They dragged themselves into the dining hall like survivors of a natural disaster. Nobody said it out loud, but they all kept glancing at Coach's empty seat like it was a landmine.
Breakfast wasn't a buffet – it was plated and waiting. Real china. Real chefs. Not a waffle in sight.
Aliir squinted at his tray like it might attack him: grilled salmon, sweet potato mash, spinach cooked down with something dark and oily, and a steaming mug of… soup?
"That," came Dr. Lang's voice from behind him, "is bone broth. Collagen, glycine, trace minerals. Your joints say thank you. Your ankles, especially."
Aliir didn't argue. He wrapped both hands around the mug.
Biha sat beside him with a slightly upgraded version – eggs, chicken thigh, avocado toast, oats covered in chia seeds and berries. He hesitated at the oats, and Dr. Lang tapped the bowl with her pen.
"Calcium, vitamin D, iron, fiber. You're going to grow sideways now. Let's not have your tendons snap like rubber bands."
Novak stared at his own plate like Santa had finally acknowledged him: protein pancakes with almond butter, cottage cheese with pineapple, scrambled eggs and spinach, and a tall glass of milk.
Dr. Lang eyed him. "You've got three to five inches in you if your bones decide to cooperate. That only happens if you quit eating like a raccoon."
He turned pink. "Yes, ma'am."
"Don't 'ma'am' me, I'm not your homeroom teacher."
Mason's plate hit the table next – egg white omelet, quinoa hash, berries, and a tiny glass of deep red liquid that looked like vampire juice.
"What the hell is that?" he asked.
"Beet juice," Dr. Lang said, not looking up from her clipboard. "Nitrates for blood flow. Cardiovascular performance. Drink it or I'll put kale in your pillowcase."
Jesus snorted into his burrito – eggs, beef, beans, wrapped tight, with mango slices and coconut water. "She talkin' to you like you her hijo."
Dr. Lang didn't even glance at him. "Keep eating, Cholo Picasso."
Ector's tray landed heavy – turkey sausage, brown rice, veggie scramble, mixed nuts and dried fruit. He didn't complain, just ate like someone timing himself.
"You burn glucose like a forest fire," she said to him offhandedly. "This keeps you from face-planting mid-scrimmage."
He grunted, which for him was gratitude.
Grigori sat down last, staring at a bowl of what looked like warm gravel and walnuts – buckwheat porridge, poached eggs, roasted tomatoes, and a chilled glass bottle of kefir.
Dr. Lang didn't bother explaining his out loud. She just said, "You're the only one here whose metabolism isn't suicidal. Don't get cocky."
He shrugged and dug in.
The table was quiet for a minute, forks clinking, breaths still heavy from practice. Then Jesus eyed Novak's pile of pancakes.
"Damn, Frosted Flake got the deluxe menu."
"It's for growth," Novak muttered.
Jesus smirked. "You growin' feelings now too? You lookin' at Doc like she the prom queen."
Novak froze mid-bite. "I'm not – what?"
Biha's eyebrows lifted. Even Mason cracked a tired grin. Ector didn't look up. "He been staring at her since yesterday. Like dog at steak. Wuff-wuff!"
"I have not!" Novak hissed, now aggressively cutting his pancake into precise squares.
Dr. Lang didn't miss a beat as she walked past. "Novak, if you're going to fall in love with me, at least wait until your voice stops cracking and your BMI stops crying."
The table exploded.
Jesus nearly spit mango across the table. Mason slapped the table and leaned back wheezing. Even Grigori made a sound suspiciously close to a laugh.
Novak looked like he wanted to crawl into his glass of milk and drown.
Michiko strolled in just in time to see the chaos and smiled gently. "Breakfast is lively today."
Marcus walked by, eyeing the plates. "Good. Nobody's asked for bacon yet. That means the message sank in."
Jesus raised a hand weakly. "If we survive this week, can we get pancakes with, like… joy in them?"
Dr. Lang didn't blink. "If you survive this week, I'll let you look at a croissant."
"Just look?" Mason said.
"Maybe touch it," she said. "If your weight's right."
Novak was still red. Jesus nudged him with an elbow. "Relax, Romeo. She likes you. She didn't call you defective."
Novak quietly drank his milk like he was hoping for spontaneous invisibility.
They kept eating. Nobody left a single crumb.
After breakfast, they filed into the conference room still sore from laps, expecting worksheets and quiet. Instead, a tiny woman in her late forties sat cross-legged on the teacher's chair like it was a throne she'd owned since birth. Straight black hair in a tight bun, glasses hanging on a cheap chain, cardigan buttoned to the throat.
She didn't smile. Or blink. Or look impressed.
"Sit," she said, pointing at the desks without standing. Her accent was thick enough to chew. "I am Yamamoto-sensei. You will speak Japanese, or police think you illegal and put you on plane back to wherever you from. Understand?"
Nobody laughed. They weren't sure if they were allowed. Jesus dropped into a chair and muttered, "Damn," under his breath.
She pointed at him instantly. "You. Name."
"Jesus."
Her eyes narrowed. "Spell."
He blinked. "Uh… J-E—"
"No English spelling. Japanese spelling." She chalked JI-E-SU on the whiteboard in stiff kana. "Listen. Repeat."
"Jee-eh-su?" he tried.
She stabbed the air. "Better than monkey try speaking opera."
Ector snorted. Novak elbowed him before she turned. She pointed at Novak next. "You. Name."
He straightened automatically. "Novak."
She wrote NO-BA-KU. "Again. Repeat."
"No… ba… ku," he said, slow and careful.
She didn't praise him. "My son speak perfect Japanese at three. You are, what, fifteen? Sixteen? Try harder or stay stupid."
Ector whispered to Tyrone, "She terrifying."
Tyrone didn't look away from her. "She built like every auntie that beat kids with sandals."
Across the room, Dr. Lang observed from the corner with a coffee mug, pretending to check schedules. Novak kept stealing glances at her, not Yamamoto. Ector caught one and snickered, "Boy looking like he gonna propose after grammar drills."
Novak shoved him under the desk. Yamamoto snapped her fingers – a sound like a mousetrap. Everyone went rigid.
"No phones. No sleep. No attitude. You think you athletes so no need language? Hah! When police stop bus and ask question, you want to cry in English? They no care. They put you in little room with toilet on floor. You want that?"
Deng swallowed. Jesus leaned back slowly. She continued without breathing. "My oldest son is astronaut. My daughter is heart surgeon. My youngest win piano competition in Vienna at nine. You? You come here and cannot say hello without sounding like donkey choke on shoe."
Biha made the mistake of trying not to laugh. It came out of his nose. Her head snapped around. "You. Stand."
Biha stood like he'd been drafted.
"Say good morning."
He hesitated. "Uh… ohayou… goza—"
"Louder. You talk like mouse get strangled."
He tried again, voice deep and awkward: "Ohayou gozaimasu."
She nodded once. "Sit. Everyone repeat."
They echoed it back, voices uneven and embarrassed. She corrected half of them with laser precision, slapping the board with her palm every time someone butchered a vowel. At one point Tyrone mumbled something about her accent under his breath. She didn't miss a thing.
"You say something, Mr. Big Shoulders?"
He sat up straighter. "No, ma'am."
"You laugh at my English, I laugh when you cry in Japanese hospital because nurse no understand you want bathroom, not surgery."
The room went dead silent. Even Jesus raised both hands like surrender. "She got jokes but I ain't testing her."
The next hour was numbers, greetings, and phrases they might need to avoid deportation, hospital visits, and soccer moms with questions. By the end, even Ector was sitting upright and repeating vowels like his life depended on it. When the bell tone went off in the hallway, she didn't dismiss them. She just said, "Tomorrow you remember, or I bring dictionary and hit you with it. Leave."
They grabbed their notebooks and stood like soldiers. As they filed out, Novak stole another quick glance at Dr. Lang. She didn't look up from her folder, but she smirked like she'd seen everything. Jesus nudged him. "You better learn Japanese fast, lover boy. She gonna marry one of those astronaut kids before you blink."
Novak's ears went pink. "Shut up."
Ector grinned. "At least we know who volunteering for extra credit."
And somehow, for the first time that day, Japanese didn't seem like the worst thing ahead of them.
Math was next, and any hope of it being chill died fast. Mr. Okafor walked in with the seriousness of a tax audit and dropped thick packets on every desk. No intro, no pep talk – just, "You solve what you know. I find out what you don't." Jesus stared at page one like it was written in Martian. Mason muttered that he'd rather run another forty laps. Novak tried to keep up and accidentally drew attention to himself when he answered something right – Okafor didn't praise him, just said, "Don't get comfortable." That somehow made it worse.
Science moved faster than they were ready for. Dr. Takahara didn't waste half a sentence – he put up diagrams of joints and muscles and said, "You ignore these, you go home early." Deng and Biha both sat up when he started talking about tendon strength. Novak started writing things down the second "late growth" was mentioned. Jesus whispered that the guy definitely ironed his socks.
Humanities wrapped the block, and nobody expected it to be strict – until Ms. Mori walked in like she ran the building. She wrote "You are guests in Japan" on the board and went straight into history, culture, and expectation. When Ector snorted at one of Jesus' side comments, she cracked a folding fan against the desk once and said, "One more sound and you present to me while standing." That shut everyone up instantly.
By lunch, nobody was bragging, nobody was clowning, and even the loudest kids looked like they'd been dunked in cold water and told to sit up straight. The morning had beaten the arrogance out of them better than any drills.