Out came Tento from the gym, late that day, like something inside had stretched beyond its usual edges. Low in the sky, the sun painted the ground in soft fire, while the breeze snapped at his skin with each inhale. Off his back, the bag tapped once in rhythm with his step, and the game's pulse still rang under his ribs, steady as a drum. People moved by in clumps, chatter mixing with leaf noise and far-off engines - yet none of it really reached him. That old routine ran through his thoughts again - each shot, each motion, like the ball knew where he was going. Words from Coach Akagi floated back, heavy yet dreamlike: "Welcome to the team." It sank in slow, warming something deep behind his ribs.
Home at last, he slammed the door behind him, energy still crackling like it had hours before. From the kitchen counter, his mother lifted her head, fingers covered in white powder, eyes locking on his face. Right then, without a word, she understood what happened. Did you get picked? she said, and he answered with a quick nod, grinning too hard to speak. Pulling him close, she held on firm, whispering how sure she'd been all along. Held close, he felt steady - yet his head spun forward, picturing drills, matches, the fabric of a uniform against his skin. Hours later, full from supper, clean from washing, he stayed flat under covers, eyes fixed upward as dim light outside drew slow patterns on walls. Soreness sat deep in his limbs, welcome and dull, energy humming behind his ribs like a radio left on low. Underneath it all, one tiny notion passed through - a whisper without words. He brushed it off, claimed exhaustion instead.
That morning in class, quiet voices trailed behind him down the halls. Kids bumped arms as he walked by, a few lifting fingers, murmuring about the boy nobody expected to stand out at tryouts. Acting calm wasn't easy, though his chest held something warm, hidden, burning slow. Once practice started under gray skies, every move flowed easier than before - effortless almost, more natural than anyone, maybe even himself, could've guessed. Low to the ground, he moved quick, steps precise, release smooth. Eyes locked on him, Coach Akagi scribbled something down, head bobbing once in quiet recognition. When drills ended, a hand slapped his shoulder - praise followed, soft but clear about early minutes ahead. That voice stirred heat behind his ribs, and walking out, light seemed to stick to his skin.
A shadow of yesterday's quiet idea slipped back in as he moved down the street. Floating without weight, it curled at the edges of his attention. What made today seem so smooth, almost too easy? The court used to push back hard, demand sweat, insist on struggle. Now movements flowed ahead of thinking, like the ball knew where he'd point next. A breath cleared his head - he pushed the feeling aside. This place wasn't given. Practice built these moments. Team spot secured by effort. Each choice aligned, step after step. Even so, when light slipped below the roof edges and dark lines crept along pavement, one quiet thought stayed tucked inside his head. Not strong enough to trouble him or dull what he felt, yet present - like an almost unseen turn on a path that had already started shaping who he'd become.
Weeks rushed by, one after another, practices blurring together while the team got ready for opening games. To Tento, the gym felt like where he belonged most. Smooth floors underfoot, balls thumping loud, Coach Akagi's whistle slicing the air - every sound settled into place like an old song. Running drills nonstop, fixing how he stepped, fine-tuning his jump shot took up his days. Now and then, his teammates watched him in silence - some filled with respect, others edged with jealousy. This change didn't escape him, though he made little effort to dwell on it. What kept running through his mind was that he simply followed his passion, no deeper meaning behind it. Still, when practice slowed and the air grew still, questions slipped in uninvited: Why did it never seem hard? That idea drifted like fog across glass - barely there, yet refusing to vanish completely.
When the opening match drew near, the whole campus hummed with restless chatter. Hallways wore bright signs slapped on lockers, kids swapped predictions between classes, while players moved down aisles like they carried invisible crowns. That current ran through Tento as well, glowing under his ribs - same spark that made him sign up months ago. Still, tucked behind the thrill, another feeling curled itself into shape. That day during warmups, something shifted without warning. Movements happened ahead of thoughts, hands responding on their own. The ball stuck close to the floor, cuts precise, yet everything unfolded as if by habit set years back. A deep shot fell cleanly through the hoop, flight smooth and true. He braced for the familiar rush of pride. Instead, only a faint echo arrived, muffled somehow, distant. He brushed the feeling aside, convinced he was reading too much into nothing.
Before the match, he stayed awake on his back, eyes fixed upward, shadows stretching across the walls, only the distant murmur of traffic breaking the stillness. Not like past times, there was no tightness in his chest, no restless pulse that usually showed up when something major waited ahead. Quiet settled over him, deeper than expected, so deep it seemed his limbs were already moving through events yet to happen. He brought up images - the stands full, voices rising, weight pressing down - but nothing stirred inside, no quickening breath or clenched hands. Then, low beneath his ribs, a twist appeared, slow and steady, born not from dread but from not knowing why he wasn't afraid. Maybe there's a glitch in me, he thought, some piece that others have but I don't. Rolling onto his side, he shut his eyes - willed the spark to return, though it lingered beyond touch.
That morning, the gym buzzed like a kicked hive. Bleacher seats brimmed with students, shouts tumbling over one another. Light poured down, golden and steady, while scents of damp socks, shoe soles, and something electric hung thick. Wooden floor underfoot, Tento paused - sneakers whispering - as if memory had rewound itself. Pulse jumped in his throat, fingers prickled, edges of everything suddenly crisp. Warmth returned, then so did the rhythm. Shots dropped - smooth, clean - while feet moved like they knew the way before he did. Teammates on defense lagged, arms reaching too late. Power should've surged through him; instead, silence inside grew loud enough to notice. Since when did success stop sparking joy? The whistle sliced the air, calling play forward. That tiny doubt stayed behind, thin yet sharp, splitting open what once seemed solid beyond repair.