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  Part- 327:

  Zia, the lightweight, bounced on his toes nearby, shadowboxing. He was agile, qui his feet, and known for his lightning-fast reflexes. He had a habit of making everything a petition, whether it arring, running drills, or eveing lunch. "James, you better watch your back," Zia called out between punches. "Today’s my day to shine. You middleweights might have your fancy throws, but speed kills, my man."

  James smirked, not taking the bait. "We’ll see about that." Zia always tried to rile people up, but it never quite worked with James.

  Meanwhile, Nabi, Keya, and Tisha were off to the side, their voices a mix of ughter and whispers as they warmed up. Nabi and Keya were the lightweight petitors on the girls’ team, both fiercely petitive, but also the type to break into fits of giggles when off the mat. Tisha, the middleweight, was quieter but no less skilled. She watched the others with a knowing smile, her mind clearly focused on strategy rather than jokes.

  Dipa, the heavyweight backup, had her eyes glued to Sourov, studying his every move as if she were preparing for a test. She didn’t talk much, but when she did, it was often to ask the most teical questions about throws, grips, and ters. It was clear she was determio prove herself if she got the pete.

  The energy idoor stadium buzzed with excitement as the Banani High Judo team stood in formation, ready to face their oppos. James Khan rolled his shoulders, trying to focus, but the weight of the cheering crowd and the familiar faces scattered across the stands g the edges of his tration.

  The judo team huddled he mats, adjusting their uniforms and shaking off pre-match jitters. Ryan’s groan broke the silence, making everyourn toward him.

  "He’s here again..." Ryan muttered, dragging a hand down his face like he’d just aged five years in a sed.

  James, still half-zoning out, arched an eyebrow. "Who?"

  Ryan tilted his head toward the stands. “Over there. The guy screaming like a megaphone on steroids. My dad.”

  Before James could process, a thunderous voice erupted from the crowd.

  "RYAN! You listen up, son! Your old man’s proud of you—win or lose! BUT YOU BETTER WIN!"

  The eeam burst out ughing, while Ryan looked like he wished the earth would open up and swallow him.

  "At least he's *proud* of you," James teased, nudging Ryan with his elbow.

  Rya out a long-suffering sigh. "Yeah, for now. Wait till I lose. Then it’s the *‘I’m not mad, just disappointed’* lecture. You ever heard aionally loaded rant that sounds like a TED Talk but with personal attacks?"

  James snorted. “What’s worse? Losing the match or surviving the car ride home?”

  Ryan shot him a deadpan look. "There’s no ‘or.’ It’s both. The match *and* the eternal, soul-crushing feedback loop. And then the awkward silence over dinner, followed by him asking me if I’ve thought about joining a chess club."

  The team roared with ughter, and Ryan folded his arms in mock defeat. "Gd I could eain you guys," he muttered, pretending to wipe a tear from his cheek.