The final bell rang, echoing through the halls like freedom.
Classes were done for the day, and one by one, the boys from the basketball team drifted toward the gym — some joking, some yawning, some already spinning basketballs on their fingers.
By the time everyone gathered, the gym was alive again: sneakers squeaking, balls bouncing, laughter bouncing off the high ceiling.
The door swung open.
Every sound died.
Min-Seok stood there. Head down. Gym bag hanging off one shoulder like guilt made visible.
Ji-Woon blinked. "No way."
Whispers rippled across the court. The guy who'd ghosted practice after that humiliating match with Jae-Hyun had finally crawled back.
"I…" Min-Seok's voice cracked a little. "Everyone, I'm sorry for ditching practice. I was—selfish. I'll make up for it. I'll work twice as hard to help us win nationals." He bowed low, voice firming on that last word.
Silence.
Then Ji-Woon snorted—then laughed, loud and unrestrained. Everyone turned.
"I knew you'd come crawling back, you big drama queen." Ji-Woon grinned, stepping forward. "You really think we'd let you quit after all the dumb motivational speeches you gave us about teamwork?"
Someone chuckled in the back. Min-Seok scratched his neck awkwardly. "Yeah, yeah, rub it in."
"Oh, I will," Ji-Woon said, slapping him on the shoulder. "As your generous captain, I'll let you rejoin. But you're gonna practice till you drop. You owe us a week's worth of suicides."
"Half a week?" Min-Seok tried.
"Two weeks," Ji-Woon shot back immediately.
"Hyung—!"
"Three." Ji-Woon smirked. "You should've quit with more dignity."
The team burst out laughing, the tension dissolving into that familiar, chaotic warmth. Ji-Woon draped an arm around Min-Seok's shoulders. "Welcome back, man. Try vanishing again and I'll personally drag you from your house."
"You'd have to catch me first," Min-Seok muttered.
"Oh, I will."
The laughter barely died down when the coach's voice boomed across the court. "Alright, reunion's over."
Everyone straightened.
"Min-Seok, get changed. You've got catching up to do." The coach's tone softened for a second—then sharpened again. "But before that… we're changing how practice runs."
He turned to Jae-Hyun.
"From today, Jae-Hyun's in charge of training."
The air froze.
Ji-Woon's grin dropped.
"What?" someone whispered.
"You heard me," Coach said, crossing his arms. "I know it'll sting taking orders from a first year, but if we want to win nationals, we need results, not seniority."
Ji-Woon frowned. "Coach, with all due respect, that's a little extreme. He's good, yeah, but—"
"Ji-Woon." Coach's tone cut like a blade. "Since Jae-Hyun joined, the team's been leaning on him. Without him, you can't run a clean play. And he's not even planning to play every match. So unless you learn to function without him, you'll lose the first round."
The words hit hard.
Ji-Woon's mouth opened—then closed again. He knew Coach was right. Everyone did.
"So," Coach continued, "Jae-Hyun runs training. You'll follow his orders. No excuses."
He walked toward his office, leaving behind a gym full of stunned faces.
Ji-Woon turned slowly to Jae-Hyun. "Guess you're my boss now, genius."
"Looks like it," Jae-Hyun said evenly, not rising to the bait. His calmness made it worse.
"Don't get cocky just 'cause Coach likes your brain."
Jae-Hyun's lips twitched. "If you keep fumbling passes, I might start yelling."
That earned a few laughs—nervous ones. Ji-Woon rolled his eyes but couldn't hide a reluctant grin.
Jae-Hyun stepped forward, eyes calm but sharp. "Alright everyone, start with your stretches. Min-Seok, get changed. From today on, practice will be brutal — and only those who can withstand it will be drafted for the starting lineup."
No one moved for a second — then, reluctantly, they obeyed. Even Ji-Woon. The energy in the room had shifted.
The sound of sneakers squeaking filled the gym as the team started stretching, their laughter replaced by wary silence. Everyone could feel it — Jae-Hyun wasn't the type to bluff.
When he said brutal, he meant it.
"Alright," Jae-Hyun said, voice cutting through the air. "Warm-up laps. Five rounds around the court. Full speed. Go."
Groans erupted.
"Five?!" Raon blurted.
"Six," Jae-Hyun corrected without blinking.
The groans turned into yells as everyone broke into a sprint.
By the second lap, they were panting. By the fourth, someone tripped and nearly face-planted. Jae-Hyun didn't even flinch.
"You stop, you add another lap!" he shouted.
No one dared to slow down.
When the laps ended, the team collapsed onto the floor, gasping.
"On your feet," Jae-Hyun said. "We're not done."
Ji-Woon glared at him. "You trying to kill us or win nationals?"
"Both," Jae-Hyun said simply. "Now—passing drills. Two lines. I want perfect chest passes. Not lazy, not sloppy. Each mistake earns ten push-ups."
The sound of bouncing balls filled the air again. Sweat started to drip, muscles burning as Jae-Hyun stalked through them like a hawk — correcting grips, repositioning hands, adjusting stances.
"Won-Bin, your elbow's too low."
"Min-Seok, you're not pushing through your legs on the jump.
"Raon—stop spinning the ball like it's a toy."
Raon groaned. "Yes, sir, dictator, sir."
"Fifteen push-ups."
Raon's eyes widened. "For sarcasm?!"
"Twenty."
The team snickered as Raon dropped and started counting. "Eighteen… nineteen… okay, okay, I'm sorry!"
"Louder," Jae-Hyun said, deadpan.
"I'm sorry, Captain Jae-Hyun, sir!"
Laughter exploded again, but no one missed the tension hiding beneath it. Jae-Hyun's standards were insane.
When they moved to shooting drills, he made them start from the free throw line — twenty in a row each. If anyone missed more than five, they ran suicides until he said stop.
By the time half the team finished, their arms were shaking.
"Basketball," Jae-Hyun said, "is rhythm. Not luck. You don't shoot with your hands. You shoot with your legs, your breath, your focus."
He demonstrated — a clean, effortless motion. The ball arced perfectly through the net without even touching the rim.
"Again," he said.
"Do you ever miss?" Raon muttered under his breath.
Jae-Hyun's lips quirked. "When I'm bored."
That earned a few quiet laughs. Then came rotations.
"Two-on-two scrimmages," Jae-Hyun ordered. "You lose, you run the length of the court in sprints. No exceptions. If I think you slacked off, double the punishment."
The matches began — loud, aggressive, messy. Jae-Hyun walked along the sideline like a tactician on the battlefield.
"Spacing! Keep the court open!"
"Stop crowding under the rim!"
"Ji-Woon, your read timing is late — Hyun-Sik's cutting left and you're blind to it!"
Each mistake was met with punishment — sprints, suicides, or core drills.
By the fourth rotation, no one was talking anymore. Only breathing. Heavy, ragged breathing.
And still, Jae-Hyun wasn't satisfied.
He had them switch to formation play next — half-court defense versus offense. "Learn to read the court, not just react to it," he said. "If you can't predict your opponent, you'll never control the game."
He had them run plays again and again until even the captain's arms trembled.
"Stop," Jae-Hyun said finally. "Everyone—water break."
They collapsed like dying men.
Ji-Woon leaned against the wall, panting. "He's… a demon."
Min-Seok groaned from the floor. "I think I saw my life flash by during the fourth rotation."
"Yeah? What'd you see?" Min-Seok wheezed.
"Nothing. I blacked out halfway through."
That got a laugh — a weak one. But even through the exhaustion, something new glimmered in their eyes. Focus. Grit. Determination.
Jae-Hyun looked over them, eyes narrowing slightly — satisfied but not soft.
"Good," he said finally. "You're starting to look like a team."
He dropped his water bottle, picked up a ball, and turned toward one person in particular.
"Raon."
Raon froze mid-drink. "…Please tell me you meant someone else."
"No," Jae-Hyun said, walking toward the court. "You're next."
The rest of the team started cheering like vultures sensing drama.
"Don't die out there, Raon!"
"May your legs forgive you!"
"Rest in peace!"
Raon groaned, dragging himself upright. "This feels like a public execution.
Jae-Hyun smirked. "Show me what you've got."
He tossed Raon the ball.
Raon caught it—barely. "Alright… I guess we're doing this."
"Defense first," Jae-Hyun said. "Try to get past me."
"Wait, seriously—"
"Now."
Raon gulped and moved. His speed was wild — unrefined but explosive. He cut right, then feinted left, trying to slip past. Jae-Hyun blocked him with a single step, calm and precise.
"Too predictable," Jae-Hyun said.
Raon tried again. Faster. Lower. His reflexes kicked in; he twisted mid-motion and managed to fake a crossover, slipping the ball under Jae-Hyun's reach—almost—
Jae-Hyun's hand shot out like lightning and slapped the ball away.
"Better," he said. "But still sloppy. You think too loud."
Raon frowned. "Think too loud?"
"Your body gives away your next move. Fix that."
They reset. Again. Again. Raon stumbled, recovered, lost the ball, chased it down, and came back faster. Each failure taught him something new — how Jae-Hyun read him, how to feint, when to shift weight, where to move.
By the sixth round, sweat poured down his face. His lungs screamed. His hands trembled.
Then — finally — he got past Jae-Hyun.
It wasn't perfect, but it was fast — so fast even the team blinked.
He shot—The ball bounced off the rim.
"Nice try," Jae-Hyun said, stepping past him to catch the rebound midair. "Your instincts are good. But your control is trash."
Raon bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for air. "So… that's a compliment… right?"
A rare grin tugged at Jae-Hyun's lips. "You learn fast. That's rare."
Raon blinked, eyes wide. "Wait—hold on—did you just praise me? Did I hear that right?"
"Don't get used to it."
Jae-Hyun spun the ball once on his finger, then tossed it back at him. "You're training with me from now on."
Raon froze. For a heartbeat, it didn't register — then his eyes went round as saucers.
"Wait, seriously?!" he shouted, almost dropping the ball. "You—you mean it?!"
Jae-Hyun tilted his head. "You wanted to train with me, didn't you? I'm giving you what you wanted."
Raon practically bounced in place, grinning like he'd just won a championship. "No way—finally! I swear I won't disappoint you! I'll work till I drop! I'll—"
"Good," Jae-Hyun interrupted coolly. "Because you probably will."
The team burst into laughter as Raon groaned dramatically.
"Worth it!" he said anyway, still grinning from ear to ear.
Ji-Woon patted his back with mock sympathy. "You're insane, man. He's gonna kill you."
Raon straightened, still panting but glowing with determination. "Then I'll die a legend."
Jae-Hyun only smirked, leaning against the wall as the team recovered.
He didn't say it out loud, but deep down, Raon intrigued him — the way he learned fast, adapted mid-game, and turned unpredictability into instinct.Jae-Hyun found himself thinking, This guy could actually be fun.
And for the team, they had no idea what they'd just signed up for.
But one thing was certain—from that day on, practice would never be the same.