The second day of the trial started differently.
Yesterday, many had been surprised.
Today… they were on guard.
When Rikuo stepped into the locker room, the conversation stopped dead.
Dark looks.
No greetings.
A tension you could almost touch.
He instantly felt he wasn't welcome.
One player — the same one who had thrown a jab at him the day before — stared at him with disdain.
Takuma Hoshino.
Starting attacking midfielder of the academy, star of his generation, son of a former Japan international.
The kind of player who couldn't stand an outsider shaking up the hierarchy.
Takuma flashed a fake smile.
"So, the gaijin came back? I thought yesterday was just luck."
Rikuo looked at him calmly.
"I'm just as Japanese as you."
Another player snickered.
"Yeah, but not completely. You can see it. You can hear it. You can feel it."
The words hit like a slap.
In this locker room, being "different" wasn't an advantage.
It was a target.
Rikuo clenched his fists, took a deep breath.
Remember the promise.
Remember his mother.
Remember why he was here.
He simply tied his boots, silent.
Training started with possession drills.
Rikuo joined his group… but every time he called:
"Here! Pass!"
No one gave him the ball.
No one.
They played only among themselves, even when he was totally free.
Even when he was the best option.
Whispers floated around:
"He thinks he's special."
"Coach will see he's a fraud soon enough."
"That half-blood is going home after tomorrow."
From afar, Senda watched, face stern.
But he didn't intervene.
He knew this too was part of football.
A pitch reveals character more than talent.
Then came the main drill of the day:
an extended 1v1, in a space where pure talent could explode… or crumble.
Kirishima called out the matchups.
"Takuma Hoshino… against Amada Rikuo."
A shiver ran through the group.
Takuma smirked, confident, almost predatory.
"Perfect. Finally a real chance to put you back in your place."
Rikuo didn't answer.
He simply stepped forward.
The ball placed in the center.
The coach raised his voice:
"First to three. Takuma defends first."
Attempt 1
Takuma lunged instantly — aggressive, almost reckless.
A move that would've earned a yellow card in an official match.
Rikuo dodged at the last second:
a small inside cut, minimal contact, lightning acceleration.
Takuma froze, fooled by the finesse of the move.
Rikuo sprinted toward the improvised goal and finished calmly.
"1–0."
A cold silence followed.
Attempt 2
This time, Takuma prepared better.
He slowed down, assessed, tried to block the angles.
Rikuo approached slowly…
Then executed a tiny outside-inside double touch, almost invisible.
A move so clean, so pure, that even Senda slightly widened his eyes.
Takuma was beaten even easier than before.
Goal.
"2–0."
Some players couldn't believe it.
A murmur rose:
"What… he's too good??"
Attempt 3
Total humiliation.
Takuma wanted to save his pride.
He charged hard, tense, out of control.
Rikuo stepped back, studied him, and then… the magic hit.
A Zidane-like roulette.
A perfectly timed nutmeg behind it.
A feline burst forward.
Takuma touched nothing but air.
Rikuo scored without even looking at the goal.
"3–0. Duel over."
Takuma stood there.
Red.
Furious.
Humiliated in front of everyone.
Senda let out a discreet laugh.
Kirishima didn't smile — but his eyes shone with a new interest.
Rikuo rejoined the group, the stares had changed.
Now there was:
Jealousy.
Fear.
Fascination.
A shy player dared to say:
"Dude… that was incredible. You're… really strong."
Another added:
"Sorry about earlier. We… we didn't know."
But Takuma was boiling.
He stepped forward, jaw tight.
"You think you've won? This is just the beginning. I swear I'll make sure you get kicked out of this club."
Rikuo met his eyes, unfazed.
"We'll see."
Kirishima blew the whistle to end the session.
"Amada… stay a moment."
Everyone turned toward them.
The coach took him aside.
"You've got talent. A lot. But here, talent alone isn't enough. Some don't like you. Because you're new. Because you're mixed. Because you threaten their spot."
He crossed his arms.
"So I need to know: do you have the shoulders to handle that?"
Rikuo thought of his mother.
Of the years he'd lost.
Of the promise he'd made the night before — the one whispered in his room, holding a photograph.
He lifted his eyes.
"Yes, coach. I can handle it."
Kirishima nodded.
"Good. Tomorrow will be harder. I want to see if you're still standing by the end."
End of the day
Rikuo went home, drenched in sweat, exhausted…
But happy.
Something was rekindling inside him.
A fire.
An old fire.
The fire of the boy who once dreamed under the stars, beside his mother.
He looked at the photos in his room.
"Mum… I think I'm coming back."
He smiled.