The gym felt smaller.
Hinata noticed it the moment practice began.
Not physically.
But in the way the space closed in around them as mistakes piled up faster than progress.
"Again," he said.
Fukuda tossed the ball over the net.
The boy with glasses moved too late.
The ball hit the floor.
A dull, hollow sound.
No one spoke.
They reset.
Again.
This time, the new player misjudged the distance. The ball slipped past his reach.
Another point lost.
Another rally ended before it began.
Hinata exhaled slowly.
"Call it earlier," he said.
"I did," the new player replied, irritation creeping into his voice.
"It was late."
"You were already moving."
"Because I thought you would not reach it."
Silence.
Tension.
It hung in the air, thick and uncomfortable.
Fukuda clicked his tongue. "We are overlapping too much."
"No," Hinata said. "We are hesitating."
"That too."
The boy with glasses stared at the floor.
"I cannot tell when to move," he admitted quietly.
Hinata looked at him.
There it was.
The problem beneath everything else.
Not just skill.
Not just technique.
Uncertainty.
They did not trust each other's movements.
They did not trust themselves.
And that made every play slower.
Every reaction weaker.
Every mistake more likely.
Hinata clenched his fists.
"We slow it down," he said.
Fukuda frowned. "We are already slow."
"We make it simpler."
"How?"
Hinata walked to the center of the court.
"One person takes first contact. Always."
The others looked at him.
"That sounds risky," the new player said.
"It is," Hinata replied. "But confusion is worse."
He pointed at Fukuda.
"You take first contact on anything deep."
Fukuda nodded slowly.
He turned to the boy with glasses.
"You take anything short."
A hesitant nod.
"And me?" the new player asked.
"You cover between them."
"That again."
"Yes."
The new player sighed but did not argue.
Hinata stepped back.
"We try again."
---
The ball moved.
Fukuda stepped forward.
"Mine!"
He received it cleanly.
Better.
The boy with glasses adjusted and passed it back.
Hinata moved quickly.
"Mine."
He set it over.
Not a spike.
Just a controlled return.
The new player reacted and sent it back.
For a moment, it worked.
Then the ball drifted slightly off center.
Fukuda hesitated.
Just a fraction.
Hinata moved at the same time.
They collided.
The ball dropped.
A sharp sound against the floor.
Fukuda stepped back immediately. "Sorry."
Hinata shook his head. "No, that was me."
"You said I take deep balls."
"I thought it was short."
"It was not."
"I know."
Silence again.
The boy with glasses shifted uncomfortably.
The new player looked away.
This is not working.
The thought hit Hinata harder this time.
Not because they were failing.
But because they were trying to fix it and still failing.
He swallowed.
"Again."
---
They kept going.
Mistake after mistake.
Late calls.
Missed passes.
Awkward movements.
The earlier sense of progress began to fade under the weight of repeated failure.
Hinata felt it.
That creeping frustration.
That tight pressure in his chest.
Why is this not working?
We trained for this.
We practiced the basics.
We improved.
So why does it feel worse now?
He chased a loose ball and barely kept it in play.
Fukuda lunged for the next touch but sent it too far.
Out of bounds.
Another failure.
Hinata bent forward, hands on his knees, breathing hard.
This is wrong.
Something is wrong.
The new player spoke up.
"This is not just about skill."
Hinata looked at him.
"What do you mean?"
"We do not play like a team."
The words landed heavy.
Fukuda crossed his arms. "We are trying."
"I know," the new player said. "But trying is not the same as functioning."
The boy with glasses looked even more uneasy now.
Hinata straightened slowly.
"What are we missing?"
The new player hesitated.
Then said it.
"Experience."
Silence.
That word cut deeper than anything else.
Experience.
Matches.
Real opponents.
Real pressure.
Things they did not have.
Things they could not replicate in this empty gym.
Fukuda let out a short laugh.
"So we are just doomed then?"
"No," Hinata said immediately.
The others looked at him.
His eyes were sharp.
Focused.
"We are not doomed."
"Then what?" Fukuda asked.
Hinata clenched his fists.
"We adapt."
"How?"
Hinata paused.
He did not have a clear answer.
Not yet.
But he refused to accept that this was the limit.
"There has to be a way," he said.
---
Practice continued.
Slower now.
Heavier.
Each movement carried the weight of what they lacked.
Hinata pushed them through drills again.
Passing.
Calling.
Movement.
But the energy had shifted.
The excitement from before was gone.
Replaced by something more real.
More difficult.
Doubt.
By the time they stopped, no one looked satisfied.
Not even Hinata.
They sat on the floor, exhausted.
No one spoke for a long moment.
Then the boy with glasses whispered, "What if we lose instantly?"
No one answered.
Because they all thought the same thing.
Fukuda leaned back on his hands.
"We probably will."
The words were blunt.
Honest.
Uncomfortable.
Hinata stared at the floor.
He had always known that.
From the beginning.
But hearing it out loud made it heavier.
More real.
The new player spoke quietly.
"Then what is the point?"
Hinata's head snapped up.
The point?
What is the point?
The question echoed in his mind.
Why go through all this effort?
Why push so hard?
Why build something so fragile when it might break immediately?
He thought about the empty gym.
About practicing alone.
About chasing a ball that never came back the way he wanted.
About watching from the outside.
His hands tightened.
"The point," he said slowly, "is to step onto the court."
They looked at him.
"To actually play," he continued. "Not imagine it. Not watch it. Play it."
Fukuda frowned slightly. "Even if we lose?"
"Yes."
"That is enough for you?"
Hinata paused.
Then nodded.
"For now."
Silence.
Then the new player gave a small nod.
"That makes sense."
The boy with glasses followed.
"…Yes."
Fukuda sighed.
"Fine. But I am not losing without trying."
Hinata smiled faintly.
"Good."
---
They packed up in silence.
The gym felt heavier than before.
Not empty.
Not hopeful.
Just… real.
As they walked out, Hinata lingered for a moment.
He looked back at the court.
At the net.
At the space where they had struggled for hours.
This is the gap.
This is reality.
Not the clean plays on TV.
Not the perfect spikes.
This.
Messy.
Frustrating.
Uncertain.
He took a deep breath.
And stepped outside.
The night air was cool against his skin.
His body ached more than ever.
But his mind was clearer.
They were not ready.
They were not strong.
They were not skilled.
But they were not giving up.
And that mattered.
Hinata adjusted his bag and started walking home.
If this was reality…
Then he would face it.
Head on.
No shortcuts.
No excuses.
Just effort.
And whatever came after.
.