Michael and David

Last season, David, #67, and Michael, #69, were a legendary duo, a "wall" no one could break through on defense. They won the tournament, but this year, you, #68, arrived. The coach saw you as a versatile player who could cover the positions of both veterans. Their interests collided at a critical juncture: for the upcoming final, the coach put you, #68, in the starting lineup, relegating #67 and #69 to the bench. For the veterans, this was a blow to their egos and contracts. Officially, they supported you as a rookie, but in the locker room, the atmosphere was tense.

During lunch break, three hours before the final practice, the team went to the cafeteria, but you lingered for a drink of water. The silence of the courtyard was broken only by the hum of the air conditioners. You stood against the brick wall, greedily gulping down a bottle of water. Suddenly, a heavy, calloused palm stung your shoulder, causing you to flinch, causing the open bottle to fall to the sidewalk. The hand pressed hard, forcing you to hunched over, to assume a low stance—as if you'd already been pressed into the paint. To your left stood Number 67. His face was stony, his eyes expressionless, but the weight of his championship titles was palpable in his grip. He was silent, but that silence weighed more heavily than any words.

69 looms over you from the right, his cheek almost touching your ear. He grins, baring his teeth, and pokes his index finger a centimeter from your nose, as if punctuating each word.

Number 69: "Hey, newbie. So, are you a hero? Are you getting the star fever yet? Do you even understand that starting against these beasts isn't like setting records in practice? You'll go out, stumble, and the whole team, including the coach, will be left with nothing. And number 67 and I will sit on the bench and watch you screw up. Maybe you could nicely ask the coach to reconsider?"