I watched Rice as she did warm-up stretches with Urara. It had been a month and a half since I took over her training. Every day had been a delicate balance: draining the accumulated fatigue from her body while slowly—painstakingly—realigning her muscular balance.
She wasn't "cured," but she was stable. She wasn't an engine on the verge of exploding anymore.
Her form was better, the strain was distributed more evenly, but the fact remained: these girls move at 60 kilometers per hour. One wrong step, one bad luck bounce, and things go south. Even with my "safety-first" menu, she was a high-performance athlete. When she accelerated to overtake a rival, the G-forces on her frame were immense.
Urara might trip and skin a knee in daily life, but a fall during a race at full speed? That's not a scrape. That's complex fractures. That's... well, it's unthinkable.
Some might say "then don't let them run," but these girls live to be the fastest. My job—my only real job—was to lower that percentage of disaster by any fraction I could.
(Can I really let her go all out this Sunday? At eighty percent, she's safe. But at one hundred... is she ready?)
I had become more cautious—perhaps too cautious. I worried I was prioritizing safety over the very victory she craved.
"Rice, how are you feeling?"
Rice, who was currently being pushed into a deep stretch by Urara, looked up and smiled.
"I feel good... I think. I finally realized how badly my body was 'tilted' before. It feels so much lighter now."
She wasn't 100% certain, but she was self-aware enough to feel the improvement. If we kept this up, she'd be in peak condition by the Spring Tenno Sho. But what would a full-sprint Arima Kinen do to her progress?
Knowing Rice, she wouldn't "coast." Even in a mock race where I told her to just be a sparring partner, she'd stalked and dismantled Happy Meek. Her passion for the finish line was a borderline obsession.
(I'm the one who told her to aim for the top... We skipped the Japan Cup to get here. If she wins a big G1, the fans might finally start to see her for who she is, not just the 'Heel' who broke their dreams.)
Rice didn't seem to have any lingering trauma from the Kikkasho backlash. If she could face the crowd with a calm heart, that was a victory in itself.
Now, it was just down to the strategy.
(The target has to be Tokai Teio... but her form has been up and down lately. And she's prone to fractures. Will she even be at 100%?)
If I picked the wrong girl for Rice to mark, she'd sink with them. In a field of sixteen, I had to choose the right "prey" with mathematical precision. My list was down to five candidates. A 20% chance.
I agonized over it until I hit a wall.
(I'll decide on the day of. I'll look at them in the paddock and see who has the 'fire.')
Even the best runner can have an off day. A favorite can finish last because they weren't motivated. It was a "play it by ear" strategy—which was barely a strategy at all.
All I could do was give her the best training possible until Sunday. But tomorrow, we had to cut practice short.
Because Rice Shower was a star, and the press wanted their interview.
The following afternoon, I faced my first-ever official press conference. Because Rice was a top contender for the Grand Prix, the Tracen Academy briefing room was packed to the gills. It didn't help that Tokai Teio was scheduled for the next slot.
"Phew... look at that crowd, Rice. You're a celebrity."
"W-What do I do, Trainer...? I'm so nervous..."
Rice was peeking through the door, her face pale. She was getting as much attention as Teio, partly due to her talent and partly due to the lingering "infamy" of the Kikkasho.
I was in a suit and tie; Rice was in her "Vampire" race regalia—a stunning black, gothic-styled dress. (Wait, Rice? Is that a real dagger on your hip? I never noticed it during the race footage...)
I could see the tension in her shoulders. She remembered the boos after she beat Bourbon. She remembered the tabloids. Some reporters had even ambushed her previous trainer to ask how it felt to "destroy a dream."
"Are you scared? Listen, Rice... I have a plan."
"A strategy?"
"Nothing complicated. No matter what they ask, you just say 'I'll do my best' or 'I want to run a race I can be proud of.' Keep it simple. I'll handle the rest."
"But... that sounds hard for you, Trainer..."
"It's not work if it's for you. Besides, Rice... look at yourself. You're adorable. You look like a delicate porcelain doll. When you aren't on the track, you have this fragile, ethereal vibe. You're incredibly photogenic."
"...Huh?"
She blinked, confused. But my logic was sound. If a girl who looks like Rice sits there looking nervous and says, "I'll do my best!" with a tiny voice, who could possibly hate her?