The next morning, I was already on the court by four a.m., sweat dripping as I went through my usual drills. Push-ups. Core work. Sprints. Shooting reps. My body had adapted to the grind, and every day I felt it grow sharper, lighter, stronger.
But today wasn't just my training.
Mitsui showed up.
He walked into the park looking tired, hands stuffed in his pockets, hair messy. The swagger of a delinquent was still there, but beneath it… I saw nerves. Doubt.
"Tch," he muttered, scratching the back of his head. "I can't believe I'm actually doing this."
I tossed him a towel. "You said you wanted to play again. This is where it starts."
Mitsui caught the towel but didn't move. He shifted awkwardly, his pride fighting with his hesitation. "I'm out of shape, man. My stamina's garbage, my legs feel like lead. I don't even know if my knee can handle it."
I looked him dead in the eyes. "You don't need to be perfect today. You just need to start."
Breaking the Rust
The first thing I made him do was run. Not full speed—just steady laps around the park. Mitsui cursed under his breath the whole way, his body protesting every step. By the third lap, he was gasping, clutching his side.
"Damn it… I can't…" he wheezed.
"Shut up," I barked. "Your lungs are weak, your stamina's shot—but that's normal. You've been wasting years smoking and fighting. You think recovery comes easy? Get moving."
Something in my tone lit a spark in him. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to keep going, dragging one step after another until the fourth lap was done.
When he collapsed on the bench, drenched in sweat, I handed him a bottle of water. "That's day one. Every morning, we'll add more. Your body will hate you at first, but it'll come back. Trust me."
Mitsui sat there, breathing hard, but for the first time… he nodded.
Rebuilding the Body
The next hour, we focused on bodyweight drills. Push-ups, squats, planks, explosive jumps. His arms trembled, his legs shook, but he pushed through each set.
"Basketball isn't just about shooting," I told him. "Your body is your foundation. If it collapses, everything else follows."
When we finally picked up the ball, Mitsui's hands trembled. His shot was still pure, his form beautiful, but his legs couldn't keep up. After ten threes, he was bent over, panting again.
"Pathetic," he muttered bitterly. "I used to shoot all night without breaking a sweat."
I grabbed his shoulder firmly. "Then use that as fuel. You're not the same as before—but that doesn't mean you're finished. Every rep, every drop of sweat—it's you climbing back."
He stared at me for a long moment, then clenched his fists. "…Damn it. Fine. I'll do it."
A New Routine
From that day on, Mitsui joined my mornings. At first, he complained nonstop—his legs hurt, his lungs burned, his body screamed. But slowly, something began to change.
His steps grew steadier. His shots lasted longer before fatigue set in. His eyes, once clouded with bitterness, started to sharpen again.
One evening, after another brutal training session, he collapsed onto the court beside me, laughing breathlessly. "You're insane, Sakuragi. But… it feels good. It feels like I'm alive again."
I smirked, staring at the fading sunset. "That's because you are. Welcome back, Mitsui."