Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
16.SECOND TIME
*⋆｡˚𖦹࣪˖ ִֶָ⋆｡°✩
IT
has been ten days, since the end of the First selection, and ten days since the start of your so-called interlude. Ten days of training, ten days of torture, ten days of hell, whatever you'd like to call it, it has been a grand total of ten days. And really, you were about done with all this.
Being a manager—which is, by Ego's standards, technically a staff member—means you get a lot of inside intel that the players don't. Like, for example, what all the selection trials will be like. You know for a fact that this whole thing with teams of three will end up in flames, and each day that passes, is another day of anxiety for you for what is to come.
Another thing that has been interesting to you, is that Kyouka has resumed her pattern of sitting with you during breakfast, lunch, and even dinner. It was awkward for the first few days, but soon, even with the addition of the rest of your ridiculous team at the table, you found yourself enjoying her presence and eagerly meeting with her once more.
But talking about your team—you were kind of worried for them. It's been ten whole days, two hundred and forty long hours since they have even touched a soccer ball, and you were afraid some of them might be losing it. Isagi's been mumbling things about how his soccer ball can't leave him, and Bachira's been sucking his thumb and mumbling how Messi and Ronaldo can't run away from his playdate now. Frankly—you are frightened, mostly for your mental well-being, but frightened, nonetheless.
They have all collectively fallen flat on their faces during the middle of dinner more times than you could count, and each time, you've seen Kyouka grow more and more scared. You've seen all of them puke buckets after physical endurance training, and it's safe to say—you've never wanted to leave a room more than you had at that moment.
Today—you remember, after the long days. It's time for change.
*⋆｡˚𖦹࣪˖ ִֶָ⋆｡°✩
The second 5:59 am turned into 6:00 am—your alarm clock buzzed and beeped like a tornado warning in your area. You shot up, out of your luxuriously comfortable bed, sweat dripping down your face and chest heaving with each breath of air you sucked in greedily. You panted, looking around deliriously, before seeing a note (clearly not your handwriting, but that of your quote-unquote boss) stuck to your wall-mounted mirror.
