"Okay then, let's begin training, everyone," said Nanaho.
The court lights buzzed softly overhead. The basketballs scattered across the polished floor reflected the overhead lighting like dull orange orbs. The gym echoed with the sound of sneakers shifting, players stretching, and a basketball thumping now and then.
Shino was tasked with repeatedly practicing layups. He picked up a ball, held it to his side, and gave it a quick spin with his fingers. As he dribbled forward, the rubber slapped rhythmically against the hardwood. He inhaled through his nose, the scent of varnish and sweat filling his lungs.
"Here goes nothing," said Shino to himself. His sneakers squeaked sharply as he drove forward and took two measured steps, launching gently toward the basket. The layup rolled softly off his fingertips and dropped in with a clean swish.
"Yes, I made it! I'll do it again," said Shino, his face lighting up. He ran after the ball, catching it just before it rolled too far, and jogged back to the top of the arc, his breathing slightly elevated.
On the far side of the court, Yukio, Takahiro, and Hayato worked on their footwork. The squeals of their sneakers were sharp and constant as they shuffled across the court. Sweat already formed on their brows, their socks growing damp inside their shoes.
"Come on, Hayato, don't let up now. Just ten more minutes to go," said Yukio, hands on his knees between sets.
"I'm trying my best not to," said Hayato, his chest heaving. The tightness in his thighs was starting to burn with each movement. His shoulders twitched involuntarily between drills.
Tetsuo, on the far end, was alone. He was tasked with working on unpredictability. He kept his eyes forward as he dribbled low—first crossing the ball through his legs, then quickly behind his back. His hands moved with precision, his shoulders turning to disguise his direction. He charged the rim and sprang up. His body twisted mid-air in a tight motion—faking a basic layup—before he reversed his grip and laid the ball in smoothly from the opposite side. It swished cleanly.
Without letting the ball drop, Tetsuo snatched it out of the net with a fluid motion. He turned, sweat glistening on his neck, and returned to the three-point line. His second drive was just as sharp—this time ending with a soft floater that arched and sank effortlessly into the hoop.
His chest barely rose and fell with exertion. Unlike the others, his breathing was steady, calm—even his sweat was minimal, a light sheen rather than soaked exhaustion.
Meanwhile, Noboru was at the track, distant from the court but clearly audible. He had been running laps without pause. His feet slapped harshly against the gravel surface, and his breath came in harsh wheezes. Sweat poured from his forehead and darkened his shirt at the collar and chest.
"Crap, I can't take this anymore. We've been running for twenty minutes nonstop. I feel like my lungs are going to burst. I'm about to pass out," Noboru muttered, the dryness in his throat turning his voice hoarse.
"What's wrong, Mr. Takemoto? Did all that talk about enduring longer than us get to your head?" asked a girl from the track team.
"He looks like he's about to pass out," said another girl, her voice laced with amusement.
"All bark and no bite. It's hilarious," chimed another, laughing.
"You're about to be beaten by a bunch of girls. How do you feel about that?" one teased as they passed him by.
"Leave me alone and buzz off!" shouted Noboru, his voice cracking with frustration.
"I'm scared, please don't hurt me," a girl said sarcastically, sparking laughter among the others as they increased their pace.
"Damn you, Nanaho, trying to humiliate me by making me train with these girls. I will not lose!" said Noboru to himself, pushing harder. His legs throbbed, and his lungs screamed, but his ego burned brighter. He clenched his fists and pumped his arms faster.
From the bleachers, Naomi watched with a raised brow. "Noboru looks like he's serious for once. He's really trying hard out there," she thought, surprised by his grit.
Nanaho, glancing toward the track, checked her stopwatch and smiled. "Noboru's ego provides a great catalyst for his stamina training. I'm sure he doesn't want to lose to a bunch of girls, so he'll work hard and improve at a faster rate," she mused.
Eventually, Noboru surged ahead, sweat flinging from his brow as he passed the group of girls. "I'm not going to lose to any of you. Eat my dust," he shouted, his steps uneven but determined.
"Hey! He's doing pretty good," said one of the girls.
"He sounds like a kid though," another added, laughing as they slowed slightly.
Near the track, Liam stood by the 100-meter start line, rolling his shoulders. His track spikes dug lightly into the red rubber surface as he stretched his legs. He had just been tying his laces when Noboru passed by, catching his attention.
"Wait, isn't he part of the basketball team? So why is he over here training?" Liam wondered aloud.
"Liam, focus! I'm trying to record your time here. Get on your marks," said his track coach sharply.
Liam blinked and nodded, shaking out his limbs. He moved into a crouch, planting his hands flat on the track and adjusting his stance. The world around him dimmed slightly as he narrowed his focus.
"Set… go!" called the coach.
Liam burst forward. The rubber track thudded rhythmically under his soles. He kept his chest low and arms pumping in perfect form. The air whooshed past his ears, and his muscles burned with controlled force. Just a few seconds later, he reached the finish line.
"Eleven point four seconds. That's 0.3 seconds slower. He's not getting better at all," the coach muttered to himself, shaking his head.
"So, what's my time, coach?" Liam asked, chest rising and falling rapidly.
"Eleven point four seconds. You have a slower time," the coach said bluntly, eyes on the clipboard.
"I see. So my time has decreased, huh?" Liam said, trying not to show his dismay, though his brows furrowed slightly.
His fingers twitched slightly at his sides. He looked back down the track, his throat dry.
Why am I getting slower? I've been doing everything right… he thought, his jaw tightening. A dull pressure sat behind his eyes.
"I'm afraid you won't be placed above last in the 100-meter race. Your time is decreasing rapidly. Usually, you'd get 0.1 seconds faster by the end of each week, but now you're getting slower each time you run. I suggest you consider doing field events. I don't want your hard work to go to waste. Some people just aren't cut out for sprinting," said the coach, walking off without waiting for a reply.
Liam remained silent. His shoulders slumped slightly as he looked down at his feet, his fingers curling loosely. The sting of failure simmered behind his calm expression.
He inhaled sharply, then exhaled through his nose—long and slow—but it did little to calm the burn in his chest.
A whistle blew from across the gym.
"Training is over. You guys can rest up now," Nanaho called out.
"Phew, that was quite the workout," said Yukio, wiping his face with a towel.
"Yes, it was," said Takahiro, sitting on the court and stretching his calves.
"I can barely feel my legs. I'm definitely going to be cramped up later," Hayato muttered, rubbing the backs of his thighs.
"Me too. I can feel my legs tightening up," Takahiro groaned.
"Well, you cramping up is understandable," Yukio said with a grin.
"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Takahiro, glaring.
Noboru had collapsed just off the track, lying flat on his back, arms spread out and eyes half-shut.
"Noboru, are you okay?" asked Hayato, peering down at him.
"He looks like a goner. May your soul rest in peace," said Takahiro with mock solemnity.
"He was trying to keep up with the girls on the track team, but he forgot his limits. He ran for two and a half hours straight. That's quite impressive," Nanaho noted, watching him with mild concern.
"Thank you for working so hard, Noboru," said Yukio quietly to himself.
Back on the court, Shino bounced the ball lightly. His palms were sweaty, and his arms trembled slightly from the repetition. His knees ached, and the muscles in his shoulders felt tight, like worn springs straining to hold form. "I'm getting comfortable with scoring layups now, but my right-handed layups could use some work. As for shooting…" he whispered, breath uneven.
He stepped up to the free throw line and took a shot. The ball clanged off the rim and bounced away.
He retrieved it, stepped back, and tried a mid-range jumper. The ball spun in the air—but once again, it didn't even touch the rim.
Irritation built in his chest. His next free throw fell short, rolling beneath the hoop. He gritted his teeth and fired another two-pointer. It airballed.
"Come on, Shino! Flick your wrist and use your legs for power! You're barely even jumping!" Nanaho shouted from the sideline.
Shino's shoulders sagged. "I only made a single free throw out of fifty and a single mid-range shot out of a hundred. I must be the worst shooter in history," he muttered, eyes drifting over to Tetsuo.
Tetsuo dribbled calmly at the far end, shooting with unbothered form and rhythm.
"Look at him, completely unfazed by his training regimen. He's amazing. Can I really catch up to him? He always keeps to himself and barely ever shares his thoughts. I wonder what he's thinking," Shino pondered aloud, brows furrowed in quiet envy.
"I wonder how Usagi is doing. What should I make for dinner tonight?" thought Tetsuo to himself, casually nailing another shot.