Head Coach Gallagher had just stepped out of the training facility when he heard Yang Yan's sharp curse echo behind him. He flinched involuntarily, glancing back toward the arena. Without another word, he hurried off, choosing to avoid any confrontation.
In truth, Gallagher knew he was partially responsible for the growing tension. Yang Yan's contributions had been pivotal during Oakley's absence. If not for Yang Yan's somewhat casual attitude during training, no one— not even the president of the university—could reasonably challenge his spot in the starting lineup.
The rumors Johnny had been spreading turned out to be true.
Three days later, when Yang Yan walked into the gym early in the morning, he immediately noticed a new face among the players.
That unfamiliar presence was Oakley—formerly the starting small forward for Ohio State University.
Yang Yan had been so focused on using the system and training that he hadn't paid Oakley any attention during his injury recovery period. Oakley had been sidelined for months, and Yang Yan had fully occupied the small forward slot in his absence.
Without dwelling on it, Yang Yan dropped his backpack and began his warm-up routine. He trained diligently for half an hour before taking his usual place on the bench.
Oakley, on the other hand, was working hard on the court. Every movement was exact. His demeanor was disciplined, meticulous—clearly eager to earn his place back.
Coach Gallagher, observing from the sidelines, nodded with approval. Oakley's commitment reminded him of the kind of attitude he wished Yang Yan possessed. He caught himself drifting into that thought and shook his head, annoyed at his own bias.
His gaze drifted toward Yang Yan, who was lounging on the bench, one leg over the other, calm and relaxed.
"Hmph," Gallagher grunted internally. "Not even the slightest urgency."
Most players, he reasoned, would feel threatened by the return of a former starter. A sense of crisis would ignite a more competitive fire. But Yang Yan? He seemed unaffected.
Training wrapped up shortly after, and Gallagher called everyone together to announce the lineup for the upcoming home game against Ohio State.
As expected, the starting positions for four of the five roles remained unchanged. The only shift came at small forward.
"Starting small forward—Oakley," Gallagher declared.
A flicker of surprise passed over Oakley's face, quickly replaced by visible gratitude. He clutched his chest and responded enthusiastically, "Thank you for your trust, Coach. I won't let you down!"
Gallagher patted him on the shoulder, smiling. "Don't be too excited. It's your first game back—just focus on getting into rhythm."
Oakley nodded solemnly, but the moment passed with an undercurrent of unease.
Among the team, the remaining four starters exchanged glances, their brows furrowing. When the huddle dispersed, Oden slung an arm around Conley's shoulders.
"What do you make of this?" Oden asked quietly.
Conley shrugged. "Make of what?"
"Don't play dumb. We've been playing great these past few months. Yang Yan has synced perfectly with us. And now—just as March Madness is about to start—they switch him out for Oakley?"
Oden's voice dropped to a whisper. "I don't hate Oakley. But the team can't afford uncertainty now."
"You're not wrong," Conley said. "But you've seen Yang Yan's attitude in training. If I were Coach Gallagher, I'd be frustrated too."
Oden opened his mouth to argue, but Conley held up a hand. "Let it go. March Madness is still two weeks out. Let's not stir things up again."
Despite his words, Conley's eyes clouded as he turned away.
He knew Oden was right. Yang Yan had earned his spot. But their last effort to pressure Gallagher into a decision had already pushed boundaries. Doing it again could seriously backfire.
In college ball, challenging a head coach's authority was a risky move. And Gallagher had tolerated their earlier maneuver only because it worked.
Still, Conley couldn't help glancing back at Yang Yan, who remained silent on the bench. There was something unknowable about him. His calmness wasn't arrogance—it was almost like he was playing a different game altogether.
The next day, the home game against Ohio State tipped off.
As expected, Oakley returned to the court as starting small forward. He played earnestly, contesting every possession, defending tightly, running with purpose.
And yet, from the sidelines, Gallagher occasionally frowned.
Oakley wasn't playing poorly. In fact, he was solid. Dependable. Everything a coach would want in a starter.
But Gallagher couldn't shake a feeling. Something was missing.
Perhaps it was the memory of Yang Yan's dazzling passes, his fluid motion, the unpredictable spark he brought to the team. Oakley's textbook performance now felt... sterile in comparison.
Still, Gallagher gave Oakley plenty of minutes. After all, the man had just returned from injury. He deserved time to adjust.
Meanwhile, in Dragon Kingdom, fans flooded the livestream chat.
[Where's Yang Yan?]
[Why hasn't he been subbed in yet?]
[He usually comes in a few minutes into the first quarter!]
[Is he injured?!]
[No way! March Madness is coming—he can't be hurt now!]
[Wait, I see him! He's in training clothes. Doesn't look injured.]
[Then why isn't he playing? Oakley is way less effective!]
The outcry was swift and loud. Yang Yan had developed a devoted fanbase, and they were used to seeing him on the floor making magic happen.
But today, uncharacteristically, he remained seated.
His hands rested calmly on his knees. No frustration. No worry. Just silent observation.
And for better or worse, the game went on without him.
But the crowd—both in the stadium and watching from afar—began to wonder if Gallagher had made the right call. As the second quarter loomed, one question echoed louder than any other:
Where was Yang Yan when they needed him most?