By the time Nakahara returns to the gym, the light outside has begun to soften toward dusk. Inside, Ryoma is still there, moving alone on the floor, a single weight plate resting on the rubber mat beneath his foot.
His steps rise and fall in a steady pendulum, controlled and deliberate, the same drill he did yesterday.
Nakahara stops just inside the entrance, and glances at the wall clock: nearly four-thirty.
Lately, Ryoma has been staying late to help train Satoru. That usually ends by three. Four would already be pushing it if he intended to keep the rest of his work light.
But staying this late, there is no mistaking it. He's stayed to wait.
Even so, Ryoma does not notice Nakahara yet. His focus stays locked on the floor, on the plate, on the timing of his feet.
Then Nakahara clears his throat. And the sound snaps Ryoma out of the drill.
"Coach," Ryoma says, straightening. "You're back? How did it go with the arena?"
