[Argentina—Club Atlético San Juan Volleyball Team]
"You're late, Oikawa."
Sitting by the gym entrance, José Blanco flipped through a stack of recent match data from San Juan.
"Ah, well, a few lovely ladies stopped me to ask for directions on the way here. Took me a little longer than I expected," Oikawa Tōru replied with a grin.
José glanced at him. There were faint, bluish shadows under Oikawa's eyes.
"Today's your tryout, and you still stayed up watching match footage?" he said, exasperated. "If you mess this up because you're not in top form, the next opportunity won't come so soon."
"And besides—no local is dumb enough to ask a foreigner for directions. Come up with a better excuse next time."
"Sorry, sorry," Oikawa said sheepishly, scratching his head before quickly following José into the gym.
It had been nearly three months since Oikawa arrived in Argentina.
During that time, he'd only been training with the club's second team.
Because of the language barrier—he still hadn't fully picked it up—he mostly acted alone.
No teammates striving toward a shared goal.
Oikawa felt, in no uncertain terms, just how hard it was to live in a foreign country.
Every step forward felt like a struggle, and loneliness clung to him like a shadow.
But even so, every time he accompanied the team to an away game—even if he was only sitting on the bench—he could feel himself inching closer to the higher dream he'd been chasing.
The professional stage.
Those players who had once stood on the world stage…
All he could feel from that world was hope.
And so, for the entirety of this not-so-short period, Oikawa dedicated himself to only two things outside of daily training—
Studying the language and analysing match footage.
In three months, Oikawa had watched every single match the San Juan Club had played over the past three years.
In the dead of night, over and over, he replayed those games.
The tiniest details in every spiker's movement.
Oikawa locked his eyes onto the screen, not letting a single key frame slip past him.
So deeply immersed was he in analysis that he often lost track of time.
Fatigue crept into his eyes without him even noticing.
"José, is this the foreign guy here for today's tryout?"
A tall, blond man walked over.
198 centimetres tall, a wing spiker and opposite hitter.
He had led the San Juan Club to a championship title two years ago, won MVP in the Polish Super Cup the following year, and helped the Argentina men's team place fifth in last year's World Cup.
"Who's this kid? Someone you know?"
Another man joined them—this one with curly brown hair.
197 centimetres tall.
A middle blocker who had represented Argentina in the Olympics last year, earning a bronze medal in volleyball.
"Never met him. He came in with José," Conte said seriously.
So this is the world stage…
Oikawa stood frozen, unable to hide the thrill coursing through his body.
The twin stars of San Juan.
It was the first time since arriving that Oikawa had come this close to them.
"Why are you all crowding around?" José muttered. "I haven't even introduced him yet."
"I heard he's your protégé. Naturally, I'm curious," Conte said, staring intently at Oikawa.
"Mr. Facundo, I'm Oikawa Tōru. I've come from Japan."
"Oh? So you do speak Spanish," Conte replied with mild surprise. "Alright then—looking forward to training with you."
"Yes! Please take care of me!"
"Mm. Got it," Conte replied calmly, nodding.
"What? And I don't deserve that kind of respect?"
Ramos suddenly leaned in toward Oikawa, trying to intimidate him.
"Knock it off," José said, pushing Ramos' head away without hesitation.
Once most of the nearby players had gathered, José cleared his throat and addressed the group.
"Since you're all clearly itching to get started, let's get this going."
"Thirty minutes of warmups, then we'll have a four-on-four match. No liberos. Both sides will have an Outside Hitter, an opposite hitter, a setter, and a middle blocker."
Oikawa joined the starting lineup and began warming up, all while observing his teammates up close:
Palacios, Outside Hitter, 195 cm.
Bruno Lima, Opposite Hitter, 198 cm.
Nicolás Zerba, Middle Blocker, 190 cm.
Matías Sánchez, Setter, 191 cm.
Santiago Danani, Libero, 176 cm.
Boris Danov, also trying out, Opposite Hitter, 190 cm.
At 186 cm, Oikawa stood among giants—only taller than the libero.
Thirty minutes later.
"Alright, everyone warmed up?"
The assistant coach called out from the sidelines.
"Then let's begin the real training. Come grab your pinnies."
"No front-row serves allowed. No tips during spikes. I'll read off the teams now."
Outside Hitter—Facundo Conte
Middle Blocker—Nicolás Zerba
Opposite Hitter—Bruno Lima
Outside Hitter—Palacios
Setter—Matías Sánchez
Middle Blocker—Martín Ramos
Opposite Hitter—Bogdanov
Oikawa stood on court, now completely surrounded by players taller than himself.
"Oikawa, right? Quit looking around and keep your eyes on your opponent," Conte said coolly.
Facing the net, Oikawa felt the overwhelming pressure crash over him like a tidal wave.
He was, without a doubt, the weakest player on the Red Team.
The glint in his opponents' eyes was confident and sharp, and they made no attempt to hide that they were targeting him.
He felt like a bug tangled in a spider's web, instantly constricted by an invisible pressure.
The oppressive aura wafting over from across the net felt like the storm clouds before a downpour—heavy, dark and suffocating.
"Even that guy over there, who's also on trial, is targeting me…"
Oikawa could feel his breath becoming slightly unsteady, as if the air itself had grown thick and heavy.
"Hey. We're starting, tryout boy," Ramos taunted, curling a finger at Oikawa with a smirk.
Blue Team to serve first.
Oikawa took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves.
Because serves weren't allowed to target the front row, all four Red Team members stood in the back, covering nearly identical zones.
"There's nothing to be afraid of. Receive the ball, set up the play, and hit it back."
Receiving serves didn't scare Oikawa much.
After all, back at Aoba Johsai, he had been one of the best on the team at serve receive.
The only reason he hadn't done it often was because he needed to focus on setting.
The whistle blew again—this time, for serve.
All Oikawa saw was a blur.
The ball smashed down behind him, bouncing past the end line.
[Red Team 0 – 1 Blue Team]
Martín Ramos had scored straight off the serve.
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