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And so the training begins.
Aine sat in the corner of the makeshift gym, legs crossed and clipboard resting idly in her lap. Technically, she was supposed to be recording the test results—but she'd already estimated each player's maximum output based on the past three days of observation. Vertical jumps, sprints, upper-body endurance—it was all predictable. If anything, the numbers were only confirming what she already knew.
Which meant she had nothing left to do but stare at the wall and get lost in her thoughts.
Her eyes flicked over to the boys.
Kunigami was lifting weights with focused determination, beads of sweat already running down his temple. Chigiri was stretching methodically, perfectly balanced and disciplined, even now. Bachira was dangling off a pull-up bar upside down for no apparent reason, cackling to himself. And Isagi... Isagi was glancing at the others when he thought no one noticed. Comparing. Calculating. Insecure.
They're all interesting in their own way, she thought, but they're also raw. Undisciplined. Too focused on instinct, not enough on structure.
Her pen tapped idly against the edge of the clipboard.
None of them had asked her anything—not directly. Not yet. But they watched her sometimes. Sideways glances. Murmurs. She wasn't sure if they were curious, cautious, or simply confused about what she was meant to do.
To be fair... she wasn't entirely sure either.
☆;+;｡･ﾟ･｡;+;☆;+;｡･ﾟ･｡;+; Flash Back ☆;+;｡･ﾟ･｡;+;☆;+;｡･ﾟ･｡;+;☆
Ego finished his typically cryptic monologue with a final announcement.
"And now, the manager assigned to Team Z—Haruka Aine."
The door opened, and Aine stepped inside.
The room was dead silent, filled with the stares of eleven teenage boys in various states of confusion, disinterest, and mild annoyance. She swallowed lightly, lifting her hand to the back of her neck and rubbing it out of habit.
"Uh, yeah. Hi. I'm Aine Haruka," she began, her voice flat but steady. "Not really sure what I'm supposed to be doing here, but... I'll be around to help out, I guess."
Silence.
Most of the boys just stared at her with deadpan expressions. A few blinked. No one responded.
Okay, she thought. That went about as well as expected.
Then—of course—it had to be him.
"Woahhh," came the dreamy voice of the boy with messy, fluffy hair—the one who'd spent half of the first selection napping. His eyes sparkled like he'd just seen a shooting star. "We got the pretty manager!"
