Instant death. I'd freeze on the spot. No, thank you. I'd rather not make my first day my last.
I placed my tray down, careful to mimic the others. Don't break formation, don't stand out. Then I debated my next move. The bell hadn't rung yet. Should I take this time to explore the courtyard? Maybe wander into the gymnasium? There's always something oddly entertaining about watching people attempt sports, especially when they're not particularly good at them. Or maybe… wait, no. I've got it. Girls in gym outfits.
Yep, that settles it. I'm going to the gym. I don't even care If that makes me sound like a creep. Self-awareness doesn't make the urge any less real. Besides, it's not like I have anything better to do. God, I really am hopeless, aren't I?
After a moment of intense self-lecture, that mostly involved me telling myself to stop being such a weirdo, I finally made my way to the gym. I figured it would be a good idea to do something productive, like enjoy watching people play sports. Competitive sports have this magical quality where it's completely acceptable to trash talk your opponent as much as you want. And the best part? It's all wrapped up in the excuse of "sportsmanship." You can call someone a trash panda in the heat of the game, and as long you follow it up with a firm handshake afterwards, everyone's perfectly cool with it.
I imagined myself on the field, running my mouth off against the Ice Queen if she ever dared to challenge me in a game of soccer. Oh, I'd show her. Why? Because I'm a certified pro at it. Well, okay, maybe "certified" is bit of a stretch. And "pro" might be pushing it. But I do have a very sharp scope. That counts for something, right? I'm sure I could manage some crazy trick shots, at least. Or at the very least, I could aim in the general direction of the goal and hope for the best.
But then again, I'm probably overthinking this. Sports are supposed to be fun, not a quest for a world domination. I could use this opportunity to make more friends, or at least acquaintances who don't actively avoid eye contact with me. Could I be friends with the Ice Queen? Probably not. That's a resounding no, if her death glare earlier was anything to go by. But who knows? Maybe this is my chance to shape our frosty conflict into something… slightly less icy.
Alright. Let's not got ahead of ourselves. Baby steps. Today, the gym. Tomorrow, world peace. Or you know, maybe a nod of acknowledgement from Ice Queen. Small victories are still considered victories. From my perch on the mezzanine, I watched the basketball game unfold below. A few other students stood around me, but I barely noticed them. My attention was drawn to the other side where a gaggle of fangirls had congregated, clutching a ridiculously oversized sign that spelled, "Rei Nagakawa, You Can Do It!" in a font so fabulous it practically sparkled.
The sign looked like it was auditioning for a Broadway show. And right here, I immediately knew: Rei Nagakawa was either the best-looking guy in the gym, or the best playmaker. There was no other possibility. There's never a fanbase for an ugly dude who plays like peak LeBron from '09 to '13. It's like some kind of universal law.
Don't believe me? Look at the evidence standing in front of you: me. I was the best shooter at my old school, hands down. No one ever came close. Admittedly, that was probably because there wasn't a line of people clamoring to be friends with me, or to play with me, or to acknowledge my existence, really. But details, I had an unbeaten streak, mostly because, you know, no one ever actually played against me. But if they did, I'd totally destroy them. Probably.
Then, out of the corner my eye, I noticed a girl to my left. She was cute, with her glasses perch on her nose, the perfect look for the class president. She had this kind of bookish charm about her, small, neat, and with an air of authority of someone that spends their time way too much on student council paperwork could possess. Was she a junior? She looked younger.