Chapter 2: The Weight of a Year

Away from the gym’s noise, we’re in a small apartment kitchen where Ryoma stands alone at the stove, swaying slightly as he stirs the pan. A faint ’la la la...’ escapes him, half-hummed along with the song in his earphones as the scent of dinner begins to fill the room.

Since junior high, it’s just been him and his mother, and she never gets home before nine. So Ryoma cooks, and he’s gotten good at it, too.

Tonight, though, there’s something different. For the first time in a long while, he’s got his old phone in his pocket again, the one loaded with his favorite songs. The earphones snake up to his ears, carrying something familiar, something nostalgic.

It’sMemories, the first ending theme from One Piece. As if learning back how to behave like a genuine 19 years old, he hums naively.

With a little more boldness as the onions hiss in the pan, the spatula in his hand turns into an impromptu microphone.

But he doesn’t get to finish.

Ding-dong!

The doorbell slices through the moment. Ryoma blinks, and then calls out.

"Hold on a sec!"

He quickly drops the spatula, turns the stove down low, and wipes his hands on a dish towel. The slippers on his feet shuffle hurriedly across the wooden floor as he makes for the door.

When he opens it, Coach Nakahara is standing there, framed in the dim hallway light.

"Coach?" Ryoma says, a little surprised. "What brings you here..."

He doesn’t finish. Instead, he steps aside and gestures in.

"Ah, never mind. Please, come in."

Nakahara nods and steps inside. Ryoma leads him to the small dining table and pulls out a chair.

"Have a seat. I just need to finish up in the kitchen."

From the stove, Ryoma raises his voice over the sizzle.

"So... something happen at the gym? Or..." He glances back with a half-smile. "...you already decided on my next fight?"

Nakahara doesn’t smile back. "We got a sparring offer... from Renji Kuroiwa."

The words hang in the air. Ryoma blinks, but doesn’t turn. He still focuses on the food, adding a pinch of seasoning, stirring the pot, plating the vegetables. But his mind is already spinning through possibilities, questions, calculations.

Then, as if trying to steer the moment away from whatever tension has crept in, he sets dishes and three bowls of rice on the table.

"My mom will be home soon. Would be merrier having you here too."

Nakahara shakes his head slightly. "I won’t be long. Just came to hear your answer."

Ryoma takes his seat but says nothing right away. Usually, Coach Nakahara wouldn’t ask, just set the schedule and then sent him out. But today, it’s different.

"You scared?" Nakahara asks, the faintest smirk tugging at his lip.

Ryoma exhales through his nose. "No. Just thinking. If this is one of those conditions you set to help me get a title shot in a year, to spar Renji Kuroiwa without getting knocked down even once, then... I don’t think that’s realistic. Not me being scared. Just me knowing what’s possible and what’s not."

His words make Nakahara look at him differently. He’d half-expected some naïve bravado, but no. Ryoma shows him that he understands the challenge and his own limits, better than most fighters his age.

"So... you think it’d be different if the conditions weren’t the same?" Nakahara asks.

When Ryoma doesn’t answer right away, Nakahara leans back in his chair.

"Then let’s make it simple..." He raises an eyebrow. "Forget that one-down rule. Just last the three rounds. Survive without him finishing you, and come back to me with your own legs. That’s enough."

Ryoma shifts, his expression sharpening. There’s no mistaking it, he wants a crack at the champion himself.

"When?" he asks.

"Haven’t decided yet," Nakahara replies. "Need your answer before I call them."

Ryoma nods slowly. "I’ll do it. But... give me three weeks?"

Nakahara narrows his eyes. "Three weeks?"

"He’s in the Lightweight division," Ryoma says. "Figured I should put on a bit of weight too."

Nakahara gives a faint, almost dismissive shake of the head as he rises from his chair and heads toward the door.

"Coach!" Ryoma calls after him.

Nakahara pauses with his hand on the doorframe. "If you’re serious about securing a Super Featherweight title fight within a year, keep your weight where it is. A tight fight schedule means a stricter diet. It’s far easier to maintain than to cut down the excessive weight before each fight."

Ryoma stays quiet. The sound of the simmering pot in the kitchen fills the space, but his mind is elsewhere.

He pictures the grind ahead, twelve months of keeping his body at this razor-thin edge. No big meals, no comfort binges after fights, no water-loading games like most boxers play. He’d considered this before, though never in such strict terms. Maybe, he’d figured, he could ease up on the diet in the off weeks between fights.

As for comparison, most fighters only drain themselves before weigh-in, sweating out every drop just to tip the scale. Then they spend the next twenty-four hours refilling their bodies, stepping into the ring heavier and stronger.

But Nakahara’s way is different. Ryoma’s current weight, light, lean, stripped of every unnecessary ounce, would have to become his natural state for the entire year. It’s not impossible, but Ryoma knows it will demand more discipline than any boxers could.

"So?" Nakahara asks.

Ryoma hesitates, his mind still replaying the image of grinding through an entire year without once letting his weight drift.

After a moment, he gives a single nod.

"Good. I’ll call Kirizume Boxing Gym to set it up on Saturday." Nakahara says, starting toward the hall.

There’s no pause to hear a protest, no glance over his shoulder. Just his back moving farther away, his voice already fading as his footsteps carry him out.

"You’ve got three days to get your head in the right place."

Ryoma stays by the doorway for a moment after Nakahara leaves, the hallway already empty. Then, slowly, he walks back to the dinner table and sinks into the chair.

The meal he’d just prepared sits before him, steam curling lazily into the air, carrying the rich scent he’d been looking forward to all evening.

He stares at it in silence, chopsticks untouched.

Just a while ago, he’d been thinking about how good it would feel to have a big dinner with his mom tonight.

Now, he knows he’ll have to hold back, another small sacrifice on the long road ahead.