Nanaho clapped her hands once. The sharp sound carried across the gym, pulling everyone's attention toward her.
She gave a small nod, her expression composed.
"Alright then… let's begin training."
The lights above gave a faint, constant buzz, their glow spreading evenly across the court.
Scattered basketballs caught the reflection, dull orange surfaces glinting as they rolled slightly on the polished floor.
A few players bent to stretch, shoes scraping quietly against the wood.
The rhythmic bounce of a ball echoed now and then, soft and steady, blending with the faint rustle of fabric and the shallow sound of breathing.
Shino was assigned to practice layups again and again.
He crouched slightly, fingers brushing against the ball before lifting it to his side. The surface felt warm, faintly tacky from use.
He gave it a short spin between his palms, testing the weight.
As he started to dribble, the steady rhythm of rubber striking wood filled the space around him—thump, thump, thump.
He drew in a slow breath through his nose. The air was thick with the scent of varnish and sweat, the familiar sting settling in his chest.
"Here goes nothing…" Shino muttered under his breath.
He lowered his stance, eyes fixed on the rim. The soles of his sneakers squeaked against the floor as he burst forward.
Two quick steps—precise, practiced. His body lifted lightly off the ground, air brushing past his ears.
The ball left his fingertips in a smooth motion, spinning once before hitting the backboard and slipping through the net with a clean swish.
A small breath escaped Shino's lips.
"...I actually made it."
His voice carried a quick burst of excitement before fading into the steady rhythm of his steps.
He chased after the ball, sneakers tapping softly against the floor.
It rolled toward the sideline, but he reached it in time, scooping it up with both hands.
His breathing came a little faster now—controlled but uneven—as he jogged back to the top of the arc. He kept his gaze lowered, the warmth of quiet satisfaction resting in his chest as the ball pressed lightly against his hip.
On the far side of the court, Yukio, Takahiro, and Hayato moved in rhythm—quick steps, short pivots, the steady scrape of rubber on wood.
Their sneakers let out sharp, repetitive squeals that cut through the air, overlapping with the sound of quick breaths.
Their socks clung damply to their feet, the heat building with every shuffle and turn.
Yukio's voice broke through the sound of their movements, low but firm between breaths.
"Come on, Hayato. Don't slow down now. Just ten more minutes."
Hayato's reply came with a strained exhale.
"I'm… trying not to." His tone was tight, the burn in his thighs clear in his voice.
Each step sent a pulse of heat through his legs, his muscles twitching as he fought to keep pace.
Beside him, Takahiro's breath came out in short bursts, the three of them locked in rhythm.
At the far end of the court, Tetsuo moved alone, focused on unpredictability drills.
His eyes stayed locked on the basket as he dribbled low—first crossing the ball through his legs, then snapping it behind his back.
His hands slid over the ball with deliberate precision, shoulders rotating subtly to mask his movement.
He lunged toward the rim, springing upward. Mid-air, his body twisted in a tight motion—a feint at a simple layup—before he flipped the ball and released it from the opposite side.
The net caught it cleanly with a soft swish.
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 continued circling the track, each lap dragging against his will.
His sneakers struck the gravel with sharp, jarring thuds, scattering tiny stones.
Breath came in ragged wheezes, each inhale shallow and forced.
Sweat streamed down his forehead, soaking the collar and chest of his shirt.
He pressed a hand against his chest, shoulders rising and falling unevenly.
"…I can't take this anymore," he muttered, voice rough and dry, rasping with each word.
His throat burned with dryness, and a dull ache throbbed in his lungs, heavy with exhaustion.
One of the girls glanced over as she passed him, her tone light but teasing.
"Takemoto-san, what happened? You were saying you'd outlast us earlier, weren't you?"
Another girl slowed slightly, a small smile tugging at her lips.
"He looks like he's going to collapse any second."
A third girl covered her mouth to stifle a laugh.
"So much talk, but no strength to back it up."
One of the girls called out as she passed him, her tone playful but sharp.
"Looks like a group of girls is about to leave you behind, Takemoto. How does that feel?"
Noboru's breath caught between words as he clenched his fist, irritation flaring.
"Get lost! Just… leave me alone already!" His voice cracked with strain and frustration.
Another girl gave a mock gasp, raising her hands in fake fear.
"Oh no, he's angry. Better run before he catches us."
Laughter rippled through the group as their footsteps quickened, the sound of their shoes fading down the track.
"Damn you, Nanaho… trying to humiliate me by making me train with these girls. I'm not losing to them."
Noboru's breath came out rough between his teeth.
He leaned forward and drove his legs harder into the gravel. The muscles in his thighs tightened with each step, pain spreading through his calves and hips.
His lungs ached with every breath, heat building in his chest.
Sweat slid down the sides of his face and dripped from his chin.
He clenched his fists, pumping his arms faster, his jaw locked in stubborn focus.
From the bleachers, Naomi leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees.
Her eyes followed Noboru as he pushed himself along the track. A faint crease formed between her brows.
Noboru-kun actually looks serious for once… He's really putting effort into this, she thought, her expression softening with quiet surprise.
Inside the basketball gym, Nanaho stood at the door and glanced toward the track.
She checked her stopwatch, its faint click echoing in the gym.
Her lips curved into a small, knowing smile.
His pride is useful. If it keeps him from falling behind the girls, he'll push harder. That kind of stubbornness will make him stronger in the end.
Eventually, Noboru pushed forward, his breath loud and uneven.
Sweat scattered from his brow as he forced his pace, the gravel crunching under his feet.
"I'm not losing to any of you! Try to keep up if you can!"
His voice came out rough and strained, but his stride didn't break.
One of the girls glanced toward him, her tone light.
"He's actually doing better than I thought."
Another girl laughed softly, her pace easing.
"Still sounds like a child though."
Near the track, Liam adjusted his shoulders, rolling them slowly.
His track spikes pressed lightly into the red rubber surface as he stretched his legs, toes curling slightly for balance.
He had just finished tying his laces when Noboru's rapid steps passed by, catching his attention.
Isn't he part of the basketball team…? Why is he training here? Liam's gaze followed Noboru for a moment, eyebrows slightly furrowed.
A sharp voice cut through the air. The coach's clipboard tapped against his palm.
"Liam. Focus. I need to record your time. Get on your marks."
Liam blinked, nodding, his limbs shaking off the tension of standing still.
He lowered himself into a crouch, hands flat against the track, fingers pressing into the textured rubber.
The surrounding world dimmed slightly as his focus narrowed.
The coach exhaled sharply.
"Set… go!"
Liam launched forward. Rubber struck under his spikes with steady thuds, each footfall punctuating his rhythm.
Chest low, arms pumping in careful coordination, he drove forward.
Air brushed past his ears, and muscles burned with controlled effort.
Within seconds, he crossed the finish line, knees wobbling slightly from exertion.
The coach's lips pressed together as he checked his clipboard. Quietly, almost to himself, he murmured,
"Eleven point four seconds… three-tenths slower. He's not improving."
Liam's chest rose and fell rapidly.
He glanced at the coach without speaking, fingers twitching lightly at his sides.
His throat was dry, jaw tightening as he stared back down the track.
Why… am I slower? I've been doing everything right…
A dull pressure sat behind his eyes, a low heat in his chest from exertion and disappointment.
He drew in a long, slow breath through his nose, exhaling with little relief.
The coach's footsteps retreated, clipboard tapping faintly on the floor.
"Your time is decreasing. You likely won't place above last in the 100-meter. Normally, you'd improve by 0.1 seconds each week, but now it's slower each attempt. I'll ask once more, please consider doing field events. Don't waste effort on what may not suit you."
Liam remained still, shoulders slumping slightly, gaze lowered to the track beneath his hands.
Fingers curled loosely, tension lingering in them.
The sting of failure pressed quietly behind his calm expression.
He drew in another measured breath, letting it out slowly, but the burn in his chest remained.
A sharp whistle cut through the gym air.
Nanaho's voice followed, calm and measured, carrying across the court.
"Training is over. Take a rest now."
Yukio pressed a towel to his face, patting away sweat.
"…That was a lot." His shoulders sagged slightly as he exhaled.
Takahiro lowered himself to the floor, stretching his calves, fingers pressing into his ankles.
"Yes… quite intense."
Hayato shifted weight from one leg to the other, rubbing the backs of his thighs.
"I can barely feel my legs… I'll probably cramp later."
Takahiro shifted his weight again, pressing his palms to his thighs.
"Me too… my legs are already tightening." His voice carried a low groan, shoulders tensing slightly.
Yukio let out a short laugh, brushing sweat from his brow.
"It's normal for you to cramp after that much."
Takahiro's eyes narrowed, jaw tightening as he glared at Yukio.
"Normal… what do you mean by that?"
Noboru lay just off the track, back pressed to the gravel, arms spread, eyes half-lidded.
Hayato leaned slightly forward, shoulders tensed.
"You think…Noboru is all right?" His voice was low, careful, carrying concern.
Takahiro shook his head slightly, mock solemn.
"He looks completely out of it… may his spirit recover."
Nanaho's gaze flicked toward him from the gym floor, stopwatch in hand.
Her brow furrowed faintly.
He tried to keep up with the girls… two and a half hours nonstop. That is persistent.
Yukio wiped his forehead with a towel and muttered under his breath, barely audible,
"Thank you… for trying so hard, Noboru."
Back on the court, Shino bounced the ball lightly, fingertips gripping the worn surface.
His palms were slick with sweat; his arms trembled from repetition.
Knees ached, and the muscles along his shoulders felt tight and rigid.
I'm getting comfortable with scoring layups… but right-handed ones still need work. Shooting… Shino's breath came uneven as the memory of his earlier training returned.
He saw himself stepping to the free-throw line. The ball clanged off the rim and bounced away.
He crouched to retrieve it, stepped back, and attempted a mid-range jumper. The ball spun through the air, missing the rim entirely.
Frustration pressed in his chest. Another free throw fell short, rolling beneath the hoop. Teeth clenched, he fired again. Airball.
In his memory, Nanaho's voice cut across the court, firm but steady.
"Shino. Use your legs. Flick your wrist."
Shino's shoulders sagged in the present, trying to unscramble his thoughts.
Fifty free throws… one successful. One mid-range shot… one.
Am I really this bad? His eyes drifted toward Tetsuo at the far end.
Tetsuo dribbled slowly, movements calm, rhythm steady. Each shot fell cleanly, his form unhurried.
Shino watched him, calm and composed, as if the training meant nothing.
He's incredible… could I ever catch up? He furrowed his brows slightly, curiosity and quiet awe pressing at his chest.
Tetsuo rarely shares any words, he hardly ever tell us his thoughts. What could he be thinking right now… Shino murmured to himself as sweat dripped down his forehead.
At the far end, Tetsuo guided another shot smoothly.
I wonder if Usagi is home already… I hope she's not hungry. What should I make for dinner tonight?
Another ball sank cleanly, his breathing even, movements measured.