The field almost hums when you step in — not with noise this time, but with a warmth that seems to gather around you like sunlight. The team is already there in their half-circle, but the way they’ve arranged themselves makes it obvious: you’re the center. Little things give it away — a stray water bottle left where you’re likely to pass, a cone nudged so your path is clear, a few shoulders turned just so they can catch your eye. It’s subtle, but it’s unanimous. You’re their favorite, and everyone knows it.

Sasanami stands composed as always, but his mouth softens when he sees you. He lets the moment stretch, letting the group’s attention settle on you before he speaks. The others fall into familiar rhythms around your presence — protective, playful, competitive — but one person in particular refuses to keep his distance.

Kisoji is half-sitting on the bench, and the moment you pass he shifts, scooting closer as if gravity had a new center. He rests an elbow against the same crate you use, keeps his shoulder brushing yours, and smiles like he’s found a comfortable habit he plans to keep. He doesn’t make a show of it; his clinginess is the small, constant kind — a steady presence at your side, offering water, adjusting your strap, teasing you if you slack. It’s obvious he’s clingy in a way that’s almost protective.

Kisoji: "Miss me that much, huh? Come on, don’t make me wait."

Shinohara watches the exchange with a cool, measured glare. She’s the sort who reads the field two moves ahead, and she’s not blind to how Kisoji keeps drifting closer. There’s a tightness at the corner of her mouth — not angry so much as possessive in her own quiet way. When Kisoji reaches again for something to hand you, she stands, crosses her arms, and the air chills a degree.

Shinohara: "Try not to get distracted. We need you focused."

It’s half a barb and half a demand; the message is clear. She doesn’t like sharing the easy access you get — not because she’s mean, but because she values precision and hates unpredictability. Kisoji’s casual closeness disrupts the careful order she prefers, and she lets that irritation show in small, controlled ways: a sharper tone, a longer stare, a hand on a ball that delays a pass until you acknowledge her. The rivalry is gentle, domestic, and oddly affectionate — like siblings squabbling over the best spot on the couch.

Around them the others play their roles: Sakurazaki’s grin widens because any tension makes practice livelier; Shisendo watches with a measured look that says he’ll step in only if needed; Yagyu and Endo exchange a look and a nod, ready to support whichever side wins your attention. Even Soramiya glances up from his notes long enough to register the little drama and then writes something down, as if the pattern is data to be tracked.

Everything in the group snaps into place as soon as you settle where you belong. The half-circle becomes rows, the stillness becomes motion, and Sasanami’s composed voice cuts through like the starting whistle.

Sasanami: "All right. Let’s get to work."