During holidays at X High, classroom doors stayed locked to prevent theft—but most other facilities remained open, drawing nearby residents for morning exercises. Lao Han’s training officially began: first, dribbling drills—100 reps per hand. Then off to the rubber track near the main gate for long-distance running.

I stood trackside, sipping my drink and watching.

Honestly? The school team wasn’t that bad. After one lap, their stamina showed. Pace was steady—not a sprint—but the distance mattered. Each lap stretched over 1,500 meters. When they passed me, most were only slightly winded. Huang Li? Not even breathing hard.

But Xue Ling… after one lap, she was nearly done. Her little face flushed, eyes glazed, breath coming in ragged gasps. Leaning heavily on her knees, she looked ready to collapse. Lao Han glanced over, chuckled, and waved her to the bench. “Rest up.” He led the others on. I figured he never expected much from her—and yeah, I got it. She was the mascot. Cute was her job.

Xue Ling, though, looked stubbornly disappointed. After a few sips of water on the bench, she stumbled back onto the track—running, stopping, walking when she couldn’t run. By the time Lao Han’s group finished three or four laps (quota met), they slowed toward me. But that stubborn kid? Still staggering alone at the far end.

Lao Han ambled over, smiling. Snatched my half-finished drink, plopped onto the grass, and chugged it. I sighed and sat beside him. “How’d it go?”

The boys lounged at the track’s far end, laughing. Lao Han shook his head. “Stamina’s there. Skills? Terrible. Huang Li’s okay—but mostly raw talent. The rest? Hopeless. This school team’s turned into a tea-serving department.”

I sighed. “So… one superstar dragging four dead weights?”

Lao Han shrugged helplessly, sipping the drink. “X High used to have an affiliated middle school. Back in my day, X Middle’s team was solid—fast, skilled, great teamwork. How’d the main campus fall this far…”

I only knew fragments of his school-team past. I patted his shoulder, stood. “Well… good luck.”

He stayed seated, hugging the empty bottle, gazing up at me with puppy-dog eyes.

*Ah. Right.*

I sighed, pulled a fifty-yuan note from my pocket, and handed it over. “Grab lunch. I’ve got that interview with Brother Long.”

Lao Han grinned, stood. “So cool.”

He jogged back to the boys. I headed home—afternoon plans waited.

Ming Hai still wasn’t back. I’d called; no answer. If not for the 48-hour missing rule, I’d have panicked.

Noon neared. Brother Long sat in her room, smoking. I nudged her: “Get ready for the interview.” She nodded obediently… then kept gaming.

Fine. I was hungry anyway. Almost went downstairs for malatang from Xiao Xiu’s—but nah. Since she wouldn’t stay long, I’d cook her favorite.

Beat eggs. Checked the fridge: shredded fish nearly gone. Grabbed a corn sausage, diced it, mixed with the fish, fried rice. Simple. Tasted a spoonful—*huh*. Better than plain fish version. *Note: buy more corn sausages. Make this again when she’s on break.*

Turned off heat. Drizzled ketchup. Stirred with residual warmth until glossy. Washed the pan fast, dried it, fired up low heat for the omelet.

Trick: stir egg mix *immediately* in the pan—no raw spots, no rubbery edges. Poured rice onto the cooked omelet, tilted the pan, flipped. One smooth motion wrapped it tight. Shaped it, slid onto a plate, zigzagged ketchup on top.

Carried the omurice to her room. Past noon. She devoured it—even with less fish. (The interview cafe? Near that KFC I’d shown her.)

I waited nearby to wash the plate.

After eating, she finally moved. Ten-minute shower. Came out in my white tee and boxer shorts, hair damp. Sat, lit a cigarette, *then* started dressing.

I groaned. “Don’t wear the tracksuit. Put on what I bought you. You look good in it. Boosts interview odds.”

She tugged the sweatpants up, tucked wet hair behind her ear. “Don’t like it. No pockets. What’s the difference?”

“There *is* a difference! Change. Now.”

She shot me a glare. Hands paused on the tracksuit—then peeled it off.

The body-hugging mini skirt needed no top underneath. She turned her back, yanked off the tee, shuffled reluctantly toward the wardrobe.

I caught a glimpse of her slender back—then fixed my eyes on the floor.

*Man, zero guard around me…*

But… would *having* guard feel weirder? In her head, body swap or not—we’re still two guys.

Truth was, since she started turning away to change… she’d begun accepting this new reality.

Me? I was still stuck.

One part of me saw my brother. Another saw a girl.

Sometimes… my chest just felt *really* conflicted.

They say pure friendship between men and women doesn’t exist.

Facing Brother Long like this… I’m starting to get it.

Still turned away, she tsked.

“Guess I’ll buy a bra in a couple days.”