They knew Kiyoshi was riding hard for James. They'd all seen fshes of his shooting magic in practice – those three-pointers that seemed to appear out of thin air and then swish before you could even blink. But they also knew about his… 'unique' dribbling.

  Or, more accurately, the fact that it was basically non-existent. It was like watching a baby giraffe try to walk for the first time, but with a basketball.

  "Okay, James is in," Chandan mumbles to Nabil, leaning in like he's sharing top-secret intel. "Let's see if this 'secret weapon' thing is actually, you know, real." He says "secret weapon" with major air quotes, just in case Nabil missed the sarcasm.

  Imran just shrugs, face the picture of doubt. "Heard he can shoot," he admits, grudgingly. "But can he even, like, dribble the ball without face-pnting?" He gestures with his hands, mimicking someone tripping over their own feet, just to really drive the point home.

  Idris, bless his optimistic heart, tries to inject some positivity into the doom and gloom. "Hey, maybe that's the pn!" he chirps, maybe a little too enthusiastically. "Surprise them with his… unconventional style! They'll never see it coming!" He tries for a ugh, but it kinda just hangs in the air, unanswered, like a bad joke at a funeral. Tense vibes were high, humor was low.

  Tahera, clipboard clutched in her hand like a lifeline, is watching James like a hawk as he gets into position at Shooting Guard.

  She trusted Kiyoshi’s judgment, she really did. And Kiyoshi had put a lot of faith in this James kid. She'd witnessed the shooting clinics James put on in practice too.

  It was almost freaky. Give him even a sliver of space, and poof, the ball was gone, unched with lightning speed and ser precision. But the dribbling… that was the elephant in the room, the giant, neon-pink elephant.

  Please, James, for the love of all that is basketball, do not dribble into their defender, she thinks, sending a silent prayer skyward. Just… catch and shoot. Please, just catch and shoot.

  That's all we need from you, buddy. Don't get fancy. Just… shoot.

  Her internal monologue was basically just repeating "catch and shoot" like a mantra.

  James, completely unaware of the mini-meltdown happening on the Banani bench, is just chilling. Surveying the court with this calm, almost detached look, like he's browsing Netflix for something to watch.

  Score? Motijheel's aggressive defense? Nah, didn't faze him. He was in analysis mode, scanning for weaknesses, spotting patterns, calcuting angles. Dude was like a basketball chess grandmaster, thinking five steps ahead, anticipating the game unfolding in his mind like some kind of sports psychic.

  He positions himself out on the wing, spacing things out, giving Kiyoshi room to work his magic. Makes eye contact with his captain, just a quick gnce, but it said everything. I'm here.

  Let's do this thing. Ready when you are, chief.

  Game on again.

  Motijheel, sticking to the coach's screaming orders, come out swinging, same relentless pressure as before. High press, double-teaming Kiyoshi, trying to force another turnover and basically bury Banani six feet under. They were riding high on confidence, bordering on straight-up cocky.

  In their heads, Banani was already toast, burnt to a crisp.