Robi unched himself upwards, muscles in his arms and back screaming in protest, fingers reaching, stretching, willing themselves to grab the orange sphere. He snatched the ball out of the air, a surprisingly clean catch in what was essentially a mosh pit of limbs and desperation. For a glorious half-second, it looked like he might actually get a shot off.

  Nope. Before he could even think about dribbling, let alone shooting, bam! He got hammered. It was like a synchronized attack – two Motijheel pyers descended on him like vultures on… well, you get the picture.

  A textbook double team, clearly designed to crush any dreams of a post move before they even had a chance to be dreamt.

  WHISTLE! Finally! Sweet, sweet sound of justice (or at least, a foul). Foul on Motijheel!

  "YES! THAT'S IT, ROBI! MAKE 'EM EARN IT!" Tahera’s voice, already hoarse from yelling, cracked even further with raw, unfiltered encouragement. She was practically vibrating on the sidelines, a human embodiment of pure, desperate hope. It wasn't much, but it was something.

  A foul. Baby steps, right?

  Robi subtly winced, flexing his shoulders to try and shake off the lingering sting of the foul. Free throws.

  Ugh. Not exactly the highlight reel material they were hoping for, but beggars can't be choosers, especially when you're down by approximately a million points. Points were points, period.

  Right now, Banani needed every single one they could cw their way to, even if they came two at a time from the charity stripe. He lumbered over to the free-throw line, the squeak of his sneakers on the polished gym floor sounding ridiculously loud in the sudden, almost eerie quiet. You could practically hear the collective held breath of the entire Banani side.

  The pressure? Dude, it was thick enough to spread on toast. Even though this was just practice, it felt like the weight of the entire team, maybe even the entire school, was suddenly banced precariously on his broad, sweaty shoulders.

  Deep breath, Robi, deep breath.

  He repeated the mantra in his head, trying to channel his inner zen master, which was difficult when your inner zen master was mostly just stressed about getting dunked on. Just like practice. Just like practice.

  Except, you know, in practice, there weren't a hundred pairs of eyes boring into your soul, silently judging your every move. Slight difference.

  He bounced the ball twice, the familiar rhythm a small comfort in the chaos.

  He locked his focus on the hoop, trying to block out everything else. First shot. He went through his usual routine, years of muscle memory taking over.

  He released the ball, a smooth, practiced arc, a motion so ingrained it was practically breathing.

  However, he missed it. Sometimes your best effort doesn’t work for you perfectly.

  And Robi has now that reality check.

  "ALRIGHT, ROBI! ONE MORE, YOU GOT THIS!" Chandan yelled from the bench, cpping way too enthusiastically for the situation. Like, dude, read the room. But okay, encouragement is encouragement, even if it feels a little… mispced.

  Second shot. He went through the motions again – bounce, focus, release. This time... Something felt… off.