He just jogs back on defense, expression unchanged, like sinking a three-pointer against a suffocating defense was as routine as tying his shoeces. But inside, yeah, a little spark of satisfaction ignited. The game has begun, he thought, a tiny smirk pying at the corner of his lips.

  And I'm officially here to py.

  Banani gets possession again. And wouldn't you know it, the ball instinctively finds its way into James's hands. Talk about being put on the spot.

  This was it, folks. His actual, for-real second touch in a game situation for Banani High. The moment to prove first one wasn’t fluke, to show everyone – the captain, his teammates, maybe even the random guy in the bleachers eating nachos – what he could actually do.

  Or at least, that’s what the script should have called for, right? Cue the dramatic music, the sweat dripping, the internal monologue about destiny. But James? Internally, he was radiating zen vibes. Pressure? Please.

  It was like there was an invisible force field of chill surrounding him, deflecting all that 'prove yourself' energy. He was just… there. Ready to py ball.

  Or at least, that's how he looked on the outside, cool as a cucumber in a freezer.

  James took a deep breath, you know, the kind you take to pretend you’re not low-key freaking out even if you’re actually totally fine. The basketball felt… normal.

  Like, yeah, this is a basketball. We’re acquainted. The weight was familiar in his hand, settling there like it belonged.

  Okay, game time. Time to actually do something.

  Offense needed initiating, stat.

  Gotta bring the ball up the court, get the whole py thingy moving. Dribbling. Right.

  That was the… necessary evil part of basketball sometimes. He bounced the ball. Just once at first, to get a feel.

  Thump. Okay, not bad. Felt like a basketball should feel.

  Then again. Thump. Thump.

  Yeah, two bounces. So far, so good. Basic basketballing happening here.

  But then… things started to get a little sus. The ball, instead of, you know, doing the normal basketball thing – that crisp, rhythmic thump-thump-thump you expect from someone who knows what they're doing – decided to go rogue. It hit the court with this… thud.

  Not a thump, more like a thud. Kind of dull. Like a balloon that's lost all its hype and is just kinda… sad and defted.

  Definitely not the sound of sporting prowess.

  And James’s hand? Bless his heart. It was trying, it really was.

  But it was like his brain and his hand were having a slight disagreement about timing. His fingers were just a hair too te to meet the ball on the rebound. It resulted in this… slightly off, kinda uncontrolled, almost hesitant dribble.

  Imagine trying to pat your head and rub your stomach, but your hand-eye coordination decided to take a coffee break. Yeah, it was a bit like that.

  Okay, crossover time.

  Basic move, right? Like, shooting guard 101. Bread and butter. Peanut butter and jelly.

  You know, foundational. Except, for James, this crossover wasn’t exactly serving “delicious and reliable.” Nope.

  It was less “bread-and-butter” and more… “bread-and-slightly-melted-butter-that-you-THOUGHT-was-going-to-be-smooth-but-then-it-totally-slips-off-the-knife-and-nds-butter-side-down-on-the-floor.”

  Yeah. That kind of butter.

  The kind that makes you sigh dramatically and consider just giving up on toast altogether. It was… not ideal.