Ethan checked his belt for the third time.
The Poké Ball was still there, of course — he’d clipped it on before leaving the Bennett Estate, checked it when Grandpa’s truck reached Grayhaven, checked it again after getting out.
Still, his hand went toward it once more.
“You’re going to wear a hole through your pants.”
Ethan looked through the open truck window.
Arthur was smiling at him.
“I’m checking.”
“You’ve checked.”
“What if it falls off?”
“Then you’ll pick it up.”
Ethan frowned.
Grandpa laughed.
“Go to school.”
Ethan stepped away from the truck.
Stoutland sat in the passenger seat — unlike Houndour, Grandpa’s partner could legally go almost anywhere; Arthur’s Elite Trainer status carried privileges Ethan’s beginner license didn’t.
Not yet, anyway.
Public Pokémon regulations were strict with young, inexperienced Trainers: without separate Companion Certification, a Pokémon stayed in its Poké Ball in populated areas until its Trainer was certified.
Considering what even a Beginner Pokémon could do — Houndour’s Ember could start a fire — Ethan understood why.
Delcatty was different — Mom had gotten her certified years ago, after she passed the required temperament and obedience tests.
Houndour had none yet, so he stayed in his Poké Ball until Ethan reached an authorized training area.
Arthur tapped the steering wheel.
“Ethan.”
“I’m going.”
“Good.”
“I was already going.”
“Then why are you still here?”
Ethan shut the truck door.
Grandpa drove away.
Ethan turned toward Grayhaven Secondary Academy and immediately regretted coming back.
Not everyone stared — most students were busy with friends, phones, hurrying to class — but enough did, their expressions changing the moment they noticed him.
Ethan knew that look.
He’d seen it constantly at the wake.
Poor kid.
He hated it.
“Ethan!”
He turned.
A boy came running toward him, backpack bouncing against his shoulders.
Marcus Hale had been Ethan’s friend since elementary school — slightly taller than Ethan, messy brown hair that never stayed fixed no matter how many times teachers told him to.
Marcus slowed when he reached him.
For once, he didn’t immediately start talking.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
Marcus shoved his hands into his pockets.
“I’m sorry about your mom.”
There it was.
“Thanks.”
“My mom wanted me to tell you she made something for you.”
“What?”
“Food.”
“That narrows it down.”
“I don’t know what it is.
She said your grandfather shouldn’t have to cook while everything’s going on.”
Ethan almost smiled.
“Grandpa cooks.”
“That’s what I told her.”
“And?”
“She said old men don’t count.”
Ethan laughed.
Only a little.
But it was enough for Marcus to relax.
Then Marcus noticed the Poké Ball on Ethan’s belt.
He froze.
“Wait.”
Ethan knew that expression.
“What?”
Marcus pointed.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“No.
It’s a decorative ball I wear on my belt.”
“You got a Pokémon?”
“Yeah.”
“What?”
“Houndour.”
Marcus stared at him.
“No way.”
Ethan smiled.
“Grandpa got him from a breeder.”
“When?”
“Before Mom died.”
Marcus’s excitement disappeared.
Ethan wished he’d phrased it differently.
“Mom helped choose him,” Ethan added.
Marcus looked at the Poké Ball again.
“That’s actually pretty cool.”
“Yeah.”
“Can I see him?”
“Not here.”
Marcus looked around.
“We’re at school.”
“We’re at the entrance.”
“So?”
“So I’m not getting written up on my first day back.”
Marcus sighed.
“Rules.”
“You don’t even have a Pokémon.”
“That’s why I don’t care about the rules.”
Ethan shook his head.
They headed inside.
The first half of the day was ordinary, or at least as ordinary as Ethan’s first day back could be — mathematics, science, history, and sympathy.
Teachers quietly told him he could ask for extra time on assignments.
Classmates approached between lessons, some apologizing, others clearly wanting to say something but not knowing what.
Ethan preferred those.
Nobody mentioned his absence after lunch, and by then things almost felt normal.
Then came the class Ethan had been waiting for.
Trainer Foundations.
Nearly thirty students gathered beside one of the school’s secured training fields — fenced in, marked as an authorized zone, its gate requiring school identification to enter.
Ethan touched the Poké Ball on his belt.
Marcus noticed.
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Checking.”
“I’m not checking.”
“You literally touched it.”
“Shut up.”
They entered.
Several staff members waited beside a row of school Poké Balls, and the field held training posts, stone targets, and reinforced sections for controlled battling.
A woman in her thirties walked to the center — blue training jacket, Poké Balls at her waist.
“Alright!
Settle down!”
Conversations gradually stopped.
“My name is Instructor Reyes.
Some of you already know me.
For everyone else, I’ll be handling Trainer Foundations this year.”
She looked across the group.
“Before we do anything else, Trainer IDs.”
Students began taking out cards or phones.
Ethan pulled his own Trainer ID from his wallet — issued shortly before Mom’s accident, unimpressive: name, photograph, registration number, status.
His Pokémon information had been updated after Grandpa transferred Houndour to him.
Reyes and an assistant scanned each ID.
When she reached Ethan, she glanced at the screen.
“Ethan Crowe.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Houndour?”
“Yes.”
“Recently registered.”
“Three days ago.”
She handed the ID back.
“Keep him inside until instructed.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Marcus leaned over after she left.
“Now can I see him?”
“Apparently you have to survive another five minutes.”
“Terrible school.”
Once registration was confirmed, Reyes returned to the front.
“Those of you with personal Pokémon may release them.”
Ethan’s hand immediately went to Houndour’s Poké Ball.
“Remember,” Reyes continued, “the moment you leave this field, public handling regulations apply again.”
She looked around.
“Release.”
Ethan removed the ball.
For the first time that morning, he smiled properly.
“Come out, Houndour.”
He pressed the release.
Light flashed.
Houndour appeared on the grass.
“Hound!”
Marcus immediately crouched.
“He’s awesome.”
Houndour looked at him.
Marcus slowly extended a hand.
Houndour sniffed it.
Then walked away.
Marcus stared after him.
“He hates me.”
“He doesn’t know you.”
“Same thing.”
Other Pokémon appeared around the field — a Budew, a Lillipup, a Purrloin, a small Wooper.
Most students didn’t have their own.
Instructor Reyes gestured toward the school Poké Balls.
“If you don’t have a registered partner yet, you’ll work with one of the school’s Beginner-grade Pokémon.”
Marcus rubbed his hands together.
“Give me something good.”
Several minutes later, he stood beside a Bidoof.
Ethan looked at him.
Marcus looked at Bidoof.
Bidoof looked back.
Ethan tried not to laugh.
“Say it and I’ll hit you.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
“Bidoof looks powerful.”
“I hate you.”
Once everyone had a Pokémon, Instructor Reyes stood in front of the class.
“First question.”
She crossed her arms.
“How many of you want to become professional Trainers?”
Hands immediately went up.
Ethan raised his.
So did Marcus.
Nearly everyone did.
Reyes smiled.
“Of course.”
A few students laughed.
“Keep your hands up if you think you’ll actually become one.”
Several hands slowly lowered.
Ethan kept his raised.
Marcus did too.
“Interesting.”
Reyes walked in front of them.
“Every year, students tell me they’re going professional.
They’re going to win tournaments, make money, get sponsorships, become famous.”
That sounded pretty good to Ethan.
“They’ll become Gym Leaders.”
She paused.
“Maybe even challenge one of Columbia’s eighteen Type Kings someday.”
Someone near the back shouted, “Champion!”
The class laughed.
Reyes pointed at him.
“And every year I have at least one future Champion.”
The boy proudly kept his hand raised.
Ethan smiled.
He understood — professional Pokémon battling was one of the biggest sports in Columbia, packed stadiums and broadcast battles and kids wearing jerseys with their favorite Trainer’s name.
Ethan had grown up watching it, staying up late for tournaments even when Mom told him he had school the next morning; sometimes she’d complain, sometimes she’d just sit and watch with him.
He wanted that — the crowd, Pokémon strong enough to compete against the best in the country.
And he wanted to win.
“Most of you,” Reyes said, “will never become professional Trainers.”
Several students lowered their hands.
“That’s not an insult.
It’s reality.”
She gestured toward the Pokémon around them.
“Owning a Pokémon and being a professional Trainer are completely different things.”
She counted off on her fingers.
“Training costs money.
Time.
Knowledge.
Discipline.” Then she lowered her hand.
“And none of that matters if your Pokémon doesn’t trust you enough to listen.”
Ethan glanced at Houndour.
Grandpa had basically given him the same lesson yesterday, although Arthur’s version had involved telling Ethan not to be stupid.
“For this year,” Reyes continued, “we’re teaching fundamentals.
Pokémon care.
Training.
Commands.
Public safety.
Wilderness regulations.
Battle fundamentals.”
Marcus leaned closer.
“When do we battle?”
Reyes looked directly at him.
“Mr.
Hale.”
Marcus froze.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“When you learn to whisper.”
The class laughed.
Ethan covered his mouth.
Marcus glared at him.
“Traitor.”
Their first exercise was disappointing, at least according to Marcus — no battles, no attacks, just basic obedience: come, stop, wait, follow, change direction.
Ethan stared at the markers.
He’d spent yesterday doing almost exactly this.
Houndour sat beside him.
“Grandpa knew.”
“Hound?”
“Nothing.”
A whistle sounded.
“Begin!”
Ethan ran him through the same commands as yesterday — go, stop, come back — and Houndour handled them well enough, tail moving with each small success.
Nearby, Marcus was having a more difficult time.
“Come.”
Bidoof sat.
“Come on.”
Nothing.
Marcus looked around.
Then reached into his pocket.
“I have food.”
Bidoof immediately stood.
“That’s cheating,” Ethan called.
“It’s motivation.”
Instructor Reyes walked past them.
“It’s bribery, Mr.
Hale.”
Marcus froze.
“Is bribery against the rules?”
Reyes considered it.
“For this exercise?
No.”
Marcus grinned triumphantly at Ethan.
“Professional Trainer.”
Ethan shook his head.
Training continued.
Houndour did reasonably well — still distracted by a passing Purrloin, by a Flying-type crossing overhead — but he listened better than yesterday.
The improvement was tiny, almost nothing.
But it was there, and Ethan liked that feeling a lot.
Near the end of class, Reyes gathered everyone again.
“Next week, we’ll begin basic move exercises.”
The students immediately became more interested.
“After that, controlled sparring.”
Marcus whispered, “Finally.”
Reyes stared at him.
Marcus looked innocent.
“Controlled sparring,” she repeated, “does not mean throwing your Pokémon onto the field and screaming attacks until something falls over.”
Several students looked disappointed.
Reyes sighed.
“I already regret this.”
The class laughed.
“Those of you serious about competitive training should also know that Grayhaven Academy maintains Junior and Senior Battle Teams.”
Ethan’s attention sharpened.
“The Junior Team accepts students from twelve to fourteen.”
Someone raised a hand.
“When are tryouts?”
“I knew someone would ask.”
More laughter.
“Later in the school year.
You’ll receive the requirements well before then.”
Reyes looked around.
“The Junior Team competes against other schools throughout Grayhaven.
Strong performers can eventually qualify for larger competitions.”
Ethan looked at Houndour.
Local school competition wasn’t the professional circuit — not even close.
But professional Trainers didn’t appear in national stadiums out of nowhere; they started somewhere, school teams to junior tournaments to regional events to bigger stages.
Marcus nudged him.
“You’re thinking about it.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m trying out.”
“You don’t own a Pokémon.”
Marcus looked down.
Bidoof looked up.
“We have something special.”
“He’s the school’s.”
“Why do you keep ruining this?”
Ethan laughed.
Then he looked at Houndour again.
“I’m trying out too.”
Houndour’s ears lifted.
Ethan smiled.
Maybe he’d fail.
Maybe Houndour wouldn’t be strong enough by then.
Maybe there were students at Grayhaven far better than him.
That was fine.
He wanted to find out.
At the end of class, students recalled their Pokémon.
Ethan held out Houndour’s Poké Ball.
“Return.”
Red light enveloped Houndour.
A moment later, the Pokémon disappeared inside.
Ethan clipped the ball securely back onto his belt.
Marcus watched him.
“Still think the rule is stupid.”
“You say that because Bidoof isn’t yours.”
“Exactly.”
They passed through the secured gate and returned to the ordinary school grounds.
Houndour remained safely inside his ball.
Arthur was waiting outside when classes ended.
Ethan climbed into the truck.
“How was school?”
“Fine.
Trainer class too — mostly stuff you already put me through yesterday.”
Arthur smiled.
“So you learned something.”
“I learned you could’ve told me.”
“Wouldn’t have been as funny.”
Ethan shook his head.
They pulled away.
“I’m joining the Junior Battle Team,” he said after a few minutes.
“Tryouts are later in the year.”
“Think you’ll make it?”
“Yeah.”
“Confident.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“You’ve never had a real battle.”
“I will by then.”
Arthur considered that.
“Fair enough.”
Ethan watched the buildings pass.
“Grandpa?
I want to become a professional Trainer.
Seriously — not just having Pokémon.”
Arthur was quiet for a moment.
“I know what professional means.”
“I want to compete in the big tournaments.”
“That’s difficult.
Expensive.
Most Trainers never make it.”
“Instructor Reyes already covered that.”
“Smart woman.”
Ethan frowned.
“You’re supposed to encourage me.”
“I bought you a Houndour.”
“That’s not encouragement.”
“Cost me more than encouragement did.”
Ethan laughed.
Arthur’s expression turned more serious.
“If that’s what you want, try.” That was apparently the entire speech.
“That’s it?”
“What else do you want?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re twelve.
You have plenty of time to find out whether you’re good enough.”
Ethan looked at Houndour’s Poké Ball.
He didn’t know if he was good enough — that was the exciting part.
Maybe one day he’d stand across the field from one of the strongest Trainers in Columbia.
Or maybe he’d discover he wasn’t nearly as talented as he imagined.
Right now, he had one Beginner-grade Houndour and three days of experience, which wasn’t much of anything yet.
“Let’s see how far we can go,” he said, resting his hand on the Poké Ball.
Arthur glanced at him but said nothing.
The truck continued toward the Bennett Estate.