Scoreboard's screaming 10-freaking-0. Like, are you kidding me? Ten points to zero. It's supposed to be a practice match, right? But honestly, it felt more like we were being publicly roasted on the basketball court.

  Kiyoshi, our captain, was dribbling the ball, but his brain was basically a hamster wheel of panic. He was desperately searching for, like, any tiny opening in Motijheel's defense, which was basically a green wall of doom. Seriously, they were everywhere.

  Every pass felt impossible, every dribble felt like a mistake, and every thought was just pure stress.

  Then, bam! James. The name just popped into Kiyoshi's head like a notification you actually want to see.

  He quickly gnced over to the bench, and there he was, James chilling like he was watching a movie, not a basketball massacre. Dude was leaning back, totally unfazed by the on-court chaos. James was just… different, you know? Kiyoshi had clocked it from day one of practice.

  While everyone else was freaking out under pressure, James was like, "Pressure? Is that a snack?" He had this vibe, this chill confidence thing going on, even when he was just sitting there, observing the game like a hawk.

  "Cap? You good?" Ahsan's voice cut through Kiyoshi's internal meltdown. Ahsan, bless his soul, our Vice-Captain, always had Kiyoshi's back. He'd clearly seen Kiyoshi zoning out into despair-ville for a sec.

  Kiyoshi forced a nod, trying to py it cool, like, "Yeah, totally chill, everything's fine," while inside he was screaming. "Yeah, yeah, just… strategizing," he mumbled, hoping Ahsan bought it. Strategizing how to un-school themselves from this epic schooling they were receiving, maybe? Strategizing how long he could stick to this insane pn of his? And yeah, strategizing how to get James in the game, like, yesterday.

  He was practically vibrating with the urge to signal Tahera, the manager.

  He wanted to yell, telepathically if possible, "Yo, Tahera! James! Put. Him. In. Now! Before we're down by, like, a million points!" The feeling was a physical ache, a knot in his stomach tightening with every swish of a Motijheel basket. But he had to resist. He had a pn, remember? A super-genius strategy, or so he hoped.

  Panic was the enemy, and knee-jerk reactions fueled by panic were basically throwing gasoline on a dumpster fire.

  Kiyoshi's eyes drifted back to the bench, like a moth to a fme, but a slightly more stressed moth. James was now in deep convo with Faisal and Rifat, heads together, murmuring like they were plotting world domination or something.

  What were they even talking about? Probably game strategy, duh. James was wired like that, always analyzing, always thinking ten steps ahead, even when he was just chilling on the sidelines. It was honestly one of the things Kiyoshi admired, and maybe slightly envied, about him.

  Back in the day, Kiyoshi was the quiet strategist, the guy who lived and breathed pybooks and opponent breakdowns. But James? James was operating on a whole different level. He saw stuff Kiyoshi sometimes missed, like hidden angles, sneaky opportunities, and weaknesses you wouldn’t spot unless you had, like, basketball superpowers.