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  Part- 329:

  James gave a small salute. "Ready as I’ll ever be, Coach. Just trying to make sure my body survives long enough tret ing."

  Ryan snickered. "That’s the spirit."

  Coach Gin smirked. “Well, if you survive this tour, maybe I’ll introduce you to *my* motivational tactics. Ever run 5k on ay stomach?”

  James winced. “I think I’ll take my ces with Lily’s torture sessions, thanks.”

  As the team burst into another round of ughter, a voice from the stands boomed again.

  "RYAN! Remember, win or lose, we’re having pizza tonight! But ONLY if you win!"

  Ryan groaned, spping a hand over his face. "See what I mean? Even my post-matacks are ditional."

  James patted his shoulder sympathetically. “Well, at least you know what you’re fighting for. Nothing motivates like pepperoni.”

  Srinned. "And if you lose, you’ll just have to tell your dad yoing on a diet."

  Ryan scowled. "Yeah, and then he’ll tell me the only diet I need is a *‘banced serving of victory.’*"

  Coach Gin shook his head, though a smile tugged at the ers of his mouth. "Alright, alright. Enough ing around. Let’s show them what Banani High is made of!"

  As they lined up he mats, James felt a stra wele sense of camaraderie wash over him. Sure, they were all fag pressure from parents, siblings, and motivational speeches disguised as threats, but they were in this together.

  And no matter what happened —win or lose—they’d always have these moments to ugh about. Well, unless Ryan’s dad decided to write him a *post-match mao* on the car ride home.

  Ryan leaned i time, grinning. “Hey, James. Just remember: If I don’t survive the lecture ter, tell my story."

  James chuckled, bumping fists with him. "Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re remembered as the guy who fought for pizza... and almost won."

  The Banani High judo team stood in formation, their eyes locked on the petitors from St. Abraham High, who were warming up on the opposite side of the mat. James narrowed his gaze, taking in their movements with mild curiosity. Everyone khat St. Abraham’s basketball team had retly ched the national championship, and rumors swirled that the judo team trained just as rigorously.

  James adjusted his gi, loosening his shoulders as Coach Gin cpped his hands to gather the team.

  “Listen up! Quarterfinals. First matchup—James, you’re up.”

  James rolled his neck, crag it with satisfying pops, and stepped forward. “Got it, Coach.”

  As he strode fidently toward the mat, the noise of the stadium faded into background hums. The lights above shone brightly on the smooth mat surface, and the cool air smelled of disiant and adrenaline. Oher side, his oppo emerged—a wiry boy with an arrogant smirk pstered across his face. He walked with the swagger of someone who thought he was already holding the trophy.

  The boy stopped a few feet away, looking James up and down. "Name’s Ezaz," he decred, like the sound of his name should make James’s kremble.

  James offered a polite nod, his expression unreadable, aended his hand for a pre-match handshake, as per judo etiquette.

  Ezaz gave the outstretched hand a dismissive gnce before swatting it away. “I don’t shake hands with losers.”