The world outside Hiroshi's bedroom window was still and silent. The faint glow of the streetlights cast long shadows across the quiet street. It was nearly midnight, and the rest of the Tanaka household had long since gone to bed.
Hiroshi sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his football playbook. The pressure to succeed—both on the field and at the chessboard—felt heavier than ever. But as he traced his fingers over the diagrams he'd drawn, a singular thought burned in his mind: If I don't work harder, I'll fail both worlds.
Quietly, Hiroshi stood and grabbed his gear: a football, a pair of cleats, and his playbook. He slipped out of his room, careful not to make a sound, and tiptoed down the hall.
As he reached the front door, he froze, glancing toward his parents' room. The door was closed, and no light seeped from under the frame. With a deep breath, he eased the door open and stepped outside, closing it softly behind him.
The field was bathed in moonlight when Hiroshi arrived, the grass glistening with dew. The cool night air brushed against his face as he dropped his bag at midfield.
He stretched briefly, rolling his shoulders and shaking out his arms. This was his sanctuary—his place to think, to work, and to push past his limits.
Hiroshi started with short throws, warming up his arm and focusing on precision. He threw the ball at a series of targets he'd set up earlier—cones, water bottles, and a stack of old tires. Each throw hit its mark, but Hiroshi wasn't satisfied.
"Faster," he muttered to himself. "Quicker release."
He adjusted his stance, working on his footwork to ensure he could make passes while on the move. He practiced rolling to his right and throwing, then to his left. The ball arced perfectly through the air, landing in the center of a cone ten yards away.
But it still wasn't enough.
Hours passed as Hiroshi ran drills by himself, sprinting, throwing, and visualizing plays. He replayed moments from practice in his mind—the timing of Ryota's slants, the way Kenji broke free from defenders, the gaps in their offensive line.
"I need to be better," Hiroshi said under his breath as he wiped sweat from his brow. "If I'm not perfect, we'll lose."
He set up another drill, this time simulating the pressure of an oncoming blitz. He imagined the Thunder's defense bearing down on him, forcing him to make quick decisions. He snapped the ball to himself, rolled to his right, and threw a quick pass to a bottle standing in as his receiver.
It toppled over with a satisfying thunk, but Hiroshi wasn't smiling. He picked up the ball and reset the drill, running it again and again until his arms ached and his legs felt like lead.
As the first hints of dawn began to creep over the horizon, Hiroshi collapsed onto the grass, staring up at the fading stars. His chest heaved with exhaustion, his body sore from hours of nonstop practice.
He closed his eyes, his mind racing with thoughts of the upcoming game. The Thunder were faster, stronger, and more experienced. But Hiroshi knew that if his team had any chance of winning, it would come down to him.
"You're the leader," he whispered to himself. "If you don't push harder, they'll fall apart."
Hiroshi sat up, his resolve hardening. He grabbed his playbook, flipping through the pages until he found the diagram for their most complex play—a double reverse with a deep pass. It was risky, but if they could pull it off, it would break the Thunder's defense wide open.
He stood, gripping the ball tightly, and ran the play by himself, imagining each of his teammates in their positions. The first fake handoff, the pitch to the receiver, the final deep throw—it all played out in his mind as he executed the motions perfectly.
By the time he finished, the sky was painted in shades of pink and orange. Hiroshi looked down at the field, now glistening with morning dew, and allowed himself a small smile.
As Hiroshi walked home, tired but satisfied, he couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope. The road ahead was still daunting, but he knew one thing for certain: he wouldn't let his team down.
Quietly slipping back into the house, Hiroshi placed his gear back in the closet and climbed into bed just as the rest of the house began to stir.
His muscles ached, his eyes were heavy, but his heart felt lighter.
Tomorrow, he would face his teammates, his coaches, and the mounting expectations with the same determination he had carried through the night.
Because Hiroshi Tanaka wasn't just playing football. He was fighting for a dream.