Ace of the Bench

Marcus's living room was dim except for the blue glow of the television. Marcus sat cross-legged on the carpet, A stack of DVDs and USB drives sat beside the remote; he'd borrowed them from Coach that afternoon with a promise to "do his homework."

The screen showed grainy footage of the opponent school white jerseys, blue trim running fast breaks and half-court sets. Marcus hunched forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, eyes tracking every movement.

Pause.

Rewind.

Play.

Clip after clip rolled: the rival school's last season, their polished veterans dominating the court. Senior guards pushing the pace, a towering center patrolling the paint, crisp rotations on defense.

Hmm." He rubbed his chin. "They're not even running their main offense."

He opened the roster Coach had emailed. Names he didn't recognize, numbers that weren't in last season's box scores. "Rookies," he muttered. "Guess their coach wants to rest his starters."

His kid sister padded through, yawning. "Still watching basketball?"

"Yeah." He gestured vaguely at the screen. "Scrimmage tomorrow. Gotta know what we're up against."

Onscreen a wiry point guard drove the lane and kicked to a wing for a jumper. Marcus frowned.

Marcus scribbled notes in the margin of the roster Coach had given him.

Another fast break. Another dunk. He hit pause.

"Man…these guys are stacked," he muttered, leaning closer.

Marcus looks at the list again He frowned. Scanned again. The starters listed were all unfamiliar: first-years and second years, kids who'd barely played last year. Even the bench section was full of new names.

A grin crept onto his face. "Oh. We're not getting the main five, are we?"I'm glad we aren't playing them those monsters."

He leaned back in the couch, the tension melting from his shoulders. "The Coach must be resting his stars. Blooding the rookies or something."

He closed the laptop with a snap, confidence swelling. "Good. Let them. We've been grinding together for two years. Experience beats potential any day."

He tossed his own ball in the air, catching it with a soft slap. "Guess tomorrow's a warm-up after all."

Across town, under a single flickering streetlight, Shun dribbled a scuffed ball on the cracked pavement of an outdoor court.

Midnight breeze ruffled his red braids. His breath puffed in the cool air, hands slick with sweat.

Crossover. Pull-up jumper. Swish.

He jogged to retrieve the ball, jaw clenched. "Not enough," he muttered. "Still not enough."

He started a new drill two dribbles, spin, step-back, shoot. The ball kissed the rim and dropped through. He caught it and dropped into a crouch, palms on his knees, eyes fierce.

"The Kings of the Court…" His voice was barely a whisper, but it carried across the empty park. "If I want to stand on the same floor as them, I can't just be 'good.' I have to evolve."

He straightened, staring at the hoop as though it were an enemy. "If I win this tournament… if I beat them…" His fingers tightened on the ball. "…I'll get to see her again."

The thought hit like a spark; his muscles tensed with fresh energy. He launched into sprints baseline to baseline, muttering with every turn, "Faster. Higher. Stronger."

Moonlight glinted off his sweat-slick shoulders. The park was silent except for the slap of his shoes and the echo of his determination.

Somewhere in the shadows, an older man in a track jacket Shun's neighborhood mentor watched silently, arms folded. He didn't step forward, didn't interrupt. He only nodded once, a small proud smile flickering across his face.

Shun finished his last sprint, bent double, gasping. Then he straightened, eyes still locked on the rim. "Tomorrow's just the start," he whispered. "I'm not the same kid who lost before. Not anymore."

He took one last shot deep three, off-balance. The ball sailed cleanly through. He caught the rebound and tucked it under his arm, walking off the court into the night with a new, heavy calm settling over him.

[NEXT MORNING]

Saturday morning sunlight spilled across the campus like a golden court light. At 9:00 a.m. sharp, the parking lot of Seiryō High hummed with low chatter and the thump of basketballs echoing from inside the gym. Banners fluttered from the second-floor windows, their school colors sharp against the autumn sky.

At the main entrance stood three figures waiting to receive the visitors.

Principal Ishida adjusted her slim glasses and smoothed the front of her navy skirt suit. Her long hair was pinned neatly at the back, a soft contrast to the sharpness of her tone as she barked last-minute orders at the student helpers. Beside her, Coach Takeda cut a relaxed but watchful figure in a deep-indigo sweatsuit, arms folded, the fabric creasing like worn denim. He had the quiet air of someone who'd seen a hundred scrimmages but was still measuring every detail.

Between them stood Marcus, trying to project calm. The captain's jacket hung open over his warm-up tee, his jersey shorts brushing his knees. A pair of dark-blue-and-white Air Jordans gleamed on his feet, black knee braces strapped tight underneath. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, the squeak of his sneakers betraying his nerves.

A low rumble grew at the end of the street. "Here they come," Coach Takeda muttered.

A long white bus rounded the corner, the rival school's crest flashing on its side. The brakes hissed as it rolled to a stop, engine purring like a caged animal. Doors folded open with a soft metallic clap.

First down the steps came a tall man in a black t-shirt and loose sweatpants, a baseball cap pulled low over his brow the visiting coach. His eyes swept the campus with calm precision, a small smile curling his lips as if to say so this is the place. He paused to adjust his cap before stepping aside.

One by one the players filed out behind him. Young faces, fresh legs. Even though it was only a scrimmage, their appearance screamed discipline. Each wore a matching blue-and-white team sweatsuit with the school crest stitched over the heart. The jackets were zipped to the collar, hoods down, warm-up pants loose over fresh sneakers. Twenty-two in total, plus staff an entire platoon of rookies. No swagger of veterans, no grizzled seniors; just eager energy spilling onto the pavement.

Marcus's heart thumped once, hard. These must be the rookies I saw on the roster. Good. If they're rookies, we've got this.

Principal Ishida stepped forward, her voice clear and formal.

"Welcome to Seiryō High. We're honored to host you today."

Coach Takeda extended his hand. "Hope the trip wasn't too rough."

Coach Shimizu clasped it firmly. "We're looking forward to a good game."

Marcus took a breath, forcing a grin, and added his own greeting. "Welcome. I'm Marcus the captain. If you need anything, just ask."

Coach Shimizu's eyes flickered with mild amusement at the young captain's confidence. Behind him, his players looked up at the banners and the gym doors, whispering among themselves.

No sign of the King of the Court anywhere. Marcus's gaze swept the bus windows, the parking lot, even the nearby stands. Nothing. He exhaled slowly, tension bleeding out. Guess the rumors were just rumors. Or maybe he's not even here.

Inside the gym, a ball smacked off the hardwood, echoing like a gunshot. Students pressed to the glass doors for a better view as the newcomers began filing toward the entrance, the charged air of pre-game anticipation following them in like static.