February 6th.
It wasn't a game that broke them. It was a practice.
An ugly, dragged-out, late-season practice.
Legs heavy. Tempers short. Passes lazy.
Coach Alvarez blew the whistle three times in ten minutes. He barked about focus. Energy. Reps.
No one responded.
Michael watched the body language around him—shoulders sagging, feet dragging, eyes dull.
He didn't give a speech.
He walked to the baseline. And started running.
Suicides. Full-speed.
No one told him to.
But after one rep, one teammate followed. Then another. Then the rest.
By the fifth sprint, everyone was pushing. By the seventh, they were yelling, competing again.
Coach Alvarez said nothing. He just watched.
When they finally stopped, drenched and breathing hard, the gym went silent.
Coach leaned against the scorer's table, arms crossed.
Michael stood at midcourt, hands on his hips.
"That right there," Coach finally said, voice low but steady, "is leadership without a word."
He pointed at Michael.
"You don't have to like him. You don't even have to talk to him. But if you can't respect what he just did, then you don't belong on this team."
No one spoke. But they didn't need to.
[System Triggered: Team Buy-In Secured][Trait Unlocked: Culture Setter Tier I][Progress: 19.48%]
That night, Michael sat in the cold tub, ice creeping up his legs.
Jamal pulled up a chair beside him.
"We're all starting to feel it," he muttered, rubbing his shoulder. "Like...this weight. It's not just the games anymore. It's everything."
Michael glanced at him, then looked straight ahead.
"We hit a wall," he said, voice calm. "But if we don't keep pushing through it, then all this meant nothing."
Jamal leaned back with a long breath. "You ever rest?"
Michael cracked the faintest grin. "Maybe in June."
Two nights later, they faced Ridge Valley.
Big, physical, playoff-bound.
Michael came out with intent.
First possession—pull-up jumper from the elbow. Next trip down—crossover, drive, and-one. Then a steal, pushing the break, laying it in with touch.
Ridge Valley responded with strength. A barrage of threes, drawn fouls, and the crowd roaring after every basket.
By halftime, they trailed by four.
In the huddle, Coach Alvarez spoke, but it was Michael's presence that anchored them.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't pace.
He made eye contact with every player, one by one. Not demanding anything. Just reminding them who they were.
Jamal leaned over and whispered, "You ready to break them?"
Michael nodded, then replied, "We're not walking out of here without the win."
Third quarter: Michael exploded.
17 points in eight minutes. He controlled the tempo, drew doubles, kicked to open shooters.
He chased down a block that made the crowd go silent.
Ridge Valley's body language changed.
By the fourth, the only noise came from Michael's bench.
Final score: 80–70.
Michael: 33 points, 6 rebounds, 5 assists.
In the locker room, Coach didn't say much.
He tapped the stat sheet against his chest.
"Heart," he said simply.
Michael looked around the room—at teammates icing knees, laughing again, even Marcus giving him a nod.
Because this wasn't about skill anymore.
This was about will.