During said “butter-on-the-floor” crossover attempt, the ball decided to take a little detour.

  It veered slightly off its intended path. Was it a total disaster? Nah, not quite code-red, turnover-city level catastrophe. But it was… awkward.

  Capital “A” awkward. Visibly awkward. Audibly awkward.

  If awkwardness had a sound, this was it.

  Instead of that smooth, seamless transition from right hand to left that crossovers are supposed to be all about, the leather sphere wobbled. Seriously wobbled.

  Like a toddler just learning to walk, except the toddler was a basketball and the walking surface was slightly uneven… and made of hardwood. It bounced way higher than it was supposed to, momentarily breaking free from the gentle dictatorship of James’s fingertips. Freedom! For a split second, the ball was like, "I'm outta here!" But then, reality (and gravity) set back in.

  Oh, and it got even better. For a heart-stopping split second, the rogue basketball teetered dangerously close to James’s foot.

  Like, danger zone close. Code brown alert. He had to do some serious damage control, making this tiny, almost invisible adjustment to avoid a complete and utter fumble-fest.

  Think ninja-level reflexes, but less ninja, more… desperate dad trying to catch a dropped baby.

  He shuffled his feet, this tiny, almost balletic micro-step. Balletic if ballerinas were also slightly clumsy and panicking internally.

  It was a move born of pure survival instinct. He recovered, just barely. Like snatching a runaway toddler back from the edge of a pyground.

  The dribble was… kinda back under control. But the damage was done. First impressions are everything, right? And the impression he’d made so far? Let’s just say “smooth,” “fluid,” and “effortless grace” were not exactly the words springing to mind for anyone watching.

  More like “slightly chaotic,” “mildly panicked,” and “gracefully awkward.”

  Meanwhile, on the Motijheel defense side of things? Let’s just say their job description just got a whole lot easier. Guarding James suddenly felt less like a serious basketball assignment, you know, something you actually have to try at, and more like… well, imagine watching someone who’s just been handed a tray piled high with drinks trying to navigate a packed room at a party.

  Yeah. That level of “potentially hirious disaster waiting to happen.”

  The initial tension in their defensive stances? Gone.

  Poof. Vanished faster than free pizza at a college dorm. Shoulders loosened up like they’d just finished a yoga css.

  Smirks started to bloom, slowly at first, then spreading across their faces like sunshine after a cloudy day. It was the universal expression of “Oh, this is gonna be fun.” For them, anyway.

  Probably less so for James.

  Number 12, Mr. Smugness himself – you know, the wiry Motijheel guard who looked like he’d just won an argument with gravity – leaned in conspiratorially towards his teammate, Number 5.

  Number 5 was built like a brick wall and had a ugh that could probably shatter gss. “Dude,” Number 12 snickered, like he’d just witnessed the funniest thing ever, “did you see that ‘dribble’?”

  His voice was dripping with theatrical disbelief, loud enough to carry across the court and probably into the next county. Totally on purpose, by the way.