The bus ride to Seiho High was quiet in the way that pre-game trips always were—not silent, but muted, each player locked in their own mental preparation. Zen sat alone near the back, earbuds in but no music playing, watching the Tokyo suburbs slide past the window.
Across the aisle, Kagami was asleep, head tilted back against the seat, mouth slightly open. Two rows up, Kuroko sat motionless, staring at nothing in particular. The upperclassmen clustered toward the front, Hyūga and Izuki going over defensive assignments in low voices.
Riko stood at the front of the bus, clipboard in hand, occasionally glancing back at her players with an expression that suggested she was already coaching the game in her head.
Zen pulled out one earbud when she approached.
"Tanaka. You ready?"
"Yes, Coach."
She studied him for a moment, and Zen had the uncomfortable feeling she was reading more than just his surface response. "This is a practice match, but I'm treating it like the real thing. Starting five will be you, Kagami, Kuroko, Hyūga, and Izuki. I want to see how you function as a unit."
"Understood."
"And Tanaka?" Her voice dropped slightly. "Remember what we talked about. Ball movement. Trust. Making your teammates better."
The memory of yesterday's drill with Fukuda rose unbidden—fifteen forced passes, twelve made shots, three misses, and the strange hollow feeling in Zen's chest when Fukuda had finally smiled and said "thanks for believing in me."
Zen had nodded and said nothing, unsure what to believe.
"I remember," he said now.
Riko's expression softened fractionally. "Good. Because individual brilliance might win practice games, but it won't beat the teams we'll face in the Interhigh. Those games require something more."
She moved back toward the front before Zen could respond.
The bus pulled into Seiho's campus twenty minutes later—a sprawling facility with what looked like three separate gyms. Their home court advantage was obvious from the crowd already filtering into the main gymnasium, a mix of students and what appeared to be scouts from other schools.
They're here to evaluate us, Zen realized. First game of the season. Everyone wants to see what Seirin's got.
The visiting locker room smelled like industrial cleaner and old sweat. Zen changed methodically, pulling on his jersey—number 7, the number he'd worn since elementary school—and lacing his shoes with practiced precision. Around him, teammates went through their own rituals. Kagami was shadowboxing near the lockers. Kuroko sat perfectly still, eyes closed. Hyūga taped his fingers with the careful attention of someone who'd done it a thousand times.
"Gather up," Riko called.
The team formed a loose circle around her. She looked at each player in turn, her gaze sharp and assessing.
"Seiho's not elite, but they're disciplined. Strong fundamentals, good team defense, and they don't beat themselves with turnovers. They're going to make us earn everything." She paused. "Which means we need to play together. No hero ball. No isolation unless it's called. We move the ball, we trust the open man, and we execute. Clear?"
A chorus of agreement.
Riko's eyes found Zen. "Tanaka, you're running point on half our possessions. Izuki will handle primary ball-handling duties, but when I signal, you're in control. Your job is to find the best shot for the team. Not necessarily your shot. The team's shot. Got it?"
"Yes, Coach."
"Good." She raised her hand, and the team stacked theirs on top. "Seirin on three. One, two, three—"
"SEIRIN!"
The gymnasium was modest by Tokyo standards but well-maintained—wooden floors polished to a mirror shine, bleachers half-full with home team supporters, and the sharp tang of floor wax mixing with the smell of popcorn from the concession stand.
Zen stepped onto the court for warm-ups and felt the familiar settling sensation. The noise faded to background static. The crowd became irrelevant. All that mattered was the geometry of the court—the dimensions, the spacing, the angles.
He joined the layup line, moving through the motions automatically. Catch the pass from Izuki. Two dribbles. Gather. Elevate. Finish with the right hand. Retrieve the ball. Pass to the next player. Return to the line.
Rhythm. Pattern. Order.
Across the court, Seiho was running their own warm-ups. Their starting five looked competent—nothing exceptional, but solid. Their center had good size, their guards moved well, and their coach was already diagramming something on a whiteboard during a break.
They'll run a lot of pick-and-roll, Zen assessed. Probably try to exploit our lack of chemistry.
Smart strategy against a team with two new players in the starting lineup.
The warm-up period ended. Both teams gathered at their benches for final instructions.
"Starting five, you know the rotation," Riko said. "Hyūga, you're our vocal leader on the court. Call out switches, rotations, everything. Izuki, control the tempo—don't let them speed us up. Kagami, own the paint on both ends. Kuroko, find your windows. And Tanaka..." She paused. "Make us better."
Make us better.
The words sat uncomfortably in Zen's chest as he walked to center court for the tip-off.
Kagami crouched at the circle, facing Seiho's center. The referee held the ball between them.
Zen positioned himself at the three-point line, scanning Seiho's defensive setup. Standard 2-3 zone, favoring help defense over man-to-man pressure. They were conceding the perimeter to protect the paint.
Exploitable.
The whistle blew. The ball went up.
Kagami won the tip easily, tapping it back to Izuki, and Seirin's offense began.
First Quarter: 10:00 remaining
Izuki brought the ball up the court, his dribble low and controlled. Zen moved to the wing, establishing spacing, reading the defense's initial positioning.
Seiho's small forward tracked him loosely—respecting his shooting range but not overcommitting. Standard defensive approach against an unknown player.
He doesn't know what I can do yet. Good.
Izuki swung the ball to Hyūga on the opposite wing. Hyūga immediately faced up, threatening the shot, and his defender closed out hard. Hyūga drove baseline, collapsing the defense, then kicked it back out to Izuki at the top of the key.
Izuki's defender was late rotating. Open three.
He hesitated a fraction too long, and the window closed.
Shot clock winding down, Izuki swung it to Zen on the wing.
Zen caught the ball, squared his shoulders, and rose into his shot in one motion. His defender lunged forward, but Zen had already released—high arc, perfect rotation.
Swish.
3-0, Seirin.
Seiho inbounded quickly, pushing tempo. Their point guard attacked in transition, but Kuroko materialized in the passing lane—Zen wasn't sure from where—and deflected the ball toward Kagami.
Kagami scooped it up and exploded toward the opposite basket.
Zen filled the right lane, Kuroko the left. Three-on-two fast break.
Kagami drew both defenders with his momentum. Zen was wide open on the wing, calling for the ball—
Kagami dunked it anyway, powering through contact for an and-one.
The Seiho crowd groaned. Kagami flexed, letting out a roar.
"Good energy!" Hyūga called. "But next time, easy bucket wins over highlight reel!"
Kagami's grin didn't fade, but he nodded.
He should've passed, Zen thought automatically. I was open. Higher percentage shot.
But the result was a three-point play, so arguing felt petty.
The quarter continued in fits and starts. Seirin's offense looked functional but disconnected—like five talented musicians playing the same song without quite matching tempo. Kagami and Zen traded baskets, both scoring efficiently, but the ball movement Riko had emphasized was conspicuously absent.
At the 4:37 mark, Seiho ran a pick-and-roll that forced a defensive rotation. Zen switched onto their point guard—smaller, quicker—and the guard immediately attacked, using a screen to create separation.
Zen fought over the screen, staying attached, but the guard hit a pull-up jumper before help could arrive.
14-12, Seirin.
"Rotate faster!" Hyūga shouted. "Help has to come!"
Zen jogged back on offense, jaw tight. The defensive breakdown wasn't his fault—Kagami's man had set the screen, and Kagami was late recovering—but he felt responsible anyway.
If I'd anticipated the screen angle differently, I could've fought through cleaner.
Izuki brought the ball up, called for a play—something involving a double screen for Hyūga on the baseline—but before the play could develop, Zen saw something.
Seiho's weak-side defender had sagged too far into the paint, anticipating a drive. The passing lane to Kuroko cutting backdoor was wide open for exactly 1.3 seconds.
Zen called for the ball. "Izuki!"
Izuki hesitated—the play hadn't fully developed—but passed anyway.
Zen caught it, took one dribble to manipulate the defense's positioning, then fired a bounce pass to where Kuroko was about to be.
The ball arrived in Kuroko's hands as if it had materialized there. Easy layup.
16-12, Seirin.
"Nice read!" Hyūga called, and Zen felt a flicker of something that might have been satisfaction.
See the path. Execute the path. Trust the path.
But the satisfaction was short-lived.
Second Quarter: 7:23 remaining
The game had settled into a grinding rhythm. Seiho's disciplined defense was forcing Seirin to execute in the half-court, and the spacing issues were becoming more apparent.
Zen brought the ball up—Riko's signal had put him in primary ball-handler role—and surveyed the floor.
Kagami set a screen at the top of the key. Zen rejected it, waving him off. He needed space to read the defense, and Kagami's screen would just muddy the spacing.
Kuroko was somewhere on the weak side—Zen had stopped trying to track him visually and instead watched his defender's body language. Hyūga was calling for the ball on the wing. Izuki had rotated to the corner.
Three potential paths materialized in Zen's mind:
Path one: Drive right, force Kagami's defender to help, hit Kagami rolling to the rim.
Path two: Swing to Hyūga, let him face up, reset the offense.
Path three: ISO. My defender's playing too far off. I can get to the rim.
Zen chose path one.
He attacked right, using a quick first step to gain advantage. Kagami's defender hesitated—help or stay?—and in that moment of indecision, Zen delivered a perfect pocket pass to Kagami rolling hard toward the basket.
The pass hit Kagami in stride. He gathered, elevated—
And the Seiho center rotated over, blocking the shot cleanly.
Seiho secured the rebound and pushed in transition. Quick bucket on the other end.
28-26, Seirin's lead shrinking.
Zen's jaw clenched.
I saw the path. The pass was perfect. But Kagami didn't adjust his gather when the help came.
It wasn't entirely fair—the block had been well-timed, and Kagami's finish attempt was reasonable—but the frustration leaked through anyway.
Next possession, Zen chose path three.
He isolated at the top of the key, waved everyone to the perimeter, and attacked. His defender played tight, but Zen used a hesitation dribble to create separation, then elevated for a mid-range jumper.
Swish.
30-26.
"Move the ball!" Hyūga called, frustration evident. "We're not playing ISO ball!"
Zen ignored him.
Two possessions later, similar situation. Zen had the ball, offense stagnating. He saw Hyūga open on the wing—genuinely open, no contest—but also saw that Hyūga's shooting percentage from that exact spot was probably around 38% based on form and consistency.
Zen's percentage from fifteen feet? Closer to 55%.
Mathematical choice was obvious.
He took the shot himself. Another make.
But Hyūga's expression had gone from frustrated to angry.
POV SHIFT: Junpei Hyūga
Hyūga watched Tanaka drain another contested mid-range jumper and felt his blood pressure spike.
The kid was talented—no denying that. His shooting touch was pristine, his court vision elite, his ability to create offense out of nothing genuinely impressive.
But this wasn't basketball. This was a showcase.
"Izuki," Hyūga called during a dead ball. "You seeing this?"
"Yeah." Izuki's expression was carefully neutral. "He's scoring efficiently. Can't really argue with the results."
"Results aren't the point. Chemistry is." Hyūga glanced toward the bench where Riko was making notes on her clipboard, face tight. "We win this game 78-74, great. But what happens when we face Kaijō? Shūtoku? Teams that can gameplan for individual brilliance?"
"One game at a time, Captain."
Hyūga nodded, but the unease didn't dissipate.
He'd seen talented freshmen before. Hell, he'd been one once—convinced his scoring ability was all the team needed, learning the hard way that basketball was a collective art.
Tanaka would learn eventually. The question was whether he'd learn fast enough, or whether his stubbornness would cost them games that mattered.
POV SHIFT: Zen Tanaka
Third Quarter: 3:14 remaining
Zen had scored fifteen consecutive points for Seirin.
Drive. Mid-range jumper. Three-pointer. Another drive. Floater. Step-back three.
Every shot felt effortless. Every movement was precisely calculated. The defense threw different looks at him—help defense, traps, switching—and he countered each adjustment with clinical precision.
The crowd was electric. Even Seiho's supporters were murmuring appreciatively.
But on Seirin's bench, Riko's expression was stormy.
And on the court, Zen's teammates had stopped moving with purpose. They were running their routes, setting their screens, but there was a mechanical quality to it now. Like they knew the ball wasn't coming.
Kuroko drifted to Zen's side during a timeout.
"Tanaka-kun," he said quietly. "You're dominating. But we're losing rhythm."
"I'm keeping us ahead."
"For now." Kuroko's gaze was steady. "But Seiho will adjust. And when they do, you'll need us."
"Then you'll be ready."
Kuroko's expression flickered—disappointment, maybe, or resignation. He said nothing more.
The timeout ended. Play resumed.
Seiho had adjusted their defense, as Kuroko predicted. They were sending immediate double-teams at Zen every time he touched the ball, daring his teammates to beat them.
Standard strategy against a hot hand.
Zen caught the ball on the wing, and two defenders converged instantly. He pivoted, surveyed the floor—
Hyūga was open in the corner. Wide open. Calling for the ball.
He's missed his last three attempts from that spot. If I pass and he misses, Seiho gets momentum.
Kagami was cutting to the rim, but his path was congested. Low-percentage opportunity.
I can score through the double-team. I've done it before.
Zen kept the ball, used a reverse pivot to create space, and elevated over both defenders for a fadeaway three.
The ball arced through the air, seemingly suspended—
Swish.
The crowd erupted. The shot was absurd, near-impossible, the kind of highlight that would loop on sports channels.
But when Zen jogged back on defense, he caught Kuroko's expression.
Kuroko was shaking his head, almost imperceptibly.
And Kagami, normally grinning after a big shot, just looked tired.
Fourth Quarter: 1:47 remaining
Seirin 76, Seiho 74.
The two-point lead felt more precarious than it should have. Seiho had crawled back through disciplined defense and smart offensive execution, while Seirin's offense had devolved into "give Tanaka the ball and get out of the way."
It was working—barely—but the strain was showing.
Zen brought the ball up, exhaustion creeping into his legs. He'd played the entire second half, Riko refusing to sub him out because every time she tried, Seiho went on a run.
Double-team came immediately. Zen split it with a quick crossover, got into the lane—
Triple-team.
Three defenders converged. Zen elevated anyway, forcing a shot over outstretched hands.
Clang.
Off the rim. Seiho secured the rebound.
They pushed in transition, and fatigue made Zen half a step slow getting back. Seiho's shooting guard hit an open three.
77-76, Seiho.
"Timeout!" Riko's voice cut through the noise.
Seirin's huddle was tense. Players breathing hard, sweat-soaked, frustrated.
"Thirty-four seconds," Riko said, calm despite the pressure. "We're running a motion offense. Move the ball, find the best shot. If they double, someone's open. Trust your teammate to make the play."
Her eyes found Zen. "Tanaka, you're going to draw attention. Use it. Make the right read."
Zen nodded, but his mind was already calculating. If I get the ball with ten seconds left, I can create my own shot. Don't need to risk a turnover on a pass.
The timeout ended.
Izuki inbounded to Zen. Zen brought it up slowly, letting the clock wind down.
Twenty seconds.
Fifteen.
Double-team came at ten seconds. Zen pivoted, saw Hyūga flashing to the top of the key—open, genuinely open—
Eight seconds. I can beat this double-team. I've done it before.
Seven seconds.
Zen attacked the gap between defenders, got a shoulder through—
The trap sprung. Three defenders now. No passing angle. Shot clock and game clock both winding down.
Five seconds.
Zen elevated, off-balance, triple-teamed, and somehow got the shot off.
The ball hit the rim, bounced twice, rolled around—
And fell through.
78-77, Seirin.
The gymnasium exploded. Zen's teammates mobbed him, Kagami lifting him off his feet, Hyūga clapping his shoulder.
But through the celebration, Zen caught Kuroko's expression again.
No smile. No celebration.
Just that same quiet disappointment.
Seiho had one last possession, but Hyūga forced a turnover with aggressive defense, and the final buzzer sounded.
Seirin 78, Seiho 74.
Victory.
The handshake line was perfunctory. Seiho's players were gracious in defeat, their coach nodding respectfully at Riko.
But in Seirin's locker room afterward, the atmosphere was muted.
Players changed in relative silence. No celebration. No energy.
Riko stood at the front of the room, arms crossed, waiting until everyone was dressed.
"We won today," she said finally, voice flat. "But we didn't play together. We relied on individual brilliance instead of team execution. And against better competition, that won't be enough."
Her gaze swept the room.
"Tanaka scored thirty-two points. That's impressive. But we had stretches where four players stood around watching one player operate. That's not Seirin basketball. That's not winning basketball."
Zen kept his eyes down, jaw tight.
"Starting Monday, we're drilling team concepts until they're instinctive. Ball movement. Help defense. Communication. All the things we neglected today." She paused. "We got lucky. Next time, we might not."
She dismissed them without another word.
The bus ride back was quieter than the ride there.
Zen sat in his usual spot near the back, staring out the window, replaying the game in his head.
I scored thirty-two points. Hit the game-winner. We won.
So why did it feel like a loss?
Across the aisle, Kagami was awake this time, scrolling through his phone. He glanced over, caught Zen's eye, and his expression was complicated.
Not hostile. Not friendly either.
Just... assessing.
Zen looked away first.
His phone buzzed. A text from his father.
Heard you had a game. How'd it go?
Zen stared at the screen for a long moment before typing:
We won. 78-74. I scored 32.
The response came quickly: Proud of you, son. Keep it up.
Zen pocketed his phone.
Keep it up.
Keep what up? The scoring? The isolation? The slow erosion of team chemistry in service of individual statistics?
He closed his eyes, exhaustion settling deep into his bones.
We won. That's what matters. We won.
But Kuroko's disappointed expression haunted him.
And Riko's words echoed: Against better competition, that won't be enough.
The bus carried them back toward Seirin through darkening streets, and Zen sat alone with his hollow victory, wondering why success felt so much like failure.