Ethan Cruz sat at the far end of the bench, the cheapest clipboard in the world balanced on his lap and a half-broken pencil tucked behind his ear. His hoodie was pulled halfway up, casting a shadow over his wiry face as his eyes locked onto the hardwood court in front of him. His gaze flicked from the game clock to the score, then to the Kennedy Prep lineup.
Roosevelt High: 52
Kennedy Prep: 55
1:41 left on the clock. Timeout called.
The gym was boiling hot with the roar of the crowd, sneakers screeching, and the low thud of the bass-heavy hype music still bleeding from the overhead speakers. Most kids would be swept up in the energy, but Ethan wasn't most kids.
He was quiet. Calculating.
"Timeout! Bring it in!" Coach Brown barked as the JV squad hustled to the bench.
Ethan stood quickly, instinctively shuffling behind the coach like a shadow. He knew no one really acknowledged him—he wasn't a player, not officially on the coaching staff, just the weird kid who showed up to practice with his own playbook and filmed games for "tape review." The only reason he was even here was because Coach Brown was too short-staffed to say no to a free assistant who didn't complain, showed up early, and left last.
"Alright, we're going with Hammer. Jalen, you hit the weakside corner. Zaire, run the pin-down. Rami, you handle."
Coach Brown sketched it sloppily on his whiteboard. Ethan's eyes narrowed.
They're running a switch-heavy 2-3 hybrid. Weakside help has been jumping that flare screen all game. Hammer's going to get swallowed alive.
Ethan opened his mouth to say something.
Then stopped.
He glanced at the players' faces—tired, frustrated, sweating buckets. Jalen's eyes were glossed over. Zaire kept looking at the scoreboard like he could change it with a stare.
They wouldn't listen. Not to him.
Coach Brown didn't either, unless he needed someone to rebound or carry cones.
Ethan sat back down quietly.
The play ran exactly how Ethan predicted: predictable pin-down, flare to the corner—jumped, deflected, turnover.
Easy transition layup for Kennedy Prep.
Five-point game.
The buzzer sounded before Roosevelt could recover.
Another loss.
Another predictable ending.
After the game, Ethan didn't ride the bus back with the team. He rarely did. He preferred walking. His apartment wasn't far—fifteen blocks through Queens under the quiet buzz of broken streetlights and the faded glow of corner bodegas.
Back home, the lights in the living room were off. His mom's room door was closed, soft jazz humming through like white noise. She worked long hours at the hospital. Night shifts mostly. It left Ethan alone with his thoughts—and basketball.
He dropped his bag, kicked off his worn sneakers, and crashed on the couch with his tablet.
He loaded up Synergy highlights and YouTube breakdowns. One playlist had old Celtics offensive schemes; another was labeled "Euroball Stagger Actions - Genius Shit Only."
Ethan knew he wasn't built like other kids. At 5'9 and 130 lbs soaking wet, he had no bounce, no handles, and a jump shot that might hit glass if the wind wasn't blowing. But his mind?
His mind was sharp.
He saw the court like a chessboard. Knew when to trap, when to funnel to the sideline. He could memorize an entire playbook after two watches. He'd created an entire playbook for fun. For fun.
He wasn't a hooper.
He was a mind.
But no one cared. Not yet.
At around 1:42 a.m., Ethan dozed off on the couch. He wasn't sure when exactly it happened—somewhere between watching an old Spurs side pick-and-roll breakdown and trying to diagram a triple-screen stagger variant on a napkin.
Then, a ping.
Not from his phone. Not from the tablet.
Something deeper.
He opened his eyes.
Floating in front of him was a pulsing, soft blue interface. Like something from a sci-fi movie. It hovered in midair, rotating slightly, with clean digital lines and pixel-perfect clarity.
[COACHING SYSTEM ACTIVATED]
Ethan blinked.
"This has to be a dream," he whispered.
Welcome, Ethan Cruz.
Basketball IQ: 144
Emotional Investment: Overloaded
Athleticism: Tragic
Do you wish to pursue the path of the System Coach?
[YES] [NO]
Ethan's hands trembled. His heart beat like he'd just run wind sprints.
Was this real?
He reached out with a shaky finger.
Tapped [YES].
The world around him seemed to shift, just slightly. A cold wave passed through his chest, like diving into icy water.
Then—
Initializing Coaching Archetype...
Base Role Unlocked: Assistant Coach (Lv. 1)
Skill Tree Activated.
Unlocked Skill: Situational Awareness (Lv. 1)
— Gain +5% analysis speed when reviewing live play.
Unlocked Vision Mode (Lv. 1)
— View live data overlays of players during games, including morale, fatigue, tendencies, spacing integrity, and momentum flow.
XP Tracker Enabled.
— Earn XP through successful tactical input, morale boosts, substitutions, and custom play creation.
Ethan fell back into the couch, mouth open.
"I'm in a system game. A real one."
This was his dream.
Not to dunk.
Not to drop 30.
But to run the game.
The next morning
He walked into Roosevelt High with one AirPod in and a new kind of clarity in his step. The system hovered in his peripheral vision like a personal HUD, only visible to him. He could tune it up or down mentally. It didn't obstruct reality—it layered on top of it.
In the gym, morning shootaround had already begun. Coach Brown and the JV squad were warming up while the varsity squad filtered in one by one. Ethan slid into his usual corner with the camera tripod, pretending to record.
He tapped the side of his temple.
[VISION MODE - ON]
Suddenly, stats floated over players' heads:
Jalen "Frozone" Bryant - SF
Confidence: 61%
Fatigue: 22%
Focus Drift: 4.1s per sequence
Defensive Read Tendency: Late Closeouts
Zaire "Buckets" Taylor - SG
Confidence: 73%
Fatigue: 15%
Shot Selection: Aggressive (Bias Right Elbow)
Ethan almost fell over.
It was like 2K in real life. But more complex.
He could even see team spacing integrity as a pulsing web across the court, glowing blue when optimal, flickering red when lanes collapsed.
When Coach called a drill—five-on-five shell defense—Ethan watched closely.
Midway through the drill, Jordan, their usual point guard, started fumbling basic reads. His stat bar showed:
CONFIDENCE: 49%
TENDENCY: Freeze vs. Trap (High)
Ethan stepped closer to Coach Brown.
"Coach," he said hesitantly. "Maybe let Micah run point for a few reps. Jordan's dragging a little—his head's not there. Let him slide to the wing and reset."
Coach raised an eyebrow. "You been coaching in your sleep now?"
Ethan gave a nervous smile. "Just… think it might help."
Coach grunted. But then called the switch.
Five minutes later, the offense flowed smoother. Jordan even nailed a corner three off a ball reversal, and his confidence ticked up.
+100 XP: Tactical Suggestion Successful.
LEVEL UP!
New Ability Unlocked: Play Design (Basic).
Create and save up to 2 custom offensive sets.
Ethan froze.
He was leveling up.
After practice, Ethan found himself alone again in the gym. Most of the team had gone home. Coach Brown had left him the keys to lock up.
He paced the court, system still active.
Would you like to design a custom offensive set?
[YES]
Ethan grinned.
"Yes."
Enter Play Name:
He typed: "Phantom Drive"
It was a misdirection set—a false high ball screen with a ghost cutter faking the flare, then diving backdoor off a fake handoff. Designed to work against aggressive switch coverage.
He dragged player icons on a digital court.
Adjusted the timing. Set triggers.
Saved it.
Play "Phantom Drive" saved.
Efficiency Estimate: 68% (vs. Switch Coverage)
His hands shook. Not from fear.
From purpose.
He wasn't on the team.
But he was in the game now.
With a system only he could see.
A mind sharper than most coaches twice his age.
And now?
Now, he had tools.
Power.
A path.