The morning air carried the sharp bite of early spring as Zen arrived at Seirin's gym forty-five minutes before official practice. The building was locked, but he could see movement through the high windows—someone was already inside.
He circled to the side entrance and found it propped open with a brick. Inside, the familiar smell of floor wax and old leather enveloped him. The overhead lights were still off, but early sunlight streamed through the eastern windows, painting the court in pale gold.
At the far baseline, a tall figure was running through shooting drills with mechanical precision.
Hyūga Junpei. The captain.
Zen watched from the doorway as Hyūga caught a pass from the ball return machine, squared his shoulders, and rose into his shot. The ball traced a perfect arc before dropping through the net with barely a whisper. Catch. Square. Shoot. Again. And again.
The rhythm was hypnotic.
After his twentieth consecutive make, Hyūga finally noticed Zen.
"You're early," Hyūga said, not stopping his routine.
"So are you."
"Captain's privilege." Catch. Square. Shoot. Swish. "Or curse, depending on how you look at it."
Zen set his bag down and began stretching near the baseline, keeping Hyūga in his peripheral vision. The captain's form was textbook—high release point, consistent follow-through, no wasted motion. Good mechanics, but there was something mechanical about it too. Not robotic, exactly, but drilled into muscle memory through repetition rather than natural fluidity.
He's built himself into a shooter, Zen thought. Not born one.
That said something about Hyūga's character—dedication over talent, discipline over gifts.
"You can use the other basket if you want," Hyūga said, finally pausing. He was breathing heavier than his makes would suggest, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. "I'll be done in ten."
"I'm fine watching."
Hyūga's eyes narrowed slightly. "Scouting me already?"
"Just observing."
"Observing." Hyūga rolled the ball between his hands, considering. "That what you call it when you size people up? Figure out their weaknesses?"
Zen met his gaze evenly. "I call it understanding the game."
"Uh-huh." Hyūga turned back to the basket and resumed shooting, but his rhythm had changed—slightly faster, slightly more aggressive. "Word of advice, freshman. Understanding the game and understanding your teammates are two different things. Don't confuse them."
Before Zen could respond, voices echoed from the hallway. Other players were arriving.
By eight o'clock, the full team had assembled.
Riko stood at center court with her clipboard, whistle hanging around her neck, watching the players warm up with an expression that suggested she was cataloguing every movement, every interaction. Her analytical eye was already legendary among the upperclassmen—rumor had it she could assess a player's physical capabilities just by looking at them.
"All right, listen up!" Her voice cut through the ambient noise like a blade. "Today we're running a full scrimmage. Five-on-five, twenty-minute running clock, two ten-minute halves. I want to see how you move together, how you communicate, how you adapt."
She consulted her clipboard.
"Starting five for Team A: Hyūga, Izuki, Kagami, Tanaka, and Mitobe. Team B: Koganei, Fukuda, Kawahara, Furihata, and Tsuchida."
Zen felt a ripple of attention focus on him. Team A was clearly the stronger lineup—three upperclassmen with tournament experience, plus the two freshmen who'd already demonstrated elite capability. Team B was solid, but this was an evaluation disguised as a scrimmage.
She wants to see if we can function as a unit.
Kagami jogged over, grinning. "Finally. Been waiting to play with you instead of against you."
"Don't get used to it," Zen said mildly.
"Team B, you're on offense first!" Riko called. "Let's see some energy!"
The teams took their positions. Zen found himself matched up against Koganei—a quick, scrappy second-year with good instincts but limited size. Manageable. Across from him, Kagami was guarding Kawahara, clearly itching to make a defensive statement.
Riko's whistle pierced the air.
Team B's point guard—Furihata, a nervous-looking second-year—brought the ball up cautiously. Zen read his body language immediately: tentative dribble, eyes telegraphing his passing lanes, shoulders square to his primary target. Predictable.
Furihata tried an entry pass to Koganei cutting to the wing. Zen stepped into the passing lane, deflected the ball, and Kagami scooped it up in transition.
"Go! Go! Go!" Hyūga shouted, sprinting up the sideline.
Zen filled the middle lane, reading Kagami's momentum. The redhead was going to attack—no question—but he'd draw two defenders. That would leave the weakside wing open for—
Hyūga.
Zen accelerated, drawing his defender with him, then abruptly stopped at the three-point line. The defender's momentum carried him half a step too far. Zen received Kagami's kick-out pass in perfect rhythm and swung it to Hyūga in the corner.
Open three.
Swish.
"Nice ball movement!" Riko called.
Zen jogged back on defense, feeling the familiar clarity settling over him. The court made sense in motion—angles, spacing, timing. It was a language he'd been fluent in since childhood, and right now, every sentence was grammatically perfect.
Team B reset their offense, running a basic pick-and-roll. Zen fought over the screen, staying attached to Koganei, while Mitobe—silent as always—rotated to help. The possession ended with a contested mid-range jumper that rattled out.
Kagami secured the rebound and fired an outlet to Izuki, who pushed the pace.
This time, Zen spotted the opening immediately: Mitobe's defender was late rotating back, leaving a pocket of space in the paint. Zen cut hard to the baseline, dragging Koganei with him, then stopped abruptly and back-screened for Mitobe.
Izuki hit Mitobe with a bounce pass for an easy layup.
"Beautiful read!" Hyūga clapped.
See the path. Execute the path.
The scrimmage continued, and Team A built a steady lead. Zen was everywhere—directing cuts, calling switches, finding the open man before his teammates even realized they were open. His passing was surgical, his timing impeccable.
But then, midway through the first half, it happened.
Izuki swung the ball to Fukuda—a second-year wing filling in on Team A after a substitution—on the right wing. Fukuda was wide open, fifteen feet from the basket, defender scrambling to recover. Standard catch-and-shoot opportunity.
He missed.
Not badly—the shot hit the rim, spun out—but missed nonetheless.
Zen filed it away mentally. Slow release. Needs extra gather time.
Two possessions later, the same situation developed. Zen drove baseline, collapsed the defense, and kicked it to Fukuda in the corner. Again, wide open. Perfect spacing.
Fukuda caught the ball, gathered, shot—
Clang.
Off the back rim this time.
Zen felt something cold coil in his chest.
Two open looks. Both missed.
Team B scored on the other end, cutting the lead to six.
The next possession, Zen brought the ball up himself. Kagami set a screen at the top of the key, and Zen rejected it, waving him off. He surveyed the defense, saw three potential paths:
Path one: Drive right, collapse the defense, kick to Fukuda in the corner.
Path two: Attack the middle, draw Mitobe's defender, hit Mitobe rolling to the rim.
Path three: ISO. Create my own shot.
Fukuda was calling for the ball, spotted up on the wing, his defender sagging to help. The mathematical play was obvious—swing it to Fukuda, force the closeout, let him make a decision with the advantage.
But Zen had watched him miss twice already.
If I pass, he'll miss again. The defense will get momentum. We'll lose the lead.
He chose path three.
Zen attacked his defender with a quick first step, got into the paint, and absorbed contact from the help defender before finishing with a tough floater over outstretched hands.
Bucket.
But as he jogged back on defense, he caught Fukuda's expression—confusion mixed with something that looked like hurt.
"I was open," Fukuda said quietly.
Zen didn't respond.
Three possessions later, the same scenario. Fukuda open on the wing, calling for the ball. And again, Zen ignored him, choosing to iso and score himself.
This time, Hyūga called for the ball after the make, frustration evident in his voice.
"Tanaka! Share the rock!"
Zen glanced at him. "I'm scoring."
"That's not the point!"
But the scrimmage continued, and Zen continued to dominate. Another drive. Another finish. Team A's lead grew to twelve, then fifteen.
And Fukuda stopped calling for the ball.
He still ran his routes, still moved through the offensive sets, but there was a mechanical quality to it now. Going through the motions. His shoulders were slumped, his energy diminished.
Riko noticed. Zen saw her make a note on her clipboard, her expression darkening.
With three minutes left in the scrimmage, Zen drove baseline again, drawing three defenders. Fukuda was alone in the corner—again—hand up, ready.
The pass was there. Simple pocket pass, easy rotation.
Zen kept the ball, elevated over the triple team, and somehow finished through contact.
The whistle blew.
"Timeout!"
But it wasn't Riko's whistle.
Hyūga had called it.
The captain stormed toward Zen, and there was something dangerous in his eyes—not anger exactly, but something colder. More controlled.
"What the hell are you doing?" Hyūga's voice was low, steady.
"Scoring," Zen said flatly.
"You're freezing him out." Hyūga jerked his chin toward Fukuda, who stood alone near the baseline, staring at the floor. "He's been open four times. Four times, and you haven't passed him the ball once."
"He missed his first two shots."
"So?" Hyūga stepped closer, and Zen could see the tension in his jaw. "You think you've never missed a shot? You think Kagami never misses? Everyone misses, Tanaka. That's not an excuse to ice a teammate."
"It's not personal," Zen said, keeping his voice level. "It's strategic. If he can't finish, I won't waste the possession."
Something flickered across Hyūga's face—recognition, maybe, or disgust. He grabbed the front of Zen's jersey, not violently, but firm enough to make a point.
"Listen to me very carefully, freshman." Hyūga's voice dropped to a near-whisper, but it carried more weight than a shout. "This team doesn't work if we don't trust each other. I don't care how talented you are. I don't care how many points you can score. If you can't learn to trust your teammates—all your teammates—then you're not going to make it here."
Zen held his gaze. "And if trusting them costs us games?"
"Then we lose together." Hyūga released his jersey with a slight push. "But at least we'll still be a team."
The gym had gone silent. Everyone was watching now—Team B clustered near the opposite baseline, Kagami standing with arms crossed, Kuroko appearing beside him like a ghost. Even Riko had lowered her clipboard.
Zen's jaw tightened. Part of him wanted to argue, to explain the logic, to make them understand that he wasn't being cruel—he was being rational. Fukuda had proven unreliable in this specific situation, so why would Zen trust him again?
But looking at Fukuda now—shoulders hunched, eyes averted, radiating defeated energy—Zen felt something uncomfortable twist in his gut.
He's not going to recover from this. Not in this game, maybe not for a while.
And whose fault was that?
"Hyūga," Riko's voice cut through the tension. "That's enough."
The captain held Zen's stare for another moment, then stepped back, jaw still clenched.
Riko blew her whistle. "Everyone, water break. Five minutes."
The players dispersed quickly, grateful for an excuse to escape the tension. Zen grabbed his bottle but didn't drink, just stood there holding it, staring at nothing.
Footsteps approached.
"Tanaka-kun."
Kuroko.
"Not now," Zen said.
"I think now is precisely the right time." Kuroko's voice was gentle but insistent. "You're making the same mistake I warned you about."
"I'm executing correctly. I'm creating advantages. I'm scoring."
"You're creating advantages for yourself," Kuroko corrected. "But basketball requires five people. When you freeze out a teammate, you don't just hurt him. You hurt the entire team's cohesion."
Zen's hands tightened around the water bottle. "He missed. Twice. Open shots. How am I supposed to trust that?"
"By passing him the ball a third time," Kuroko said simply. "And a fourth. And a fifth. Until he makes one. And then you celebrate with him, and his confidence returns, and next time he won't miss."
"That's idealistic."
"Yes," Kuroko agreed. "But it's also correct."
He walked away before Zen could respond, leaving Zen alone with his thoughts and the uncomfortable weight of judgment pressing down on his shoulders.
Across the court, Hyūga was talking to Fukuda quietly, hand on the younger player's shoulder. Fukuda nodded at something the captain said, straightening slightly.
Building him back up, Zen realized. Undoing the damage I caused.
The five minutes stretched into ten. Finally, Riko blew her whistle again.
"That's enough for today," she announced. "Scrimmage is over. Team A wins, obviously."
She didn't sound pleased about it.
"Before you go, one reminder." Her eyes found Zen in the crowd. "Talent alone won't carry this team. I don't care if you can score fifty points a game. If you can't make your teammates better, you're not valuable to Seirin's system. Think about that."
The dismissal was clear.
Players began filing toward the locker room, conversations muted. Zen stayed on the court, water bottle still in hand, watching them go.
Kagami was the last to leave. He paused near Zen, expression unreadable.
"You know," Kagami said slowly, "when we played one-on-one, you destroyed me. But at least I learned something from it. Can't say the same for Fukuda today."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means when you beat me, I understood why. You were better, and I could see the gap I needed to close." Kagami's voice was thoughtful, lacking its usual aggression. "But what you did to Fukuda? That wasn't competition. That was punishment."
He left without waiting for a response.
Zen stood alone at center court, surrounded by the echoes of squeaking shoes and bouncing balls that no longer existed. The gym felt larger somehow. Emptier.
He thought about Fukuda's expression. About Hyūga's controlled fury. About Kuroko's gentle insistence that there was a better way.
If you can't finish, I won't waste the possession.
The words had felt logical when he said them. Rational. Correct.
Now they felt hollow.
Zen walked to the baseline where Fukuda had stood, open and ignored. He imagined what it must have felt like—running the play correctly, getting open, calling for the ball, and being invisible. Not because of misdirection or strategy, but because your teammate simply didn't trust you.
How many times did my middle school teammates feel like this?
The question arrived unbidden, and with it came a flood of memories. Games where he'd frozen out players after mistakes. Timeouts where he'd torn into them for missed executions. Losses where he'd screamed that they weren't good enough.
And every single time, he'd believed he was right.
Was I?
Zen picked up a basketball from the rack and began shooting. Catch, square, release. Catch, square, release. The same rhythm Hyūga had used this morning.
But unlike Hyūga's makes, Zen's shots felt mechanical. Empty.
He was still shooting when Riko emerged from her office, clipboard tucked under her arm. She watched him for a moment from the doorway.
"You know what separates good players from great ones?" she asked.
Zen caught his own rebound, paused. "Skill?"
"Elevation." Riko walked toward him slowly. "Good players elevate themselves. Great players elevate everyone around them. Right now, Tanaka, you're just good. And good won't beat the Generation of Miracles."
She let that sink in.
"I recruited you because I saw potential. Not just in your abilities, but in your court vision. You see things other players don't. But seeing isn't enough. You have to act on what you see in a way that makes the team stronger, not just yourself."
"I was trying to win," Zen said quietly.
"No." Riko's voice was firm. "You were trying not to lose. There's a difference."
She adjusted her glasses, and for a moment, Zen saw something almost sympathetic in her expression.
"Tomorrow, we're running drills focused on team chemistry. You'll be partnered with Fukuda. I want you to set him up for fifteen shots, minimum. Your job isn't to score. It's to make him better. Understand?"
It wasn't really a question.
"Yes, Coach."
"Good." She turned to leave, then paused. "For what it's worth, you're not the first talented player who struggled with trust. But the ones who figure it out? They become legendary. The ones who don't?" She shrugged. "They become cautionary tales."
The door closed behind her with a soft click.
Zen stood alone in the empty gym, basketball resting against his hip, Riko's words echoing in the silence.
Great players elevate everyone around them.
He looked up at the championship banners hanging in the rafters—years of Seirin history, teams that had succeeded not through individual brilliance but collective strength.
Can I do that? Can I become that?
He didn't know.
But standing here, in the aftermath of his first real failure at Seirin, Zen made a decision.
He'd try.
Even if it meant passing to players who'd missed before.
Even if it meant risking possessions for the sake of trust.
Even if it terrified him.
The ball left his hands, arcing toward the basket. It hit the rim, bounced twice, and fell through.
Not perfect. But enough.
Zen grabbed his bag and headed for the locker room, the weight on his shoulders somehow heavier and lighter at the same time.
Tomorrow would be different.
It had to be.