After the victory against Kirisaki, the reputation of the Falcons team exploded. They were no longer
simply a surprise of the tournament; they had become serious contenders. The name of
Haruki Nakamura began to circulate in amateur forums, and some school media did so
described as "the brains behind the tactical revolution".
But with fame came the weight of expectations.
"Now everyone expects us to win," Riku told him during a walk to the station.
"It's no different from before," Haruki replied. The only difference is that now they say it out loud.
Souta, for his part, had changed. He was still intense, but now he talked more during the
training, he even joked. The team looked more united than ever.
Coach Daichi called a special meeting.
-We are in the semi-finals. Our next opponent is Saiten Academy. They don't play basketball.
They dance it.
No one understood the phrase, until Daichi played a video.
Saiten had a fluid, almost artistic style. His passes were choreographed, his movements in
synchrony as if they were rehearsing a dance.
"They have the best timing I've seen in years," Daichi said. And its captain, Reiji Aoyama, is a
virtuoso of the pass. If Kanzaki was the emperor, Aoyama is the illusionist.
Haruki studied it silently. Notes were already beginning to appear in his notebook.
"We are not going to break his style," he said. Let's be out of tune.
The team looked at him, intrigued.
-If you dance together, it is enough for you to lose the rhythm. And the rest fall with him.
That week, training changed. They were no longer just physical or tactical. Haruki proposed
Disorientation exercises: defending without looking directly at the ball, simulating mistakes to force
Reactions. They trained unpredictability.
Ami, as always, observed everything. In silence, annotating.
And when no one was looking, he smiled.
Because he knew that Haruki was no longer just a strategist. He was a silent leader who, without looking for it,
became
he was becoming the soul of the team.
Saiten Academy's analysis took up every spare minute of Haruki. In the classroom, in the library,
even on the roof of the institute. I watched his movements over and over again. There was something hypnotic
about it
in the way they moved, as if they had a collective consciousness.
"We can't break your game hard," he said to Riku over lunch. But if
We interfere with its timing, like a false note in a symphony, the rhythm breaks.
-Do you want to detune his system?
-Exactly.
During training, Haruki implemented irregular rhythm exercises. The players
practiced with timers that randomly changed speed, they had to adapt their
Real-time movements.
Souta, though skeptical at first, began to see results.
"This is strange," he said after practice. But it works.
"We don't need to look like a perfect team," Haruki replied. We just need to turn them back
imperfect to them.
The night before the match, the team met informally at Riku's house. Between pizzas,
Soda bottles and laughter, Haruki sat aside with Ami. They watched the lights of the city from the
window.
"Aren't you tired?" she asked.
-Yes. But that's not what weighs on me.
-Then?
-I'm afraid that if we lose, all this will disappear. As if it were a dream that
fades when you wake up.
Ami looked at him, calmly.
-A dream that you build with effort does not disappear. It transforms.
Haruki nodded. His heart was pounding with the intensity of someone who knew he was about to face
something bigger than a party.
The day of the meeting with Saiten arrived. The stadium was packed. Aoyama bowed
almost theatrical. His team moved gracefully from the warm-up. They seemed to dance on the
parquet.
But Haruki was undeterred.
As the others prepared, he repeated a phrase to himself in his mind: "A failure in the rhythm...
a door in dance".
The match began with a symphony of quick passes and soft screens. Saiten slid down the
field with a fascinating timing. It seemed like a choreography rehearsed hundreds of times. In
The first five minutes, they took a six-point lead. Their players knew exactly
where to be without even looking at each other.
Haruki watched every movement, his eyes swept over every space, every anticipated gesture.
"Now," he whispered.
On the next play, Riku faked a cut, but stopped midway. Saiten's player
who was supposed to cover it bumped into a colleague. For the first time, her dance had a pause.
Haruki took advantage of that moment to intercept a pass and launch a counterattack. Souta finished
the play with a clean layup.
On the bench, Saiten's coach shouted instructions, upset. I had seen something that I hadn't
He understood: his perfect machinery had failed.
Haruki asked for a defensive variation. They would not press directly, but would apply
micro-displacements in the seconds before the pass. It was like untightening a nut as soon as possible
half a millimeter. But it was enough.
The mistakes began to add up. They were not spectacular failures. They were hesitations. A pass that
It took a tenth of a second longer. A defensive help that arrived late. A rotation without
energy.
"They're hesitating," Haruki said at halftime. And doubt is like a crack in the
crystal.
-Are we still the same? Souta asked.
"No," Haruki replied. Now we accelerate. If we force them to improvise, they lose control.
The third quarter was the scene of a total turnaround. The Falcons began to run. Each possession
it was fast, unexpected. Haruki led with total vision of the field. Riku was on fire,
Shooting from any angle. Souta dominated the painted area with a force that forced
Saiten to retreat.
And at the key moment, when Saiten was trying to reorganize, Haruki executed a move
improvised: a diving pass from midcourt that found a free substitute under the hoop.
Point.
The audience went crazy.
And for the first time, Aoyama lowered his head.
In the fourth quarter, Saiten launched his last offensive. They changed their rhythm, tried to break the
a pattern that they themselves had cultivated. For a few minutes, it worked. Aoyama took the
reins and began to play with more freedom, leaving aside the choreography to embrace the
creativity.
Haruki noticed.
"It's changing," he said to the coach. He's improvising. And he's doing well.
-And what do you propose? Daichi asked.
-We will answer you in the same way. No schemes. Read only. Only basketball.
The last five minutes were a pure duel. Open plays, quick transitions, reading
real-time space. There was no planning. Only intuition. Heart.
Aoyama stole a ball and assisted with a pass without looking. Point.
Haruki responded with a quick cut and a reverse layup.
The score was tied. There were twenty seconds left.
Saiten had the ball. Aoyama was holding him calmly on the three-point line. He looked at Haruki. Both
they knew that moment was theirs.
Aoyama feinted once, then again. But Haruki did not fall for the feint. He maintained the position.
The pass arrived. Haruki lunged, intercepted, fell to the ground. The ball was loose. Riku got it back.
Ran. There were five seconds left. Souta cut through the middle. Perfect pass.
Point.
End of the match.
The Falcons won.
The stadium roared.
In the final greeting line, Aoyama shook Haruki's hand.
-I didn't know that you could break a dance without violence.
"I didn't break it," Haruki replied. I just listened to her more closely.
That night, the team celebrated in the gym. Laughter, hugs, emotional words. But Haruki
He retired earlier.
He climbed to the roof of the school building. There was Ami, as if she were waiting for him.
-Did you think he wouldn't come? she asked.
"I thought maybe you were already in the next chapter," he replied.
Ami came over and took her hand.
"Only if you write it with me."
And under that autumn sky, Haruki knew that the real triumph was not in the trophies... but in
the connections that had brought him there.
On Monday morning, the institute looked like a different one. In every corner they talked about the match. Videos
with
The best plays circulated through school networks. One image was constantly repeated: Haruki
intercepting Aoyama's pass, as if time had stopped.
"You became a legend, Nakamura," said a professor as he handed him a proof
Corrected.
Haruki just smiled. I didn't know how to handle admiration. Each compliment made him more aware
of responsibility.
In the gym, Coach Daichi was direct.
-We went to the final. We will face Kurobane High. Last year's undefeated champions. His
style is brutal, but efficient.
"Who is your captain?" Souta asked.
-Kazuma Ichiro. A full forward. Tall, strong, fast. But his real danger is that he doesn't play
to shine. Play to make others shine.
Haruki started taking notes immediately.
Over the next few days, the workouts intensified. But something in the atmosphere changed.
The pressure, silent at first, began to take its toll. One day, in the middle of a shooting session,
One of the substitutes missed three times in a row and threw the ball in frustration.
"We are not invincible," he cried. And everyone acts like we are!
The silence was tense. Haruki calmly walked over, picked up the ball, and handed it back to him.
-We don't need to be invincible. We just need to stay connected.
That night, Haruki stayed in the gym after everyone. He practiced in silence. Soon after,
Souta arrived.
"Do you never get tired?"
"Sometimes yes," Haruki replied without stopping throwing. But tiredness doesn't hurt as much as doubt.
"Do you doubt now?"
Haruki made a basket and then turned.
"Not from me. But I do know about the weight that everyone is putting on this team. We need to remember why
What we started.
Souta sat down on the bench, thoughtful.
-I started to win.
-I... to belong," Haruki replied.
They both fell silent. Then they laughed softly. Because, in the end, they were saying what
same.
Days before the grand final, the Falcons received an unexpected visitor: a sports journalist
came to interview them. The institute was filled with cameras, microphones and curious onlookers. Although all
They enjoyed the attention, Haruki felt out of place.
During the interview, when asked how he had gone from silent otaku to a reference of the
team, he only said:
-I didn't change who I am. I just discovered a new way to express it.
The answer went viral on student networks.
That afternoon, while most of the team was going home, Riku invited Haruki for a walk.
-Do you remember when I dragged you to watch my game? -Asked.
-Yes. I thought I was going to get bored.
-And now... you are the key to everything.
Haruki looked down.
-Thank you for not letting me escape from that first invitation.
"Thank you for accepting," Riku said. Because without you, this wouldn't have gotten this far.
They stopped at a bridge across the river behind the institute. The water flowed calmly.
-What if we lose? Haruki asked.
"Then we will have done it together." And that's already winning," Riku replied without hesitation.
That night, Haruki wrote in his notebook. No plays. You don't scheme. Just one sentence:
"A family in sneakers. A bond that needs no words."
The day before the final, coach Daichi gathered them without the ball or blackboards. Just words.
-Tomorrow I don't want to see players. I want to see people. With flaws. With fear. But with fire in
the heart. Because that, guys... It's what wins real games.
That night, Haruki went to the roof of the gym. Ami was there, waiting for him.
"I notice you differently," she said.
"I am ready," he answered. Not to win. But to play like never before.
She smiled, walked over and handed him a small envelope.
"Open it after the game," he whispered.
Haruki put it away carefully. And as they looked at the sky together, he knew that the next chapter
it was about to be written with fire.