Sunlight was barely leaking through the high gym windows when they shuffled in the next morning. Nobody was lively, but nobody looked like a zombie either. The lesson from yesterday sat in their bones. No one wanted to run another "forty laps that become fifty."
Jesus had bags under his eyes but was already spinning a ball on his finger. Mason rubbed his jaw like it still hurt from talking too much. Ector came in silent for once, hoodie up. Novak yawned so loud Biha smacked the back of his head as he passed. Deng moved like his legs were made of paper. Grigori just walked in like always – rested or dead, same face.
Marcus was already there with a clipboard. Coach Kuhlmann stood at midcourt with a mug of coffee and zero expression. He didn't bother with a speech.
"Circle up. Stretch first. Mason, lead it. Nevsky, you close."
Mason blinked like he hadn't expected to hear his name that early, then clapped his hands once and stepped forward with a lazy swagger. "Aight, y'all heard the man. Up, up, up. Arms over your damn heads unless you wanna cramp in ten minutes."
They gathered in a half-circle, most moving stiffly into place. Mason rolled his shoulders exaggeratedly. "We start simple. Reach up. Touch the sky. Try not to cry."
A few of them actually smirked.
"Count of ten," Mason said. "One… two… three—"
Jesus muttered, "You skipped cinco already?"
Mason ignored him and kept counting. On ten, he snapped, "Down. Touch your toes. Or your shins. Or your regrets. I'm not judging."
Grigori stood at the far end, arms crossed, watching like a drill sergeant waiting for someone to pass out. Deng bent forward with a groan that sounded like a dying animal. Biha just hung down like gravity owned him. Novak wobbled and mumbled something about seeing stars.
Mason shifted them through twists, lunges, and hip rotations with the kind of rough rhythm you'd expect from someone who hated yoga but loved not being injured.
"Alright, sit your asses down," he said eventually, dropping into a butterfly stretch. "Feet together. Knees down. If anything snaps, just scream in your heart."
Jesus snorted and bounced his knees. Ector grunted like this was more painful than getting bodied yesterday. After hamstring stretches and some groaning torso turns, Mason slapped his thighs. "Alright, Kremlin, finish 'em."
Grigori stepped forward like he'd been waiting to be activated.
"Sit up. Legs apart. Reach middle." His tone was flat, no nonsense. He watched them fold forward.
"You count," Jesus pointed at him, half joking.
Grigori didn't blink. "No. You hold until it hurts."
Nobody argued. After a long 30 seconds of collective misery, he said, "Left foot." They reached. Novak's fingers barely brushed his ankle. Mason smacked his calf and told him to quit being eighty.
"Right foot." They switched. Deng looked like he was bargaining with his ancestors.
Then Grigori stood. "Stand. Arms behind back. Hands lock." He demonstrated, pushing his chest forward, shoulders tight. They followed with varying levels of success.
Ector muttered, "Who stretches like they're going to war?"
Grigori didn't look at him. "Warriors who do not tear hamstring."
Finally, he nodded once. "Done."
They broke the circle, sweat already forming even without a ball bouncing yet.
Kuhlmann, who'd watched without a word, spoke up with that gravelly calm: "Now that the comedy hour is over – pair up. Same format as yesterday. You'll thank the stretching later when your lungs aren't the first thing to tear. You'll do this all week. No sets, no teams. You're not a unit if you don't understand the man in front of you."
No whining. No groans. They just moved.
Mason and Ector took one end. Jesus pointed at Deng and jerked his chin. "C'mon, hermano, you owe me some cardio."
Novak tried to hide behind Biha, but Biha pushed him toward a free hoop. "We suffer together, tomato."
Grigori didn't ask – he just stood at the top of the empty court like a final exam waiting for whoever was dumb enough to walk up. That ended up being Mason after he and Ector finished one set. Mason cursed under his breath but stepped up.
Kuhlmann walked the sidelines, sipping coffee, not saying much – just watching how they breathed, how they looked at each other, who made the most mistakes and what were those mistakes.
There was no chatter – just squeaking shoes and labored breathing. Trash talk was quieter, edged with focus.
Jesus scored on Deng twice in a row, but he wasn't laughing this time. "Finish with your left, bro," he muttered after a missed layup. "That's food for anyone quick."
Deng just nodded and reset.
Ector bodied Novak like yesterday, but Novak was at least shoving back instead of bracing for death.
Mason hit a jumper on Grigori and raised his arms like he won the lottery. Grigori checked the ball back, deadpan: "Do not celebrate breathing."
Biha and Ector rotated in on each other after a bit, both playing like neither wanted to look weak in front of the others. Their shots were rough, but effort wasn't the issue.
The gym felt different – not friendly, but sharper. Less stupid pride, more pure ball.
Marcus glanced at the Coach. "You think they get it now?"
Kuhlmann didn't look at him. "They're starting to understand why they're here. That'll do for a Tuesday."
When someone missed an easy take, there was no laughter. When somebody got scored on, nobody flexed too long. Every bucket was a test. Every possession was a CV bullet point.
Sweat was still dripping off their chins when Marcus blew the final whistle. Sneakers squeaked to a stop, lungs burned, and a couple of them straight-up collapsed onto the hardwood.
Coach Kuhlmann walked out from the sideline with Daniel and Marcus behind him. Daniel carried a stack of printed schedules; Marcus had a clipboard tucked under his arm. The boys straightened up without being told.
Coach didn't waste air.
"Alright. You survived morning," he said. "Barely. Don't get proud."
Daniel started handing out sheets row by row. Grigori took his without looking. Jesus squinted at his like it was written in alien script. Novak looked like someone had just served him court papers.
"These are your weekly schedules," Marcus said, voice sharp. "Training blocks, film hours, recovery windows, meals, weight room, tutor time, and sleep."
Biha blinked. "Tutor time?"
That's when Daniel added, "You've got lessons starting today."
The reaction hit like a collective gut punch.
Groans. Loud ones. Jesus threw his head back. Mason muttered, "Ain't no way…" Novak just closed his eyes like he needed five minutes of silence to grieve. Ector made a sound that might've been a growl. Even Grigori lifted an eyebrow.
Coach didn't flinch.
"What?" he said, looking around. "You bums thought you were pros?"
Silence. No one wanted to test him.
"You're going to Japan or you forgot already?" he continued. "You think you're just gonna show up, dribble a ball, and they roll out a red carpet? You'll be in real schools. Real games. Real media. Real coaches. You're not walking in there sounding like you just escaped detention."
Jesus rubbed his eyes. "Coach, man, we just –"
Kuhlmann cut him off with a look.
"And another thing," he said, voice low but heavy. "How the hell are you gonna trash talk if you don't know the language?"
A couple of them actually paused at that. Ector cracked the faintest smirk. Mason snorted into his sleeve. Novak muttered, "Okay, that part I respect."
Coach didn't let it sit long.
"Classes start in two hours. You'll eat, shower, then meet your tutors in the conference rooms downstairs. They'll teach you Japanese, core subjects, and whatever else keeps your visas from getting shredded."
Marcus stepped up. "Five hours a day. Six days a week. No skipping unless you're dead or drafted."
Daniel nodded. "And for the record, if anyone tries to fake sick, Coach said he'll personally waterboard you with vocabulary flashcards."
A weak laugh slipped out of somebody. Maybe two.
Coach turned away like the conversation was done. "Be in the lobby in thirty minutes. If you're late, you're running suicides before algebra."
He didn't wait for a response – just walked off, leaving groans and defeated silence in his wake. The boys stared down at their schedules like they were staring at jail sentences.
Jesus finally muttered, "Viejo really said we need grammar to talk shit…"
Grigori folded his schedule once and tucked it into his waistband. "Then learn grammar."
Nobody argued after that.