The next day at Hamikawa, classes moved in their usual rhythm, but Eadlyn's attention kept drifting to the clock. Ever since Sayaka's tour and her casual, "Then I'll cheer for you," something had taken root in his chest.
Basketball.
A familiar weight.
A court instead of a stage.
When the final bell rang, he didn't linger. He headed straight for the gym.
The air inside smelled like sweat, wood, and focus. Balls bounced, sneakers squeaked, seniors shouted plays. On one side stood the coach and the basketball manager—arms crossed, expression unreadable. The manager looked him over once, eyes lingering on his foreign features and late-joining timing, and his mouth tightened slightly.
"Greyson-kun?" the manager said. "You're the transfer student who wants to join?"
"Yes," Eadlyn replied, calm but alert.
The manager's tone carried a hint of skepticism. "Foreign students often join late, disappear early, and don't handle real training well. If you want to stay on this court, you'll play one-on-one. Prove you're worth the spot."
There it was—the quiet prejudice he'd expected somewhere.
Eadlyn nodded. "Understood."
A tall senior stepped forward—a solid, six-foot wall of muscle. He didn't smirk, didn't mock. He simply bounced the ball once, then passed it to Eadlyn.
Respect.
Unsaid, but clear.
The ball felt familiar. The texture under his fingertips, the weight, the faint echo as it hit the floor—it was comfort, not pressure. He dribbled twice, testing distance, then glanced up.
Half court.
Risky if you're showing off. Natural if it's your range.
He pulled up and shot.
The ball cut through the air in a clean arc and slipped through the hoop with that soft, addictive sound.
The gym quieted.
The senior's brows rose slightly. The manager's arms uncrossed.
"Again," the manager said. "Defense now."
The senior took the ball this time. His movements were controlled and practiced—Hamikawa wasn't known for weak players. He pushed forward, testing Eadlyn's reactions, feinting left, then driving right.
It reminded Eadlyn of home.
Of another court.
Of his best friend back in the UK—six-foot-three, built like a tank, someone who treated every pick-up game like a championship. Against him, Eadlyn had never been the strongest or the tallest. So he'd learned something else:
How to read people.
Small shifts in shoulders. Changes in speed. The angle of someone's hips before they drove in. The weight on their lead foot before they jumped.
The senior tried to break past, but every time, Eadlyn slid into position, cutting off the path. The more the senior pushed, the calmer he became.
He wasn't faster.
He wasn't stronger.
But he was used to being underestimated.
Finally, the senior saw what he thought was an opening. He lowered his center of gravity, feinted, then drove hard—
—and Eadlyn moved first.
His hand snapped out, cleanly stealing the ball. In the same motion, he turned, sprinted, and without overthinking, launched another shot from half-court.
Swish.
Silence. Then a low murmur rippled through the players.
"Who is this guy…?"
"Two half-courts?"
"Serious?"
The senior exhaled, then smiled—a real one. "You're good," he said, offering his hand.
"Thank you," Eadlyn replied, gripping it firmly.
The manager stared for a beat longer… then laughed. It was short, almost disbelieving, but genuine.
"I judged you too early," he admitted. "Greyson-kun—you can join practice from tomorrow. You've missed the entry window for this year's official tournament, but if you stick with it, you'll be ready for the next."
Eadlyn's chest eased. "I'll work hard."
As practice wrapped up, a few players came over, introducing themselves, asking where he learned to shoot like that. He downplayed it—street games, school courts, stubborn afternoons where he refused to lose even when outmatched.
By evening, as he left the gym, a message popped up from Ken.
Ken:
Arcade? Weekly ritual. You in?
Eadlyn smiled.
Basketball, new teammates, a slowly building friendship, Sayaka's voice lingering somewhere in his memory.
Japan wasn't just a reset.
It was becoming a life.