Page 102 of Pets in Space 10

How much longer could I pretend this “vacation” on the bench was actually a gift? The soccer ball flies up the field, and all of my teammates run past.

“Carla! Go! Straight up the middle!” Coach yells from the sidelines.

I keep my eyes on Carla’s feet as they dribble the ball and pass it down to Mika.

Yes, yes, yes. Keep it moving. I rub at the tender spot below my right knee, wincing as my fingers find the swollen area beneath my brace.

Six weeks of sitting here, watching other people play the game I love.

“Mika! Cut left!” Coach’s voice carries across the field. I lean forward on the bench, my body wanting to move with the play, even though I’m stuck here.

Mika pivots, exactly how I would have done it. The defender overcommits, and Mika breaks free, charging towards the goal. My heart rate soars, and I almost jump to my feet.

Careful, Rosa. I need to keep my butt planted where it is.

“That’s it!” I call out, bringing my hands to my mouth. “Now cross it!”

She doesn’t hear me, of course. Instead, she takes the shot herself — a decision I wouldn’t have made — and the goalkeeper blocks it like she’s swatting at a lazy fly.

I slump back, stopping a groan. Coach glances my way with a sympathetic nod before turning to the team. He knows how much this kills me.

My mini tablet buzzes with a reminder: work in an hour and physical therapy this evening. Another session of painful stretching and exercises. But what choice do I have? Either I get better, or I stay put, watching everyone else live my dream.

I can’t have that.

The whistle blows. End of practice. My teammates jog off the field, their faces flushed, chattering about the missed opportunities and near goals.

I push myself up from the bench, a sharp twinge shooting through my knee.

Biting back a curse, I force a casual stretch, as if I’m just another player winding down, not someone relegated to the sidelines.

Each step is a reminder of my limitations. The sharp stabbing pain followed by a dull ache.

The brace is a shackle, a constant, irritating presence. I limp towards the locker room, trying to ignore the sympathetic glances from my teammates.

I hate this.

I hate the pity, the forced cheerfulness, the way everyone tiptoes around my frustration.

I should stop coming to practice and torturing myself like this.

Shoving my gear into my bag, the familiar scent of grass and sweat is a painful reminder of what I’m missing. It’s not just the game. It’s the camaraderie, the shared exhaustion, the feeling of pushing my body to its limits.

Now, my limits are defined by pain, by the careful, measured movements prescribed by the physical therapist. My life has become a series of appointments and restrictions, a far cry from the freedom I felt on the field.

“Hey, Rosa! How’s the knee?” Carla, our team captain, asks, her breath still coming in quick gasps. She slings a sweaty arm around my shoulders, and I try not to wince. I have to show up in an office in a bit, hopefully not smelling like someone else’s sweat. Gross.

“Oh, you know,” I say, forcing a light tone, “just enjoying the view from the best seat in the house. No running, no sweating, no chance of getting kicked in the shins. It’s basically a vacation.”

Carla chuckles, but her eyes hold a hint of concern. “You’ll be back out there soon. You’re too good to stay benched.”

“Yeah, well, my knee didn’t get the memo,” I reply, gesturing to the brace. “It’s decided to stage a revolt. Thinks it deserves a break from all the winning.” I roll my eyes to show how ridiculous it is.

“It’s a temporary setback. Nothing more.”

“Right. Temporary.” Like a bad haircut. Or a planetary alignment that throws everything off-kilter. “Just waiting for the stars to align, or my kneecap, whichever comes first.” I add a light, playful tone. I’m used to this kind of situation.

“Hey, Rosa,” Coach calls out, jogging over, his brow furrowed with a mix of concern and what I can only describe as coachly pity. “How’s it feeling today?”

“Fantastic,” I say, my voice dripping with a sarcasm I don’t even bother to hide anymore. “Never been better.”

He winces, probably regretting asking. “Look, I know it’s tough. But you gotta listen to the physical therapist. No shortcuts, remember? Doctor’s orders are to take it slow.”

I nod, staring out at the now-empty field, the green expanse mocking me.

“Yeah, yeah. Slow and steady wins the race. Except, in this race, I’m not even allowed on the track.

” My fingers trace the outline of the brace again, the fabric a rough texture against my skin.

“It’s just... six weeks, Coach. Six weeks of this. ”

“I know, I know,” he says, already distracted by his next worry. “But it’s a small price to pay to get you back at one hundred percent.”

This is one of those moments when I recognize that he’s right — I do — but it doesn’t mean I like it. I hate it. I despise it. I want to throw it into a pit and never see the pity ever again.

Instead, I smile. “I guess it’s a price I just need to get used to.”

I sigh, shoving my hands into my pockets. One hundred percent. Right. Like that’s a magic number that erases all the frustration, the boredom, the sheer wrongness of being stuck on the sidelines.

It’s funny, in a darkly ironic way. I spend my days at the Interstellar Agency, counseling employees, guiding them through stress, burnout, and life transitions.

“Be patient,” I tell them. “Trust the process. Small steps lead to big changes.” I preach mindfulness, acceptance, and the importance of listening to your body.

And here I am, practically vibrating with impatience, my mind rebelling against the very advice I dispense.

I’m a hypocrite in a knee brace, a therapist who can’t even follow her own wisdom.

Maybe I should pair myself with a counselor.

Someone who can talk me off the ledge of wanting to kick a soccer ball, full force, and risk re-injuring myself.

But no. I need to get through this. I can do this. I have to do this.

“Later, Coach,” I say, hoisting my bag higher on my shoulder. “Gotta get to work. The stressed-out masses of the I.A. await my questionable wisdom.”

He gives a half-hearted chuckle, already turning his attention to gathering stray cones. “Hang in there, Rosa. You’ll be back.”

“Sure thing,” I mutter under my breath, limping towards the exit.

I squint my eyes against the morning sun that blankets Yamato as I make my way to the street.

Usually, a bright and sunny start to the day is the perfect antidote for any of my bad moods, but it does nothing to improve my emotional state, unfortunately.

I scan the area near the entrance designated for animal pairs.

Dog, dog, cat, hamster, fox... Where is he?

“Raimei!” I call out, spotting a familiar ball of fur nestled near a snoozing fox pair. “Time to go make some credits.”

My lovable and shaggy mutt dog uncurls, revealing a tiny, twitching nose and beady black eyes. Raimei stretches, then trots towards me.

“About time, Rosa,” Raimei complains, his voice a high-pitched, slightly nasal whine. “I was just getting to the good part of my nap. That fox pair, they have dreams, I tell you. Dreams of chasing endless fields of juicy grubs...”

I scoop him up and kiss him between the ears. Raimei loves to be held, especially if it means he can be lazy and nap a little more in my bag. “Sorry, buddy. Duty calls. And someone needs to pay for your ridiculously expensive organic kibble.”

“Hmph. A dog of my refined tastes deserves nothing less,” Raimei huffs, settling into the crook of my arm. “Besides, you’re the one who’s always complaining about being stuck on the sidelines. At least I can still dream of running...”

I roll my eyes and huff a short laugh. Raimei, for all his dramatic pronouncements and self-importance, has a knack for cutting through my self-pity. He’s a tiny, furry ball of perspective.

“You always say that,” I tell him, heading towards the transport hub. It’s true. Raimei is a master of guilt trips, especially when I interrupt his nap schedule. Which, to be fair, is pretty much all the time.

There are days when I still can’t believe I can hear Raimei’s complaints, his every little whine and whimper translated into language, as clear as day, thanks to the animal translation chip implanted behind my ear.

Standard procedure for every kid on their fourteenth birthday in my family here on Orihimé.

A rite of passage, my dad called it. A way to connect with our animal companions, to understand their needs, their desires, their…

incessant commentary on my life choices.

I didn’t even know Raimei was my pair until a few years ago.

I always figured I’d get a sleek, athletic dog, maybe a greyhound or a vizsla, something that matched my soccer-obsessed lifestyle.

A friend I could run with once I got my own place.

Instead, this slightly fluffy, definitely opinionated mutt ambled up to me on the street one day, looked me dead in the eye, and said, “Well, it’s about time you showed up. I’ve been waiting.”

And just like that, my life changed. Turns out, the universe, or the Pair Bond, or whatever mystical force dictates these things, has a wicked sense of humor. I, the girl who craves swiftness and agility, got paired with a dog whose top speed is only just faster than a leisurely stroll.

But, annoyances and all, I wouldn’t trade him. Raimei is always good for a laugh.

“So, what profound wisdom are you dispensing at the I.A. today?” Raimei asks, his head poking out of my bag. His nose twitches as he surveys the passing scenery. “Motivational speeches? Guided meditations? How to achieve inner peace while simultaneously dealing with inter-office politics?”

“Something like that. Today’s agenda includes calming a frantic engineer who’s convinced his AI companion is judging his life choices and mediating a dispute between two programmers over the optimal temperature of their shared office. And then the Kojiki team, of course. Thrilling stuff.”

“Sounds riveting,” Raimei says, his voice dripping with the same sarcasm I’d used earlier. “Almost as exciting as watching grass grow. Or, you know, watching your team play without you.”

I shoot him a glare. “Low blow, fuzzball. Even for you.”

“Just stating the facts,” he says, settling deeper into the bag, his tone smug. “A dog’s gotta keep it real. Unlike some humans I know, who pretend everything is fine when they’re clearly about to explode from pent-up frustration.”

If a dog could have side-eye, Raimei would be at the top of his game.

“I am not about to explode,” I say, though the wobble in my voice betrays me. “I’m handling it. I’m being… mature.”

“Mature?” Raimei lets out a bark of laughter. “You? Mature? Since when? Last time I checked, ‘mature’ involved accepting your limitations, not fantasizing about murdering your physical therapist.”

My eyes snap to his. “I do not fantasize about assaulting my physical therapist. And I am perfectly capable of being mature. I’m just… temporarily inconvenienced.”

“Inconvenienced,” Raimei echoes. “Like when a fire hydrant is temporarily out of service? Or a perfectly good nap is interrupted by the call of duty?” He pauses, then adds in a quieter voice, “Rosa, it’s okay to be frustrated.

It’s okay to be angry. It’s better than pretending everything is sunshine and rainbows. ”

I sigh, the fight going out of me. He’s right, of course. As usual. “I know,” I mutter, staring up at the sky. “I just... I don’t want this to be my life. Sitting on the sidelines. I hate it.” I sigh. “Let’s not talk about it anymore.”

We walk the rest of the way to the bus in contemplative quiet.