The next day at Hamikawa High, classes moved in their usual rhythm, but Eadlyn's attention kept drifting to the clock. Ever since Sayaka's tour—and that casual, "Then I'll cheer for you"—something had taken root in his chest. A quiet determination. A familiar weight.
Basketball.
Not just a game. A court instead of a stage. A place where he could prove himself without words.
When the final bell rang, he didn't linger. He headed straight for the gym, the scent of polished wood and sweat already pulling him forward.
Inside, the air hummed with energy—balls bouncing, sneakers squeaking, seniors barking plays. The basketball manager stood near the coach, arms crossed, his expression unreadable as he watched Eadlyn approach. His gaze lingered on Eadlyn's foreign features, his late arrival, and something in his eyes tightened—not hostility, but skepticism.
"Greyson-kun?" the manager said, his voice carrying the weight of someone who had seen too many students quit when things got hard. "You're the transfer student who wants to join?"
"Yes," Eadlyn replied, meeting his gaze without flinching.
The manager's tone was measured, but there was an edge to it. "Foreign students often join late, disappear early, and don't handle real training well. If you want to stay on this court, you'll play one-on-one. Prove you're worth the spot."
There it was—the quiet prejudice he'd expected somewhere. Not malice, just the assumption that he wouldn't last.
Eadlyn nodded. "Understood."
A tall senior stepped forward—a wall of muscle, his stance solid, his expression neutral. He didn't smirk. He didn't mock. He simply bounced the ball once, then passed it to Eadlyn.
Respect. Unsaid, but clear.
The ball felt familiar in Eadlyn's hands—the texture, the weight, the faint echo as it hit the floor. He dribbled twice, testing the distance, then glanced up.
Half-court. Risky if you're showing off. Natural if it's your range.
He pulled up and shot.
The ball cut through the air in a clean arc and slipped through the hoop with that soft, addictive swish.
The gym quieted.
The senior's brows rose slightly. The manager's arms uncrossed.
"Again," the manager said. "Defense now."
The senior took the ball this time. His movements were controlled, practiced—Hamikawa wasn't known for weak players. He pushed forward, testing Eadlyn's reactions, feinting left, then driving right.
It reminded Eadlyn of home. Of another court. Of his best friend back in the UK—six-foot-three, built like a tank, someone who treated every pick-up game like a championship. Against him, Eadlyn had never been the strongest or the tallest. So he'd learned something else:
How to read people.
The small shifts in shoulders. The changes in speed. The angle of someone's hips before they drove in. The weight on their lead foot before they jumped.
The senior tried to break past, but every time, Eadlyn slid into position, cutting off the path. The more the senior pushed, the calmer Eadlyn became.
He wasn't faster. He wasn't stronger. But he was used to being underestimated.
Finally, the senior saw what he thought was an opening. He lowered his center of gravity, feinted, then drove hard—
—and Eadlyn moved first.
His hand snapped out, cleanly stealing the ball. In the same motion, he turned, sprinted, and without overthinking, launched another shot from half-court.
Swish.
Silence. Then a low murmur rippled through the players.
"Who is this guy…?""Two half-courts?""Serious?"
The senior exhaled, then smiled—a real one. "You're good," he said, offering his hand.
"Thank you," Eadlyn replied, gripping it firmly.
The manager stared for a beat longer… then laughed. It was short, almost disbelieving, but genuine. "I judged you too early," he admitted. "Greyson-kun—you can join practice from tomorrow. You've missed the entry window for this year's official tournament, but if you stick with it, you'll be ready for the next."
Eadlyn's chest eased. "I'll work hard."
As practice wrapped up, a few players came over, introducing themselves, asking where he'd learned to shoot like that. He downplayed it—street games, school courts, stubborn afternoons where he'd refused to lose even when outmatched.
By evening, as he left the gym, his phone buzzed with a message from Ken:
Ken:Arcade? Weekly ritual. You in?
Eadlyn smiled.
Basketball. New teammates. A slowly building friendship. Sayaka's voice lingering somewhere in his memory.
Japan wasn't just a reset.
It was becoming a life.