The players were already groaning before Masuda even explained it.
"Standard beep test," he said. "Run to the line before the beep, turn around, repeat. The beeps get faster. You fall behind – you're out."
Ichiro stood near the middle, surrounded by determined faces and tired legs. His heart was still steady from earlier, but his shirt clung to him with sweat from the extreme heat. Focus, he told himself.
Survive.
The first few rounds were simple, jog there, jog back. The beeps were slow and generous, some players even chatted between runs. But Ichiro didn't waste a breath.
Level 5, then 6, then 7.
Sho dropped at level 8, waving a mock farewell. "See you in the afterlife."
Kai tapped out next, muttering, "Sprint boys weren't built for this."
Yuto pushed harder, sweat dripping off his chin, but by level 10 he was staggering. "Screw this aerobic torture."
Only three remained now.
Ichiro, Itsuki and a wiry third-year striker named Kenta
Level 11.
Level 12.
Itsuki's composure cracked. He misjudged the beep and stumbled, falling behind the line by half a step. Masuda blew the whistle.
Two left.
Kenta and Ichiro.
Level 13.
The beeps came like bullets now, every stride had to be perfect. Kenta gritted his teeth, arms pumping like pistons, while Ichiro stayed light – rhythmic – barely flinching at the pressure.
Level 14
Kenta's foot clipped the line – a wobble – then a stagger. His second mistake.
Masuda's whistle cut the air.
Ichiro didn't stop. He kept running – one more lap, just to prove he could. When he finally halted, his chest was rising and falling with deep but steady breaths, his shirt clung to him and his legs burned.
Coach Masuda stepped forward, a faint smile on his face – his voice cutting through the air:
"Winner, Ichiro."
There was silence – no one uttered even a word.
Again they had realized, the difference between him and them.
…
Shibata leaned towards coach Masuda. "He placed top in both tests."
Masuda nodded, "yeah he did." He glanced at Shibata. "Still think he won't make his senior team debut within a year, I'm always happy to hear you admit defeat."
Shibata's eyes stayed on the field, drawn to the blond-haired boy who stood out like a flare. "Let's see him in the five-on-five... but I might've been wrong."
Masuda smiled, already turning toward the pitch. "That kid, that kid's special. Trust me, in a few years he'll be sought after by every top club in Europe – and we'll be begging him to stay."
Shibata looked at the kid with blonde hair a little longer. "Yeah, maybe."
…
Ichiro sat on the edge of the bench, legs still buzzing with adrenaline, sipping slowly from his water bottle. Around him, players whispered, stole glances and exchanged quiet looks.
From the corner of his vision, he saw someone approaching.
Kenta.
The third-year striker stood in front of him, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
"You're the real deal," Kenta said flatly.
Ichiro looked up, one eyebrow raised. "I know."
Kenta blinked – then chuckled. "Cocky."
"Confident," Ichiro corrected, casually capping his water bottle. "There's a difference."
Kenta gave a short laugh. "Most guys come back from Europe cocky, you know. You're not the first."
Ichiro stood, grabbing his water bottle. He didn't puff up, didn't smirk. Just spoke with a cool, even tone. "Well, I didn't come back to fit in or make friends, I came to take the next step."
That made Kenta pause. His mouth twitched, caught between a grin and a grimace. "You're not just talk, huh."
Yuto appeared at Ichiro's side, towel draped over his shoulders. "He's been like this since he showed up. You should've seen him in the dorm, kid's got main character energy."
Sho grinned from behind them, cracking his knuckles. "Told you, that sprint time wasn't a fluke."
Kai sauntered up, pushing his silver-dyed hair back. "England boy is making waves," he said, nudging Ichiro with his elbow. "Guess I'll have to steal the spotlight during the 5-on-5."
"Good luck," Ichiro said without missing a beat. "Just try not to get nutmegged."
Kai raised an eyebrow, but his grin didn't fade. "Oh, you're spicy now."
Kenta watched them – Ichiro surrounded by teammates already, despite being the newcomer. His confidence wasn't fake, and worse, he had people backing it up.
"Alright," Kenta said, offering a hand. "You've made your point."
Ichiro clasped it firmly. "That was just the warm-up."
Kenta chuckled and turned away. "Then I'll see you in the next half."
Ichiro exhaled, rolling his shoulders out.
Yuto glanced sideways. "You really told Kenta you came to take the next step?"
Ichiro shrugged, walking back toward the field. "I mean, I did."
Sho laughed. "Bro, I love this guy."
Kai jogged ahead, stretching his arms. "Let's just hope your mouth moves slower than your feet."
Ichiro smirked, eyes locked on the empty nets ahead.
"Don't count on it."
...
Coach Masuda stood in front of a small whiteboard propped on an easel, his clipboard in one hand. He cleared his throat once, and the low murmur of chatter cut off.
"Alright. Time for your favorite part," he said, his voice dry. "Tournament rules."
A few half-hearted cheers sounded out.
Coach Shibata stepped up beside him, tapping the whiteboard with a marker. "We've split you into five teams of five. One team will rotate as the sub each round. Everyone will play multiple games, no favorites."
Masuda continued. "Standard 5-on-5 rules. No offside and the matches are six minutes long."
"Coach," someone called from the back. "What about fouls?"
Masuda gave him a look. "Play like it's a real game, because to us-" Masuda pointed at himself and Shibata. "It is."
A few boys laughed nervously.
Shibata turned back to the board. "This isn't for show, it's not just conditioning. We're watching chemistry, decision-making, communication, who leads and who hides."
Ichiro could feel it – the shift in tone. This wasn't practice anymore, it was an unofficial trial. Every touch, every mistake, every pass would be noted.
"The teams are as followed. Team 1 Itsuki Sato, Kenta Suzuki,…"
Coach Masuda named the teams one by one, and at last Ichiro heard his name:
"… And finally, Team 5 – Ichiro Lo Presti, Yuto Akagi, Ryoma Sato, Kota Endo and Jin Hoshino."
Ichiro only recognized one of the names.
Yuto stepped up behind him, talking to him over his shoulder:
"Well, me and you on the same team – just like fate intended."
Ichiro smirked. "Yeah, let's just hope the other three aren't allergic to passing."
"Doubt they'll pass at all," Yuto muttered. "Kota's solid though. Defensive mid. Quiet guy. Doesn't talk much but knows his job."
"And the other two?"
Yuto shrugged. "Ryoma's a decent right back. Fast, but hot-headed. Jin... he's a striker."
Ichiro frowned slightly. "So, no playmaker?"
Yuto clapped him on the shoulder. "Guess that's you."
Ichiro didn't respond – because he didn't need to. He had already decided: if there was no leader on the team, he'd be the leader.
A new voice joined them.
"You're on Team 5?" a boy said, stepping into their view.
Ichiro turned. The speaker was slim, short, sharp-eyed, with spiky hair and a narrow jaw.
"Ryoma," he said, nodding. "Right back."
"Right," Ichiro replied. "Ichiro."
"I know," Ryoma said flatly. "Everyone does."
Ichiro didn't flinch. "Then you know I like getting the ball early."
Ryoma stared at him for a second, then gave a tight smile. "Then show me where to pass it."
Yuto leaned in again. "Told you. Firecracker."
Another boy walked up – taller, hair long and tucked behind his ears, a bandage on one knee. He bowed politely. "Kota Endo, defensive mid."
"Ichiro Lo Presti," Ichiro said, returning the bow.
"We've played once, I think," Kota said. "In a training camp. You cut inside and shot from the edge of the box. Hit the bar."
Ichiro raised an eyebrow. "We did?"
"Yeah, sure."
The final member of their squad came jogging up last – Jin Hoshino. A little too lean, with narrow shoulders and long, quick steps. His hair was buzzed short and his eyes were unreadable behind dark lashes.
"Guess this is the dream team," he muttered.
Ichiro met his gaze. "You play striker?"
"I play where I want to, as long as I score goals."
The group stood there for a moment, the five of them forming an unspoken circle of temporary alliance. They weren't friends, not yet. Maybe not ever.
But for the next hour, they were a unit.
And Ichiro was already sizing up the pieces.