Yeah, it wasn't just looming anymore. It felt like it was parked right outside, engine running, honking impatiently. The air itself felt thick with it, a weird cocktail of nervous energy, lingering sweat fumes, and the faint, desperate scent of floor cleaner trying its best.
Remember that epic win against Motijheel? That buzz was definitely still around, kinda like the phantom vibration from your phone. But today? Totally different frequency.
The usual background gym noise – the rhythmic thwock-thwock of the ball, the high-pitched squeal of sneakers making sudden stops – felt amplified, way sharper. Like someone had messed with the gym's EQ settings and cranked the treble way up. Each bounce seemed to hammer home the point: showtime's coming.
That easy confidence we’d been riding? It hadn’t vanished, not completely. But it had shape-shifted. Now it was less 'chill victory p' and more 'caffeine-fueled focus'.
A low-key hum of intensity vibrated under everything, like the bass line of a song you know is about to drop hard. You could see it in the way guys were stretching, the ck of usual goofing off. Even Arshad seemed slightly less likely to attempt a half-court shot blindfolded.
The message was clear: Pytime’s over. Time to lock in. For real this time.
No more just vibes; we needed results.
So, get this: instead of Kiyoshi immediately blowing the whistle and sending us into the usual warm-up drills that make you question your life choices (seriously, the beep test should be illegal), he did something different. He waved us all over towards the massive, slightly battle-scarred whiteboard Tahera was strategically positioning near center court.
That thing looks like it survived a minor war, covered in faint marker ghosts of past pys. Props to Tahera for wrangling it, honestly. Etched onto its surface in bold bck and angry red marker were the names of potential rival schools and these terrifyingly complex bracket lines.
It was like staring at the blueprint for our potential doom. A very stark, very real reminder that this wasn't just another friendly scrimmage.
"Alright team, pipe down, listen up!" Kiyoshi's voice wasn't shouting, but it cut through the low buzz of chatter like a hot knife through butter. Everyone snapped to attention. He tapped the top of the board, right under the big, imposing title: "LIBERATION CUP - KNOCKOUT FORMAT".
He let his finger linger there for dramatic effect. "Knockout," he repeated, making eye contact around the semi-circle. "Let's be crystal clear what this means. One L, and we're packing our bags."
"Season over. Donezo." He paused, letting the weight of that sink in. You could practically hear the collective gulp.
"There are no second chances, no 'my bad, let's run it back'. One bad matchup – maybe we draw a team that’s our stylistic kryptonite – one off night where shots just aren't falling, and poof." He cpped his hands sharply.
"We're watching the rest of the tournament from the sidelines. We absolutely, positively cannot afford to cruise or get compcent after one good win. We need pns. Backup pns."
"Backup pns for the backup pns. We need to be chameleons out there – adaptable, smart, ready for anything." He scanned our faces. "Got it?"
A chorus of mumbled "Yeah, Coach" followed.
