While he looked like he was operating on autopilot on the outside, internally, a different kind of calcution was taking pce. He wasn’t oblivious to the ughter, to the relentless barrage of derision. He heard it all, loud and clear.

  It wasn't like he had noise-canceling headphones on in his brain.

  But it didn’t register as an insult. Not really.

  It was… data. Pure, unadulterated information. Confirmation of their underestimation.

  He’d actually anticipated this reaction. He’d low-key counted on it. Like, he’d written this scene into his mental script beforehand.

  “Step one: look clumsy. Step two: get roasted. Step three: profit.” Or something like that.

  Let them ugh, he thought, a faint, almost imperceptible smile just barely flickering at the corner of his lips. So faint, you’d miss it if you blinked.

  Let them underestimate me. Please. Underestimation… that’s the best camoufge there is.

  Better than invisibility cloaks, better than chameleon suits. People get so caught up in their own superiority, they stop actually seeing what’s in front of them.

  He knew his dribbling was… unconventional.

  Let’s just go with “unconventional.” He knew it wasn’t pretty. He knew it was practically begging for mockery.

  He wasn't delusional. But he also knew something else. Something they didn’t know.

  Something they were about to learn, and learn the hard way. Dribbling wasn’t his weapon. Nope.

  Dribbling was… misdirection. A carefully crafted illusion of incompetence. A theatrical performance of clumsiness, designed to lull them into a false sense of security.

  To make them think he was just some newbie who couldn't handle the pressure. His real weapon? That was something else entirely. And it was about to be unleashed.

  Buckle up, Motijheel. Things are about to get interesting.

  As the match was running, Banani high's Sajid got the ball, he attempted to pass the ball but it went wrong, Ugh talked about a bricked pass. Sajid was supposed to be cutting baseline, but homeboy yeeted the ball like it was a hot potato straight outta bounds. Seriously, it was one of those passes.

  Everyone watching, even the Motijheel squad, was already mentally chalking it up as their ball. Another turnover? Check. Another nail in Banani's coffin? Double check.

  Basically, another step closer to us eating defeat for dinner. It was looking like a textbook fail, a total gift-wrap situation for Motijheel. Everyone on our team, and even the peeps in the stands, were just bracing for the inevitable face-palm moment.

  Everyone, that is, except for James. Dude was like, "Hold up, lemme cook."

  Everything just kinda...

  slowed down. The ball, that orange sphere, was just chilling in the air, like a mini sun in this super bright gym. It was hanging there, suspended, almost mocking us with its slow-mo trajectory.

  Meanwhile, James, who was looking totally chill on the wing like he was just admiring the ceiling, suddenly unleashed. It wasn't even a run, more like zero to sixty in point-five seconds. Forget strides, this was some next-level extension.

  His arm, specifically his right arm, just shot out. And I mean shot out. It was so long, so fast, it looked straight-up cartoonish, like something out of anime.