Underestimating. Completely, utterly convinced that Banani High’s grand pn to inject some new energy into the game with this… this dribbling disaster was the biggest joke they’d seen all week. They exchanged amused gnces, rolling their eyes at each other like they were sharing the funniest inside joke ever.

  Shaking their heads in mock pity, like Banani was some charity case they felt obligated to feel sorry for. It was… brutal, honestly.

  Number 12, clearly not done with his stand-up routine, kept going.

  His voice was still dripping with that special blend of sarcasm and smugness. “You know what?” he announced, like he’d just cracked the Da Vinci Code. “Maybe Kiyoshi meant ‘hidden’ ace literally! Like, ‘hidden’ because his dribbling skills are so bad, they’re practically invisible!” He paused for dramatic effect, then delivered the punchline.

  “Hidden from sight! Genius strategy, really!”

  He punctuated his comedic masterpiece with a theatrical cp, slow and deliberate. His teammates, the captive audience to his brilliance, joined in with appreciative chuckles and snorts. They were eating this up.

  It was like watching a bunch of hyenas circling their prey, except the prey was James’s self-esteem… or ck thereof, judging by his completely unfazed expression.

  The Motijheel coach, who usually looked like he’d just swallowed a lemon whole, actually allowed a smile to grace his face. A smile.

  Thin and rare, like a unicorn sighting, but a smile nonetheless. He’d definitely overheard the whole mockery-fest. Did he shut it down? Nope.

  Did he encourage it? Not explicitly. But he definitely wasn’t rushing over there to tell his pyers to knock it off. It was psychological warfare game

  And James knew the psychological warfare game.

  He knew that a good dose of public humiliation could be potent, especially against a team already down by a significant margin. Let them underestimate him, he thought, watching the scene unfold with a quiet satisfaction. Let them get compcent.

  Let them think this game is already in the bag. It would just make their eventual victory all the sweeter. More decisive.

  Like crushing ants under your heel, but, you know, in a basketball-metaphor kind of way.

  Back on the Banani bench, the sound of the Motijheel team’s ughter and mocking comments nded like a series of actual, physical blows. Seriously, you could practically feel the air pressure change with each jeer.

  That initial spark of hope, that tiny flicker of optimism that had ignited when James stepped onto the court? It was wavering. Threatened to be completely extinguished by this tidal wave of Motijheel derision.

  Chandan winced, like he’d actually been punched in the gut.

  His earlier enthusiasm? Dude, that was so st minute. Repced now by a grimace that spoke volumes. “Ouch,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.

  “Yeah… that’s… not good. Like, at all not good.” It was the understatement of the century.

  Imran, who had been the resident skeptic from the start, just bit his lip, hard. His earlier skepticism wasn’t just skepticism anymore. It had morphed into full-blown, concrete, capital-W Worry.

  “See?” he hissed, nudging Chandan. “I told you! Dribbling disaster! I called it! They’re going to eat him alive! Like, literally devour him on the court!” He was practically vibrating with I-told-you-so energy, but also, you know, actual concern.