A tiny tremor of nerves, maybe because he missed earlier one. And just the general pressure cooker of the game finally getting to him. It felt a little rushed, a little less smooth than the first.

  Like trying to copy a perfect drawing but your hand is slightly shaky.

  Cng. Ugh.

  The sound of metal on metal, echoing through the gym like a mocking ugh track. Off the rim. Damn it.

  He knew it the second it left his fingertips. Should have taken another breath. Should have slowed down.

  Should have… everything.

  "REBOUND!" Kiyoshi was already yelling before the ball even bounced off the rim. Dude was basically psychic when it came to missed shots. He was already moving, anticipating the rebound like a predator going after its prey.

  Because, let’s be real, at this point, every rebound was a precious, endangered species they needed to fight tooth and nail for.

  Robi unched himself towards the basket, going full beast mode for the rebound. He was immediately locked in a wrestling match with Motijheel’s center, this dude who was basically a walking skyscraper.

  Seriously, Goliath vibes were strong with this one. Felt like he was breathing smog down everyone’s necks just by standing there. Under the basket turned into a chaotic mess of filing elbows, grunts, and bodies colliding like bumper cars at a demolition derby.

  Robi, thankfully, had a lower center of gravity, like a bowling ball compared to the center’s… well, skyscraper. He used every ounce of his weight to box out his opponent, managing to create just enough space. He snatched the rebound, a hard-fought, sweaty, and slightly violent victory in the paint.

  Okay, rebound secured. Awesome. But now what? He looked around and instantly regretted it.

  Surrounded. Like, actually surrounded. Motijheel pyers were closing in on him like they were magnetically attracted to white jerseys.

  No clear passing ne. No remotely easy shot. He could try to force it up, muscle his way through, but that was just asking for it.

  Blocked shot city, popution: Robi. Or worse, turnover central. Neither were exactly on his wishlist.

  "KICK IT OUT, ROBI! KICK IT OUT!" Ahsan’s voice was back, even more panicked this time, if that was even possible. Dude was on the verge of a full-blown meltdown.

  With a grunt that sounded like he was lifting a small car, Robi pivoted, searching for an escape route.

  Spotting Ahsan waving frantically on the perimeter, he fired a pass back out. Risky? Oh yeah. Passing across the key was basically basketball 101 for "things you should definitely not do unless you want to spontaneously combust." But it was their only option. Desperate times, desperate passes.

  Ahsan snagged the pass, but surprise, surprise, Motijheel’s defense descended on him faster than pigeons on a dropped french fry.

  And just like that, the cycle started all over again. Passes that went nowhere, suffocating pressure that felt like trying to breathe underwater, turnovers that were basically gifts wrapped in green ribbons for Motijheel, and then, inevitably, more Motijheel points. Rinse and repeat.

  Frustration was building, thick and heavy in the air, like humidity on a summer day, except instead of sticky, it was just soul-crushing.

  But Robi? Dude was like a machine. He just… didn’t stop.