First Day (1)

The house was still and dim in the early morning light, the usual clatter of breakfast softened to something slower. Sakura's seat at the table was already empty – schoolbag gone, her messy ponytail only a memory.

Ichiro zipped the final pocket on his duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder.

In the kitchen Miyuki moved with practiced grace, placing food on the table without a word. Gianni sat nearby in a T-shirt and joggers, flipping through the sports pages on his tablet.

"Come eat before it gets cold," Miyuki called gently.

Ichiro placed his bag down and sat. "Thanks."

The table was set like a small farewell banquet – grilled salmon, rice, miso soup, pickled vegetables, tamagoyaki. His mom's version of a goodbye letter.

"Looks like I'm being sent off to war," Ichiro muttered, eyeing the various dishes.

Gianni looked up. "You kind of are."

Ichiro blinked. His dad smirked behind his teacup.

"Football is war with a whistle."

Miyuki rolled her eyes. "Eat."

They ate in companionable silence for a minute.

Then Miyuki spoke again. "Sakura was disappointed she couldn't say goodbye."

"She said that yesterday – about five times," Ichiro said, managing a small smile.

"She left a note."

Miyuki handed him a small, folded piece of paper. On the front, in pink pen, was a clumsy heart with the words "Don't suck, idiot" drawn across it. Inside was a single Pocky stick and a hand-drawn picture of Ichiro kicking a fireball at a goal.

Ichiro laughed quietly and tucked it into his pocket.

"I'll text her later."

Gianni looked over at Ichiro. "So, you figured out what to do about school?"

"Yeah," Ichiro said, scratching the back of his neck. "In England, summer break starts in June for most schools. But here it doesn't start until mid-July."

Miyuki gave a small, amused huff. "Of course. Japan's schedule is always behind in that way."

"I talked to Gamba's education officer," Ichiro said. "They'll help me re-enroll in the Japanese curriculum, but I won't start school again until the new term. So for now… it's just football."

Miyuki nodded slowly. "I see."

…

The sun was warm and low as Gianni's black SUV pulled out of the parking lot, and onto the main road. Miyuki stood by the gate, hands clasped in front of her, watching until they turned the corner.

Ichiro sat in the passenger seat, bag in the back, looking out the window.

The car rumbled quietly down the highway. The skyline of Osaka came and went, replaced by low suburban rooftops, rows of vending machines, and the occasional blue-and-black Gamba flag in a store window.

The Gamba Osaka youth dorm sat beside the club's training facility – low modern buildings with glass-fronted entryways and a blue awning flapping in the breeze.

Gianni pulled into the visitor lot, shifted the car into park, and turned off the ignition.

The sudden quiet felt like a bell being rung.

"This is your stop," Gianni said quietly.

Ichiro didn't move for a second.

Then he exhaled and opened the door.

He grabbed his duffel from the back and slung it over his shoulder. As he turned, Gianni got out too.

They stood side-by-side for a moment, facing the front entrance.

"Remember," Gianni said, "you're not just here to play. You're here to lead. Train like every session matters. Sleep like your career depends on it. Because it does."

Ichiro nodded. "I will."

Gianni extended a hand – but Ichiro pulled him into a quick hug instead.

Gianni patted his back. "Give them hell, campione."

…

The glass doors of the Gamba Osaka Youth Dormitory opened with a quiet hiss as Ichiro stepped through them.

The air inside was cool, sterile, and faintly smelled of sports tape and disinfectant – a familiar kind of clean that all football facilities seemed to share.

No banners. No music. Just a front desk, a welcome board with a list of room assignments, and a clock ticking steadily toward 9:15 a.m.

A woman in a club polo emerged from a back room, holding a tablet.

"You must be Ichiro," she said with a polite bow. "Welcome."

Ichiro returned the bow. "Thank you."

"I'm Yui Ishikawa, dorm coordinator. I'll help you get settled today. Most of the players are at school right now, so it'll be quiet for a few hours."

Ichiro nodded. "Right, makes sense."

"You'll be in Room 207. Second floor. Shared unit, though you'll have it to yourself for the morning."

She tapped a few things on the tablet and handed him a small swipe key.

"Coach Masuda is expecting you for a quick check-in later this morning. But first, the staff kitchen asked me to send you over – they insisted."

The kitchen was across a small breezeway that connected the dorm to the dining facility. When Ichiro stepped inside, he was greeted by the smell of rice steaming and broth simmering.

Two middle-aged women stood at the counter, both wearing aprons and hairnets.

"Lo Presti-kun?" one of them said brightly.

"Yes," Ichiro said, bowing slightly. "Nice to meet you."

"We've heard about you," the other woman said, her grin wide and teasing. "The boy who came back from England and made all the coaches nervous."

Ichiro laughed awkwardly. "That bad, huh?"

"Not bad," the first woman said, ladling soup into a large metal pot. "Just interesting."

"We made you a light welcome breakfast," the second added, handing him a small tray. "Eat before you meet coach Masuda. He hates when boys show up fainting."

Ichiro blinked. "I already ate-"

"Eat again," both women said at the same time.

Ichiro didn't argue. He sat at the corner table with a bowl of chazuke and some lightly grilled tofu, grateful for the warmth and silence.

After eating, he walked across the training pitch to a large brick building where the youth coaches had their offices. The door to coach Masuda's office was slightly ajar, and Ichiro could already hear voices.

" -he's good with the ball at his feet and he's quick," came a voice – cool, even-toned, precise. "But that's not going to cut it at the professional level. He especially has to work on his strength, he gets bullied physically way too easily."

"Let's first see if he survives the curry," a second voice said – full of humor. Masuda's voice.

Ichiro knocked lightly.

The voices stopped. A moment later, Coach Masuda pulled open the door.

Ichiro bowed respectfully. "Good to see you again, Coach."

"Likewise," Masuda replied, ushering him in with a pat on the shoulder. "Come in, come in."

Inside the office, a second man stood beside a wall-mounted monitor. He looked younger, sharper. Tall, black hair slicked back neatly. His Gamba polo was crisp enough to cut paper.

"This is Coach Shibata," Masuda said. "Our new assistant. Brains, spreadsheets, terrifyingly organized."

Shibata offered a polite nod. "Nice to meet you. I've seen your final match for Villa's U-18 side. The goal was clean. Positioning could improve."

Masuda elbowed him gently. "He means 'nice goal, welcome to the team.'"

Ichiro smiled. "I'll take both."

Masuda grinned. "You're not in England anymore. The level here might not match what you're used to – but remember, you're not trying to break into the youth squad. You're fighting for a chance on the senior team."

Ichiro gave a crisp nod. "Understood, sir."

Masuda walked over to his chair and lowered himself into it.

"You'll start training with the squad tomorrow," Shibata said. "Small-sided drills. Physical metrics recorded. No need to overdo it"

Masuda leaned back in his chair, fingers laced behind his head. "But if you happen to look like a genius, don't hold back."