Ace of the Bench

The gym doors banged open with a metallic CLANG, cutting through the squeal of sneakers and the steady thud-thud of bouncing balls. For a second, everyone froze. Even the referee's whistle hung in the air, uncertain. A cool draft rolled inside, carrying with it a hush that swept the bleachers.

A boy stepped through the doorway.

He wore Seishin's black-and-emerald jacket, half-zipped over a plain white tee. His duffel bag still hung casually over one shoulder, like he had run straight from somewhere else. But it wasn't the clothes that held the gym's attention it was the weight behind him. A shimmering green aura pulsed faintly behind his back, like the afterimage of lightning.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, voice even, low, yet carrying to the far corners of the gym. "Had something to do."

On Shikoku's bench, three rookies smirked at each other. One leaned in, whispering, "Let's give him a show."

Across the court, Marcus felt his stomach knot. That's him… The King of the Court. The air thickened, pressing against his lungs, as if breathing required effort. Shunjin's eyes widened, every blink slower, heavier. Even the referee glanced at the scorer's table, checking the clock as if unsure the game could continue with this presence in the room.

The whistle blew sharply. BEEEEP! Third quarter. Ball in.

Marcus clapped his hands hard, shouting over the tension. "Let's go! We're only down a little. Lock in!"

Seiryō surged forward aggressively, pressing full court, arms up, bodies angled, feet squeaking like knives on tile. Two guards shadowed Marcus's every move while another lurked at the midline to jump the passing lane. As Marcus tried to break the press, Riku flashed middle then darted back; the window closed. He hesitated, took one dribble too many. A long arm shot out; poke! the ball popped free. An instant later, a blur streaked down the lane for a fast-break layup.

"Ooohhh!" The bleachers rippled with sound. The scoreboard ticked: 42–29.

Marcus jogged back on defense, heart hammering. Come on. We've beaten presses before. We can handle this.

Shikoku's coach cupped his hands around his mouth. "Alright boys, time to really move. Show him what you've learned!"

The response was immediate. Their man-to-man defense snapped into place like a cage. Kaito, the power forward, slid into Marcus's sight line, then stepped back to set a sneaky off-ball screen. Akira darted around it like a blade around a whetstone, caught the pass on the wing, planted, and drained a three in one smooth motion. Swish! 45–29.

Seiryō tried to answer. Marcus signaled "fist down," calling a horns set. Shunjin popped out high for the catch, but Daigo hedged aggressively, forcing him to retreat. Marcus cut backdoor, but Kaito's hand shot in to deflect the pass. Ball loose on the floor. Scrum. Whistle. Jump ball Shikoku.

On the inbound, Haruto faked high, then spun baseline, slipping past Shunjin. He took the bounce pass, kissed the ball off the glass for a reverse layup. Screech of sneakers, thud of the ball, clang of the rim, whisper of net. 47–29.

Next trip, Marcus waved everyone into a four-out. He crossed half court low, Riku setting a brush screen. He turned the corner, saw daylight, and attacked but Daigo rotated over, walling off the paint. Marcus kicked to Kento for the open fifteen-footer. Clang. Riku hustled for the rebound, jostled with Daigo, the ball slipped through his fingers and rolled out of bounds. Possession Shikoku.

"Man-to-man! Switch on screens!" Marcus shouted, heart in his throat. Dropping into a low stance, he tried to set an example, eyes locked on Akira. But Shikoku ran a stagger-double for him this time: Kaito first, then Haruto, each planting their feet at just the right angle. Akira used both, caught at the top, Marcus trailing half a step. He rose and flicked the ball to Daigo on a slip. Easy dunk. Another bucket. 49–31.

Marcus swiped at his jersey collar. I'm supposed to be leading them. Why can't I get control of this game?

Seiryō inbounded again. Marcus tried a quick push, hoping to catch them before the press set, but Kaito met him at half-court, hips low, arms wide. Marcus pivoted, swung to Shunjin. Shunjin jab-stepped, drove middle, spun only to find Haruto digging at the ball. Strip. Fast break. Akira lobbed it to Daigo, who hammered a two-handed slam. 51–31. The gym erupted.

Coach Takeda jumped up, clapping furiously. "Settle! Run blue! Run blue!" he barked.

Blue was a flex action. Marcus initiated, swinging the ball side-to-side. Shunjin curled, took the hand-off, dropped it back to Marcus on the re-screen. This time Marcus got a step. He rose for a floater over Daigo. Soft touch. Finally a bucket. 51–33.

They ran back, but Shikoku counterpunched instantly. Akira brought it up, zipped a pass to Haruto in the corner. Haruto pump-faked, took one dribble, rose for a midrange. Pock! 53–33.

Marcus put his hands on his knees at the free-throw line. Sweat ran down his temple. The court felt longer with every possession. We need a spark. Somebody. Something.

I'm supposed to be leading them. Why can't I get control of this game?

Up in the bleachers, Ayaka gripped the edge of her seat. Kana leaned closer, murmuring, "Every passing lane's locked. They're reading everything."

On the bench, Coach Takeda crouched low, scribbling on his clipboard, muttering "Techniques…" under his breath.

Two players whispered at the far end of the bench, eyes flicking to Yuuto. "If he'd been on the floor already…" one hissed.

Yuuto sat quietly, sweat dripping even though he hadn't played, eyes sharp and unblinking.

Coach Takeda's gaze shifted to Yuuto. His voice cut through the low hum of sneakers and murmurs. "Yuuto. Warm up. Now."

Yuuto's hands unclenched slowly. He sat a heartbeat longer, letting the weight of the captain's responsibility settle in. Then, with a deliberate exhale, he unzipped his warm-up jacket. The zipper slid with a whrrr-click, the sound sharp in the tense gym. He shrugged it off one shoulder, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thump, revealing his jersey and its number 15 beneath.

Riku whispered under his breath: "Finally… about time we had some backup."

Yuuto stood, rolling his shoulders deliberately, snap-pop of muscles echoing softly. He bent to retie his shoes, double-knotting them.

A few heads turned in the crowd. Murmurs rose. "He's actually going in? … thought he was injured." "Nah, this is Coach's ace." "Number fifteen? Oh no, it's him…"

Marcus glanced over as Yuuto's first warm-up jumper dropped through the net. Swish. Second one: pure. Third: step-back from the corner, all nylon. Marcus's throat tightened. We need him. But can even he flip this game?

Coach Takeda barked, "Get loose quick. You're going in at the next dead ball."

Yuuto's lips curved into the smallest hint of a smile. "Roger that."