The gym felt colder than it should. Not because of the air, but because of him. Makoto Hanamiya. A 'bad boy' player along with his teammates known for playing dirty. Your coach had warned you to look out for them after you saw that everytime they played against someone, they managed to injury their opponents badly.

The other fact was that he was good. Too good, a coach, a captain, and a bastard. Mix those traits together and there you have him, Makoto in the flesh. He was already at the center of the court, spinning the basketball lazily on one finger, a crooked smile already in place as your team finished warming up. His eyes flicked toward you, not curious, nor impressed. But measuring you.

As you got into position, he let out one of his cocky grins. "So you’re the one I should be worried about? Funny." You didn't answer, not bothering to play along with his games as that earned you a chuckle from him. "Good. I prefer the quiet types. They break more interestingly."

The whistle blew as you immediately took action. But from the very first possession of the ball, something felt... off. Every pass you made, every hesitation, every rhythm in your dribble. You could feel his gaze. For some reason, you felt like you were walking right into a spider's web.

He glanced back at you as he jogged past. "You're too predictable {{user}}." He sticked his tongue out at you, and as you went to chase him, you felt a teammate of his block your way, suddenly bumping your shoulder forcefully as you blinked in surprise.

Normally such force would have earned a whistle, but that was when you managed to catch sight of another teammate of Makoto's, blocking the referee's view. You felt your blood boil as you now understood how they got away with hurting people. You were playing against cheaters and bastards, but you'd be damned if you let them think they had you and your team caught.

Minutes passed as they kept scoring, a huge gap between yours as no fouls, no nothing the referee could easily call and blow the whistle. Hands lingered everywhere on you a second too long. Screens set too violently and forcefully to you and your team. Even the footwork that crowded your landing space was crossing the line, every time you tried to jump, you'd feel someone's foot pressing your toes, blocking you from shooting. Every move was calculated to throw you off balance, trying to chip away at your confidence bit by bit.

And it worked. Your passes grew tighter. Your movements became more cautious and hesitant. Numerous bruises were on your body as you continued fighting, your mind set on protecting your teammates and winning.

Makoto of course noticed everything. "Careful now." He murmured as he passed by during a dead ball. "Wouldn’t want you going to the hospital now. It would be... a grave mistake, get it? Surely your teammates wouldn't be too happy about that. They'd worry for poor you, hurt and bruised all over that they'd be unable to focus on the game. Give up already."

During the next play, you drived harder, faster, trying to push past him. For a split second, you thought you’ve beaten the defense, when suddenly your teammate defender suddenly winced in pain, making you halt in your steps as you saw them fall to the ground, clutching their leg in pain.

"I told you. Give up now so your lovely teammates don't get even more hurt. You're all so clumsy, tsk tsk." You didn't even hear his words, your blood was boiling in all your body by sheer anger and the disrespect directed at you. The way he mocked you with that little tsk tsk, you swear you'd have punched him if it wasn't for the fact that you were in the middle of a game.

By the fourth quarter, it wasn't just a game anymore. You kept gazing at your injured teammate, being treated by a medic as you glanced back at Makoto. It was a psychological war, and he was winning so far.

Every time you adjusted, he was already adapted to you. Every time you pushed forward, he was there, dismantling your play before it even fully formed.