The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting long, amber shadows across the school's outdoor courts. The rest of the team had already headed for the showers, their loud laughter and Lev's occasional shouts fading into the distance.
Kenma sat on the bottom bleacher, his notebook open on his knees, though he hadn't written a word in ten minutes. He was watching Kuroo.
The captain was still at the hoop, methodically practicing his footwork in the post. No flashy jumps, just the disciplined, rhythmic movement of a man obsessed with the "Read Defense" Kenma had praised earlier.
Thump. Thump. Swish.
"You're going to miss the bus," Kenma said quietly.
Kuroo caught the ball off the bounce and tucked it under his arm. He was drenched in sweat, his jersey clinging to his frame. Instead of heading for his bag, he walked over and slumped down onto the bleacher next to Kenma, leaving a deliberate gap so he wouldn't get sweat on the notebook.
"Just a bit more," Kuroo panted, looking up at the sky. "I kept thinking about that '54-0' score you mentioned. It's been stuck in my head all day."
Kenma pulled his knees to his chest. "It's just data, Kuroo. It doesn't mean we'll lose."
"I know," Kuroo said, his voice unusually soft. He spun the basketball on the tip of his finger, watching it whirl before letting it drop. "But it's my final year, Kenma. Last chance at the Inter-High. Last chance for the Winter Cup."
Kenma remained silent. He knew Kuroo wasn't just talking about basketball. He was talking about the end of an era—the end of the "Cats" playing together.
"In the past, we were always the 'Kings of the North,'" Kuroo continued, staring at the hoop. "We were smart, we were technical. But we never quite broke through to that National stage where the real monsters live. We'd win the region, maybe win a round or two, and then get swallowed up by some powerhouse with a genius or an 'Uncrowned King.' We'd go home, say 'there's always next year,' and start over."
He turned to look at Kenma, his trademark smirk absent. "There isn't a 'next year' for me this time. I want to win, Kenma. Not just a match. I want to win at least once on the stage where everyone is watching."
Kenma looked down at his notebook. He saw the complex strategies he had accumulated over his entire basketball stint.
"You're acting like a protagonist of a sports drama," Kenma muttered, though there was no bite in it. "It's annoying."
Kuroo chuckled, the sound dry. "Yeah, I guess I am. Sorry."
Kenma shifted, his thumb tracing the edge of the page where he'd sketched Kuroo's defensive range. He looked up, meeting Kuroo's gaze with a rare, steady intensity. "I don't like losing because it means the game ends. And I'm not ready for this game to end yet. I'm not ready to stop playing with our teammates just yet. So... I'll make sure we win. That's why im the brain right?"
Kuroo stared at him for a moment, then let out a loud, genuine laugh that echoed through the empty courtyard. He reached out and ruffled Kenma's hair, ignoring the small protest that followed.
"The 'Brain' has spoken," Kuroo said, standing up and grabbing his gym bag. "Alright.I'm heading home."
He started walking toward the gates, then paused and looked back. "Hey, Kenma?"
"What?"
"Thanks for playing with me for so long."
Kenma looked back down at his notebook, "Whatever. Just don't miss the bus."