Chapter 10

The sports tabloid on the convenience store rack had a familiar face printed right in the center of the racing section.

I stood by the glass storefront on Sunday afternoon, holding a plastic bottle of green tea, reading the headline beneath the photo.

Kisaragi Sho Preview: Consistency Against Rising Challenger.

The favorite for the race was Eishin Cameron. 

She was a runner with an exceptional record, having won the Grade Two Daily Hai and taken second place in the Grade One Asahi Hai in December. Across her entire career, she had never finished worse than second. 

Then came the second name listed on the early odds board.

Narita Top Road.

The racing press had latched onto her entry with hungry curiosity. 

To the columnists, a one-win runner bypassing the allowance ranks to challenge a premier trial was dramatic theater. They praised her homestretch burst at Hanshin, highlighted her third-place effort in Kyoto, and slapped second-favorite expectations squarely onto her shoulders.

I set the paper back onto the metal rack, paid for my tea, and walked home through the cold wind.

The public loved an underdog story, but they rarely considered the cost of carrying one.

That evening, our dining room smelled of simmered beef and root vegetables.

Yuri had come home for the weekend, having secured a day pass from her dormitory. She sat across from me at the wooden table, shoveling beef stew into her bowl like an excavator.

"Slow down," Dad said from the head of the table. "The pot isn't running away."

"I have morning mock race tomorrow," Yuri mumbled around a carrot. "My body needs calories."

Mom leaned her hip against the kitchen counter, ladling another portion of stew for herself. "How are things in the dorms, Yuri? Is the heating working properly in your wing?"

"Heating is fine," Yuri replied, swallowing her food. "Top Road, though... she is definitely not fine."

I paused, setting my soup spoon against the edge of the ceramic bowl.

"What do you mean?" I asked, keeping my voice level.

Yuri scowled at her rice, tapping her chopsticks against the porcelain rim. 

"She is wound up like a guitar string," Yuri said, her usual boastful swagger entirely absent. "She wakes up before five to run extra laps on the dirt slope. Then she spends lunch periods reviewing track footage with her smartphone. By evening, she is still scrubbing the sinks and checking dormitory logs so dutifully even though it's better for her to rest."

Yuri added, looking directly at her rice. "She looks like she is trying to carry the whole building on her back. They took a massive gamble by entering her in the Kisaragi Sho. Everyone in the class knows it. If she loses, her spring is done."

Mom pulled out a wooden chair, sitting down beside Dad with a quiet sigh.

She rested her chin in her palm, her yellow eyes turning reflective. The playful energy she usually carried around the house seemed to drain away, replaced by the weight of a former professional athlete.

"That is the reality of the turf," Mom said softly. "It is a cruel world."

Yuri looked down at her stew, staying unusually quiet.

"When you enter a race with a dozen runners, only one crosses the wire first," Mom continued, her voice measured and calm. "Eleven other girls walk back with defeat in their chests."

"While you're still carrying that weight, you still have to look forward at the path ahead. A path where you find yourself having to face monsters, take gambles, make compromises, and choose between bad options and worse options. And if you don't have exceptional talent, you carry the fear of being left behind every single day."

Mom looked across the table, catching my eye for a brief second before turning to Yuri.

"That's what I felt as your common run-of-the-mill Umamusume with no generational talent," Mom said, smiling weakly. "Your friend is talented, she also has the drive in her, unlike me." 

"But that doesn't mean it's going to be easy for her either. Because again, only one can win. And expectations for those who are talented are another beast entirely. I have friends with that kind of burden, and I saw it myself that it can crush someone if they don't know how to set it down."

Nobody spoke for the rest of the meal. 

The clinking of ceramic spoons against bowls felt louder than usual, filling the silence of the dining room.

By eleven o'clock that night, the house was completely dark.

I sat at my study desk, wearing a thick sweatshirt against the cold air seeping through the windowpane. 

A single pool of light from my desk lamp illuminated a blank sheet of paper where I had been sketching out lists for my self-training manual. Though, my mind refused to focus on the lines.

A soft buzz vibrated across the wooden desk.

I glanced down. A green notification banner lit up the dark screen of my phone.

*Top Road: Are you still awake, Shimazu-kun? What are you doing right now?*

I picked up the device, staring at the message with a furrowed brow.

She rarely texted this late. In fact, she almost never sent a message past ten on a Sunday night because of her early morning training schedule.

Combined with Yuri's report from dinner and Mom's caution, a quiet alarm began ringing in my head.

I kept my reply casual, typing with one thumb.

*Yama: Just sitting at my desk. Looking over some drills. What's up?*

The typing bubble flickered for a few seconds before disappearing. 

*Top Road: Nothing important! I just noticed my room felt very quiet tonight without Pokke-chan around.*

*Yama: Must be peaceful for once, huh? I get it, I get it.*

*Top Road: That is true! I actually have room to stretch on the rug tonight.*

She followed it with a smiling cat sticker. 

On the surface, it looked like standard small talk. But the rhythm of her texts felt slightly off, like someone speaking a little too fast to keep from pausing.

*Top Road: It is strange, though. My hands have been shaking for the past hour. It is quite funny, honestly!*

My thumb froze over the screen.

*Top Road: Usually my fingers only tremble the night before an official start. But the Kisaragi Sho is still two weeks away. Isn't that silly?*

*Top Road: Do you ever get nervous before your matches, Shimazu-kun? You looked so calm on the pitch, so I wondered if you even feel nerves at all.*

I stared at the glowing lines of text, feeling a tightness clamp down on my chest.

I couldn't leave her alone behind text boxes.

I cleared the input field and typed out a quick sentence.

*Yama: Can I call you right now?*

Her response arrived almost instantly.

*Top Road: Why?*

I looked at the question, my fingers moving before my brain could stop them.

*Yama: I might have forgotten what your voice sounds like. I'd like to be reminded.*

The message marked as read immediately.

*Top Road: Please give me five minutes!*

I dropped the phone flat on the desk, buried my face in both hands, and groaned into my palms.

What kind of ridiculous line was that?

I sounded like an idiot from a cheesy romance novel. If Yuuki ever found out I typed those exact words to a girl, he would torment me until high school graduation.

I sat there in agonizing silence, staring at the digital clock on the shelf.

One minute. Three minutes. 

At exactly eleven-fifteen, the screen lit up with a single line.

*Top Road: It is okay now.*

I took a slow breath, picked up the phone, and tapped the call icon.

The dial tone rang once. 

Click.

"Good evening, Shimazu-kun!" 

Her voice came through the speaker with immediate energy, bright and polished like an announcement over a school loudspeaker.

Yet beneath that cheerful greeting, I caught a faint tremor. Her pitch sat slightly higher than usual, carrying a tight, nasal quality that suggested she might've had spent the last five minutes wiping her eyes or clearing her throat. I hoped it was just her microphone, but alas.

"Good evening," I said, leaning back into my desk chair. "Sorry for calling so late."

"No, please don't apologize! I was the one who suddenly messaged you first." 

A brief pause followed, filled only by the quiet static of the connection.

"To answer your question from earlier," I said, staring at the dark window, "yes. I get nervous before every single match."

"Really?" Her tone carried genuine surprise. "Even during those regional games you sent me? You looked completely relaxed out there."

"It was all a front," I said, letting out a dry chuckle. "I'm an ordinary middle schooler. I get terrified that I will misplace a pass, miss an easy shot, or let my team down."

"You really felt that way?"

"More than you think," I admitted, rubbing the bridge of my nose. "You've watched my match. Usually, when we win, people say I'm clever. But if we lose? The blame falls heavily on me. Everyone assumes we lost because the guy in the middle was walking around being lazy."

"That is unfair," she protested, her voice firming up. "But you're just doing a good job with what you're best at!"

"That's very kind of you to say it like that, but the fear is still real," I said. "Before big tournament games, I used to lock myself in the restroom stall and throw up my breakfast. Right before kickoff."

A moment of absolute silence hung over the line.

Then, a tiny gasp escaped her throat, followed by a soft, ringing laugh.

"You threw up?" she giggled, the tight tension in her tone melting away. "Before every match?"

"Nearly every one," I said, smiling at the ceiling. "It was miserable."

"Shimazu-kun, that explains everything!" she teased, her laughter bright and natural now. "That is why your stamina ran out at the sixty-minute mark! You emptied your fuel tank before you even stepped onto the pitch!"

"Just don't give away my secrets, okay?" I said flatly. "That was supposed to remain classified."

We shared an easy laugh as the distance between our rooms was collapsing into the warm receiver. 

Gradually, the amusement settled, fading into a long, quiet breath on her end.

It wasn't her usual composed breath. It was deep, shuddering, and thick with an exhaustion she couldn't hide anymore.

"Shimazu-kun..." she whispered, her voice dropping into something small and fragile.

"I'm listening."

"I am scared," she confessed, the words spilling out in a quiet rush. "I try so hard not to think about it, but the race is all I can see when I close my eyes."

I kept silent, giving her the room to speak.

"My trainer took such a huge risk entering me in the Kisaragi Sho," she continued, her breathing tight. "If I fail, his career takes a hit too. And everyone is watching. People keep calling me a rising star, but I only have one maiden win to my name. Eishin Cameron-san is very strong. The other runners have at least won more races than me. What am I even doing in that starting gate?"

Her voice cracked slightly, carrying a frustration that felt completely foreign to her perfect persona.

"Why did the media make me the second favorite?" she vented, her tone raw. "It doesn't make any sense! I genuinely love it when everyone cheers for me. I want to run my heart out and repay every single person who believes in me! But at the same time, all those hopes feel like heavy stones tied to my feet. Whenever someone smiles and tells me to do my best, my chest fills up with so much warmth, but it's pulling me underwater. I’m so happy, so why does it feel like I’m suffocating?"

Her breathing hitched, the quiet room on her side filled with the rustle of sheets.

I looked at the green lanyard hanging from the corner of my desk chair.

I thought about the freezing morning at the National Stadium, the roar of sixty thousand spectators, and the desperate fight of our future high school team.

"Narita Top Road-san," I said softly.

The formal address caught her attention. Her quiet sniffling paused on the other end of the line.

"Let me tell you about that semifinal match I watched last week," I said, keeping my voice steady and measured. "Musashi High fought like absolute warriors for ninety minutes. They pressed until their lungs were burning, but they gave up a free kick in the eighty-eighth minute and lost."

"Yes," she murmured. "I saw the match too."

"Yeah, you also saw me sitting in their student section too, right? But there's something more to it than the match itself," I told her. "When the final whistle blew, I assumed Musashi supporters would pack up their bags and leave in bitter silence. I thought there would be anger, or disappointment, or quiet tears."

"Were there?"

"Not a single one," I said. "The brass band started playing the school anthem. The entire terrace stood on their feet, clapping their hands until their palms were red. They sang for the players on the pitch, and then they turned around and cheered for Kugayama to win the national title for Tokyo."

I leaned forward, resting my elbow on the wooden desk, wishing she could see the absolute sincerity in my face.

"Those fans didn't love their team because of a shiny trophy," I said, choosing every word with deliberate care. "They loved them because of the pride and heart they showed on the grass."

Her breathing stayed very quiet.

"I cannot speak for every stranger on the stands," I continued gently. "And I cannot control what the newspapers write to sell copies. But the people who truly matter, your trainer, your friends, the people who actually know you, will never be disappointed in you."

I paused, letting the silence settle between us before taking a slow breath.

"If you need proof of that," I added, "just.. look at me."

"Shimazu-kun...?"

"No matter what happens on that turf in Kyoto," I said firmly, "I will never regret cheering for you. Win or lose, I will be proud to see you run. So please don't let my support become another burden on your shoulders."

A soft intake of air brushed through the speaker.

"Because.. I am cheering for your run," I told her quietly. "Not your victory."

Total stillness settled over the call. 

Outside my window, a gust of winter wind rattled the glass, but inside the bedroom, the world felt completely paused. 

Across the line, several seconds ticked by in profound quiet. 

Then, I heard the faint rustle of fabric, followed by the sound of a slow, steady exhale.

"Thank you," she whispered. 

Her voice was quiet, but the trembling from before was gone. It was firm, deep, and steady again.

"Thank you, Shimazu-kun. Truly."

"Anytime," I said, a faint smile returning to my face. "Just make sure you eat your breakfast on race day and don't throw it up."

A bright, musical laugh broke through the receiver. It was warm and ringing in my ear.

"I will," she promised, her tone full of restored resolve. "I will eat properly, and I will run with everything I have."

We lingered on the line for another quiet minute, exchanging standard wishes for a restful night before softly disconnecting the call.

The screen went black.

I set the phone down on the wooden desk, looking out at the cold stars shining above the roofs of the neighborhood.