I walked out of the locker room and into the gymnasium, and I was, without question, a human traffic cone. The safety-orange tracksuit was two sizes too big, and it made a swish-swish sound with every step.
The gym was massive, with polished wooden floors, multiple basketball courts, and a high ceiling. Students from several classes were filtering in, all wearing the standard, sleek, dark-blue Kirin cheyugbog. I was the only splash of citrus in a sea of midnight.
I scanned the gathering students. Myung-Dae and his crew were nowhere to be seen. And... Park Jun-seo was also missing.
I spotted Ha-neul, already on the floor, efficiently going through a series of stretches. She looked professional, even in her gym uniform. I walked over, my polyester suit swish-swishing proudly.
"Hey," I said, trying to sound casual. "Where's our class president? And Myung-Dae?"
Ha-neul's hands, which were pressing her ankle, visibly tensed. She didn't look up. "They're at the nurse's office," she said, her voice clipped.
"The nurse? What? Did they get in a fight?" My stomach twisted. "Is it because of what I did? The bump?"
She finally stopped and looked up at me, her eyes flashing with a frustration that wasn't for me, but I was the one standing there. "A bump? Are you serious?" she chuckled.
"It wasn't a fight," she said, her voice a low, angry whisper. "Not really. But... yes. After you left. Jun-seo said something to him about 'respecting our classmates,' and Myung-Dae... he said some things back. Offensive things. It... escalated."
"So they fought?"
"No!" she snapped. Then she sighed, pushing her hair back. "Someone pushed someone. Jun-seo is with him at the nurse. Ms. Choi is going to deal with it. It's... it's a whole thing."
Someone pushed someone? Isn't that called a fight?
She saw the look on my face—the guilt, the confusion.
"Look," she said, her voice softening just a fraction. "It wasn't about you, San-ssi. You were just the... the trigger. They have their own, old, stupid problems. It's complicated. And it's not your business, okay? You don't know us."
She stood up, her stretch routine finished, and walked away to join a group of girls, leaving me standing alone in the middle of the court, my orange suit feeling ten times brighter.
It's not your business. She was right. I'd been here for, what, seven hours? A sudden, sharp pang of homesickness hit me so hard it almost buckled my knees. I wasn't their friend. I was a problem. A "toy," a "target," a "trigger." I was the clumsy foreigner in the stupid suit. All the "welcomes" and polite smiles from Ms. Choi and Jun-seo... it was just Korean hospitality. Politeness.
I missed Dany. I missed the rusty bar in my courtyard. I missed being 'Motuz,' a guy people actually knew.
"PWAEEEEET!" The shrill sound of Coach Hong's whistle made me jump a foot in the air. "Alright, you lazy geniuses!" he boomed, stalking onto the court. "Today, basketball! Five-on-five, half-court. Captains... you!" He pointed at Lim Soo-wan, the Taekwondo team member, who was in our class. "And... you!" He pointed at another athletic-looking guy.
They all looked like models. At least in terms of physic and height I was no worse.
They started picking teams. It was the universal, humiliating schoolyard ritual. Lim Soo-wan picked his sports-team friends. The other guy picked the other tall kids. I was left standing there with a few of the less-than-athletic music-types. Lim Soo-wan looked at me, then at the orange suit, and a huge grin split his face. "I'll take the traffic cone!" he yelled. "Mountain! You're with us!" A few of his friends snickered, but it was... friendly. I think.
I jogged over, the suit swishing. The game started. I was... not in the mood.
Back in Cherkasy, I was the captain of both the basketball and volleyball teams. I was good, talented even, but I lacked consistent enthusiasm.
My "fire" always came and went. It was a rare tide, usually washing in after I'd binged-watched an entire season of Kuroko no Basuke or Haikyuu. I'd be obsessed for two weeks, practicing moves, and then I'd just... get bored.
I hadn't felt that spark in months since I've been diligently preparing for my exchange year in Korea.
The other team got the ball. Their captain, the guy who hadn't picked me, drove past Kang Min-hyuk, one of my teammates. I was nominally guarding him. He saw me—the new guy in the clown suit—and didn't even register me as a threat. He went up for an easy layup.
I didn't even think. It was just instinct. I moved. My hand shot up, and I met the ball at the apex of his shot, pinning it clean against the backboard. A perfect block. The gym went quiet. The ball fell back, and I snatched it out of the air.
The guy who'd just been blocked stared at me. "What the...?" A familiar, electric buzz shot up my spine. It was the Kuroko feeling. "Hey! Traffic cone!" Kang Min-hyuk yelled. "Pass!" I didn't. I turned, dribbled once, twice. The guy recovered, lunging at me.
I faked right, did a low, fast crossover—a move I'd copied straight from Aomine—and he stumbled. I had a clear lane. I took two steps, jumped... and dunked it.
It wasn't a rim-shattering slam, but the ball went through the hoop with a satisfying, violent thwack.
I landed, and the gym was silent.
Everyone—the other players, the kids waiting on the sidelines, even Ha-neul, who had been pretending not to watch—was staring at me.
My heart was hammering.
The polyester suit felt like an oven.
Then, Kang Min-hyuk, Lim Soo-wan and all of my team let out a roar. "YOOOO! 'MOUNTAIN'!" he bellowed, grabbing me in a headlock. "You can play! Why didn't you say so, you crazy Ukrainian!"
I was gasping for air, bright red, and ridiculously, stupidly happy. For the first time all day, I wasn't the new kid. I wasn't the clumsy foreigner. I was the guy who just dunked. And for a second, it felt fine.