Page 120 of Pets in Space 10

The early morning air is crisp and clean, carrying the scent of damp earth and cut grass. Yamato is still waking up, the usual bustle muted to a distant hum. Here, on the empty soccer field, the quiet feels different. Expectant. Hungry.

My cleats dig into the turf; it’s a sensation I haven’t experienced without wincing in months. Coach stands near the center line, arms crossed, watching me with hawk-like intensity masked by a casual posture.

“All right, Kimura,” he calls out, his voice echoing in the stillness. “Let’s see what that fancy yoga’s done for you. Light passes. Control. No heroics.”

No heroics. Yes. Just moving is heroic right now.

I take a breath, centering myself. The familiar thrum of anticipation is mixed with a healthy dose of fear.

My knee brace is long gone, replaced by a compression sleeve that keeps me from doing too much.

It’s less like a shackle today and more like reinforcement.

Coach rolls a ball towards me. I trap it, the impact absorbed without the usual sharp protest from my knee. A small thrill shoots through me. I pass it back, focusing on the smooth pivot, the controlled follow-through. No pain. Only muscle awareness. A memory of strength returning.

Yes, Rosa! I’ve got this.

We move through light drills, short jogs, cone weaves at half-speed, and controlled touches. Each movement is a test, a question asked of my knee. And for the first time, the answer isn’t a scream of agony. It is a low thrum, a reminder of the injury, yes, but manageable. Tolerable. Workable.

A grin stretches across my face, unbidden. The old exhilaration bubbles up, fizzy and bright. I’m not glued to the bench anymore.

I am moving.

“Looking good, Kimura!” Coach yells, a rare, genuine smile cracking his usual stoic expression. “See? Told you. Slow and steady wins the race.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I call back, jogging towards him. I didn’t realize how much I missed this until it was gone. “Don’t get any ideas about putting me in a forward position, though. I think I might need to switch to defense for a while.”

He chuckles. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Yet.”

As we wrap up the practice, movement near the sidelines catches my eye. Figures emerge from the morning mist. Demi, Winta, even Suri, bundled against the chill. They wave, tentative smiles on their faces.

“Thought you could use a cheering section,” Winta calls out, holding up a steaming thermos. “Brought tea!”

Suri gives a curt nod, her version of enthusiastic support. “Don’t break anything else.”

Demi’s gaze is fixed on my knee, then meets mine with a hopeful expression. She doesn’t say anything, but she’s here. Supporting, not interfering.

Progress.

I wave back, warmth spreading through my chest that has nothing to do with the exercise. “Thanks, guys. But the real excitement happens later.” I pat the satchel sitting on the bench. “Got a contract to sign.”

I wave them over and find a dry spot on the metal bench, the cold seeping through my practice pants.

Winta claps her hands. “I’m excited for you! Thanks for letting us witness this.”

Pulling out my tablet, I open the I.A. consultancy long-term contract again.

The official language swims before my eyes — whereas, hereinafter, notwithstanding.

Bureaucratic nonsense trying to paper over the fact that they’d tossed me out, only to realize they still need someone to clean up their psychological messes.

It’s been two months since I started back there as a part-time counselor, and I’ve shown the I.A. how valuable I am. My performance reviews have been stellar, beyond stellar, actually, and everyone has been supportive. Now, they want me to sign on for longer.

Still part-time. Limited scope. But there’s potential for reinstatement after this contract has ended. It isn’t ideal, and I know it. A bitter taste still lingers, and the sting of being deemed ‘non-core’ hurts like it did the first time I heard it.

But it is also a chance. A chance to do the work I love, the work that matters, but on my own terms this time. No more toeing the company line if it compromises the well-being of the people I am there to help. I’ll be a consultant, yes, but I’ll be Rosa Kimura, counselor, first and foremost.

“You deserve this,” Rosa says, pouring steaming tea into small cups. “Well, you deserved to keep your job in the first place. But who’s counting?”

“I am,” I grumble.

“It’s a step in the right direction,” Suri adds, accepting a cup. “Don’t let them lowball you just because they messed up firing you.”

“Absolutely,” Winta says.

“No one is lowballing me ever,” I say, taking a sip of the fragrant tea. I open the contract and hesitate for a moment. A long-term contract is a big deal.

Demi leans against the bench beside me, careful not to crowd. “You okay, Rosa?” When I don’t answer, she says, “It’s your call. But... it’s good they recognized their mistake. And they want to keep you now. Lots of people make mistakes.”

“Yeah.” I nod. “This is good for now. But maybe someday I’ll open my own practice. Be my own boss. No ‘non-core’ labels attached.” The idea seems far-fetched, audacious even, but saying it aloud sends a tiny spark through me.

My terms. My game. Always.

My finger hovers over the digital signature line. This isn’t just about a job. It is about taking back control. Choosing my path, even if it is rocky and uncertain. I think of my speech at the meeting, the fire I’d felt. I won’t let them extinguish that.

With a decisive tap, I sign. Done.

The tablet chimes, confirming the digital signature.

A weight lifts, and it’s replaced by relief… and trepidation.

Step one.

I finish practice and join the family at home for the customary Sunday night dinner.

The Kimura estate kitchen buzzes with its usual chaotic energy, amplified by the presence of almost the entire sibling contingent, their significant others, and everyone’s pairs.

The air smells of grilled fish, soy sauce, and damp plaster from the persistent leak near the window.

Well, nothing’s perfect.

Dad is holding court about the municipal drainage system, Mom is trying to coordinate serving dishes while stepping around the handful of animals always at her feet, and Ean is attempting to mediate a debate between Suri and Tilli about the optimal crew quarters configuration for deep space travel (Tilli’s favorite subject).

And standing near the counter, nursing a beer and trying not to look overwhelmed, is Rhys.

Rhys still navigates these Sunday dinners with the cautious air of someone entering a friendly but unpredictable asteroid field.

It’s been weeks of him showing up, a testament to his patience, given the noise, the overlapping conversations, and the sheer number of people and animals crammed into one space.

He’s quieter and more centered than my family, the polar opposite of the boisterous energy they radiate. He hasn’t quite mastered the conversational crossfire or avoiding Dad’s well-meaning interrogations yet, but he keeps coming back.

Every Sunday, he’s here, a quiet anchor amidst the loving chaos, proving, in his own steady way, that he’s serious about staying.

He catches my eye across the room and gives me a small, wry smile that says, ’I’m overwhelmed, but I’m hanging in.’

Demi bustles past, carrying a bowl of rice, and avoids bumping into Rhys. She offers me a quick, tentative smile. “Need help with anything, Rosa?”

“We’re good. Thanks.” The interaction is normal. Sisterly. Free of underlying tension or unspoken agendas. We’ve turned a corner and I’m grateful for it.

Dinner is a loud, sprawling affair around the big, scarred dining table.

Dad interrogates Rhys about the financial stability of running a yoga studio (“Not exactly asteroid mining, is it?”), Winta asks him detailed questions about breathing techniques for emotional release, and Myra tries to sketch his profile on a napkin.

Through it all, Rhys holds his own, answering patiently, laughing easily, shooting me amused, ‘help me’ glances.

He fits, somehow. A piece to the puzzle we didn’t know was missing.

Later, under the guise of helping clear plates, Demi pulls me aside.

“Rosa,” she begins, her voice low, earnest. She gives my arm a quick squeeze and a smile graces her lips. “I’m glad he’s here. That he keeps coming. He seems good. Happy.”

“He is,” I agree, glancing towards the dining room where Rhys is now locked in what looks like a serious discussion with Winta’s boyfriend.

Demi nods. “I’m happy for you.” She pulls me into a quick hug and then turns away.

She’s still stiff and embarrassed about what happened, but each day gets a little better. I can only hope her meddling ways are behind her.

Rhys finds me moments later, stepping out onto the sagging porch for a breath of cool night air. The sounds of family fade behind us, replaced by the chirping of insects and the distant rumble of city traffic.

“You survived another dinner,” I say, sitting on the floor cushions. Rhys grabs a cushion and sits next to me.

“Barely.” He grins, coming to stand beside me. “Your family is… intense. In the best possible way.” He touches my arm and slides his hand down to mine. Our fingers lace together. “How’s the knee feeling after this morning?”

“Good. Tired, but good.” His concern is easy now, natural. No hidden meanings, no fear of saying the wrong thing.

He turns towards me, the porch light casting soft shadows on his face. The intensity is back in his eyes, but it isn’t anxious or uncertain anymore. It is steady. Focused. On me. “So. Consultant Kimura. How did it feel to sign the longer contract?”

“Weird,” I admit. “Like winning a consolation prize after being kicked out of the main event. But… it’s a start. My start.”

“Damn right it is.” He scoots closer. “And the soccer?”

“Another start. A slow one. But it was amazing just to be out there.”

“And… us?” His voice is quiet, hopeful.

I look up at him, at the man who’d ghosted me, who’d reappeared, who’d almost run again, but who had chosen, finally, to stay. The man who makes my insides liquefy, who listens, who seems to understand the tangled mess I am. “Also a good start,” I whisper. “An excellent one.”

He smiles, relief flooding his eyes. He leans down, his forehead resting against mine for a moment, just breathing together in the quiet night. Then he tilts his head, his lips finding mine.

This kiss holds no ghosts. No frantic desperation, no hesitant uncertainty.

It’s warm and sure, full of unspoken promises and shared hope.

It tastes like second chances. It speaks of communication, of trust rebuilt, of choosing to face the future, complications and all, together.

His arms wrap around me, pulling me close, and I melt against him, anchored and steady.

When we pull apart, breathless, the future still seems uncertain. Juggling part-time consulting, a slow return to soccer, navigating family dynamics, and nurturing this fragile, budding relationship won’t be easy. There will be setbacks, stumbles, and moments of doubt.

But sitting here, his hand warm in mine, the chaotic love of my family buzzing just inside the door, the quiet strength I’d rediscovered within myself? I’m not afraid. I’m not on the sidelines anymore.

I am ready to play my new game.