting toward the ball.
Matsushita fired a pass—relieved to escape the pressure.
Kogure read it instantly.
His maxed reaction processed everything in real-time: Matsushita’s eyes telegraphing the target, the ball leaving his hands, Godai’s cutting angle.
Kogure exploded toward the passing lane.
Steal.
Clean.
The ball was in his hands before Godai could react.
Kogure didn’t rush.
He surveyed the court, waiting for his teammates to get into position.
Godai scrambled back, trying to pressure the ball.
One Crossover and Kogure was past him.
Kimura rotated over to help.
The moment he committed, Kogure lofted the ball toward the rim.
BANG.
Matsui rose above everyone, caught the alley-oop with both hands, and slammed it home with authority.
The backboard shook. Find the original chapter at g.com.
The chain net sang.
“Haven’t done one of those in years!” Matsui’s grin was boyish, years falling away from his weathered face.
The manager stood at half-court, studying Kogure with new interest.
That crossover had been clean—smooth rhythm, perfect weight transfer, natural flow.
Not the kind of thing you saw from bench players.
When did Kogure from Shohoku get this good?
Godai stared at Kogure like he’d grown a second head.
“Impossible,” he muttered.
“That’s not…
you couldn’t do that before.”
They’d been teammates at Kitamura just two months ago.
Godai knew Kogure’s game inside and out, or thought he did.
The fundamentally sound but athletically limited player who’d never crack the starting five.
This wasn’t that player.
It has to be a fluke, Godai decided.
Just luck.
He can’t have improved this much in two months.
Tsukubu inbounded again.
This time, Matsushita called for a screen.
Kimura set a solid pick on the manager, creating just enough separation for Matsushita to get his shot off before Matsui could rotate.
Swish.
The basket answered.
Matsushita exhaled, tension leaving his shoulders.
Good.
They could still compete.
“Kogure, your turn.” The manager inbounded the ball with a knowing look.
“Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Kogure caught it at the top of the key.
Godai crouched into defensive stance across from him, eyes intense, focus absolute.
No more assumptions.
No more taking this matchup lightly.
The afternoon sun beat down on the outdoor court.
Sweat dripped from Kogure’s jaw.
The chain nets rattled in a light breeze.
Kogure dribbled once, twice, getting a feel for the defense.