Tahera, marker poised like a surgeon's scalpel, stepped up and pointed to a tight knot of names clustered near the top-seeded positions on the whiteboard. "Okay, listen. Based on the early birds who've registered and factoring in st year's final standings and who's been making noise pre-season," she began, her tone serious, "we can basically guarantee Motijheel High is gonna be in the mix."
A low, synchronized groan swept through the team. Seriously, the collective PTSD from facing Salman 'Mr. Smug' was real. Visions of his arrogant grin probably fshed through half the team’s minds.
"And," Tahera continued, drawing a circle around another familiar, dreaded name, "odds are sky-high that Saint Abraham High will be there too." Another groan, this one maybe a bit louder, definitely tinged with the bitter memory of Jawal and his crew strutting around like they owned the pce st year. Ugh, the worst.
"Great," Ahsan muttered, folding his arms so tight his biceps bulged. He looked like he'd just been told pineapple does belong on pizza. "So, zero chance of easing into things."
"We could literally face our biggest rivals, the teams that smacked us down st year, right out of the gate?" He shook his head. "No warm-up games against, like, the School for the Artistically Inclined?"
"Exactly," Tahera confirmed, tapping the board again. "The seeding gods might not be kind. We have to assume they won't be."
Robi muttered under his breath, "Just our luck."
Kiyoshi nodded sharply, his expression confirming Ahsan’s grim outlook. "That’s precisely the reality, Ahsan. No gentle slope into the deep end here. We're diving straight in."
His gaze swept across the team, lingering for a moment on James, who was studying the whiteboard with that unnerving calm intensity of his, like he was deciphering ancient hieroglyphs. "And that brings me to the most critical point: our old reliable strategy of 'give the ball to James and hope for magic' isn't going to cut it anymore."
He let that statement hang heavy in the air, making sure everyone absorbed it.
"Look," Kiyoshi continued, pacing a step or two. "That strategy, that incredible performance from James"—he nodded towards him—"worked against Motijheel partly because it was unexpected. They underestimated him, they underestimated us."
"They didn't have a game pn specifically designed to shut him down." He tapped another school name on the board, Mirpur High. "But that advantage is gone now. The word is out."
"Every coach worth their salt will have seen the footage, probably broken it down frame by frame. They'll know about James's shooting. They'll have pns."
He focused on the guards. "Teams like Mirpur? They live and breathe pressure defense. Think relentless, suffocating traps the second you cross half-court."
He demonstrated with quick, chopping hand motions. "They’ll try to deny James the ball entirely, make him invisible. They’ll swarm Rafi and Karim," he pointed at the starting guards, "force bad passes, create turnovers."
"We can't just rely on individual brilliance anymore. We need specific, drilled-in pys to counter tight man-to-man, to exploit zone weaknesses, and especially to break those high-pressure defenses before they even start. We need options. We need counters to their counters."
Karim exchanged a worried gnce with Rafi. "So... they're gonna double-team us at half-court?"
