Days had bled into weeks since Urara's debut, and July had finally arrived. We were caught in that sticky limbo between the rainy season and the height of summer—not yet scorching, but the kind of humid, stifling heat that clung to your skin and sapped your strength.
From here on out, I'd have to monitor Urara's condition more closely than ever. Even a light warm-up was enough to break a sweat now; a full training session would leave her drenched.
Ironically, I currently found myself in the Chairman's office—a bastion of air-conditioned bliss, utterly shielded from the swelter outside. To be more precise, I was sitting across the desk from Chairman Akikawa, with Ms. Hayakawa standing poised at her side.
Despite the room's perfectly curated, comfortable temperature, I felt a bead of cold sweat trickling down my spine. I sat stiffly in the provided chair, genuinely worried I might leave a damp patch on the upholstery.
July means summer. And for a certain subset of the workforce, it's the season of high spirits.
("Hooray, bonus season is here!" ...is what I'd love to be saying, but the reality of this situation is... less than ideal.)
I maintained a practiced poker face while my inner monologue spiraled. If I wasn't mistaken, I could feel a sharp, dull ache beginning to gnaw at my stomach.
Trainers at the Central Trecen Academy are generally well-compensated, and that includes substantial summer and winter bonuses. What's more, even for a rookie in their first year, the summer bonus wasn't just a "token of appreciation"—it was paid out in full.
In any other context, I'd be ecstatic. My base salary was generous enough, but a bonus is special. The very word has a magical ring to it. It's supposed to be a time for celebration.
The problem, however, was that the amount was calculated based on my performance review.
In any normal job, having your pay tied to your performance is standard. But my "performance" as a Trainer was tied to the results of the girl I looked after.
And the girl I looked after was Haru Urara. Her track record? 9th out of 9 in her debut race. Now, I had to face the music before Ms. Hayakawa and the Chairman—the absolute peak of the Academy's hierarchy.
(I really should have taken some stomach medicine before coming here...)
I'd been an athlete in middle school and kept up my fitness through the training academy—this job is a test of physical endurance, after all. I had a clean bill of health, and my intake exams at Trecen had been perfect across the board. Yet, despite not having eaten anything strange, my stomach was screaming.
I had stepped up to train Urara with such misplaced confidence, only to have the curtain rise on a last-place finish. I wasn't thick-skinned enough to feel nothing in this position.
Personally, I still felt Urara's debut was a success in disguise. It was a stroke of bad luck; had that accident not happened, I was certain she would have taken first. But the record books don't care about "what ifs." The result was 9th place—an immutable fact that continued to poke and prod at my ulcer.
In school, you get points for trying. In the professional world, you're judged on results. For a Horse Girl, the race is everything. For her Trainer, it's the same. I likely wouldn't be fired, but I expected my evaluation to be abysmal.
The reason a lowly rookie like me was in the Chairman's office at all was because, for most trainers at the Academy who aren't part of a larger sub-team, the Chairman is our direct supervisor. Thus, the HR interview.
In corporate terms, it was like a new hire having their performance review handled directly by the CEO. You could call the Chairman "hands-on," but personally, I would have preferred a little more distance.
"You look a bit pale. Are you feeling alright?"
Ms. Hayakawa's voice snapped me back to reality. It was as if she could see the dress shirt sticking to my sweat-slicked back.
"Haha... I think the summer heat is just starting to get to me."
"CONCERN! One must maintain a disciplined constitution!" the Chairman barked.
"Yes, of course..." I replied, fighting to keep my poker face intact.
And so, my first-ever professional performance review began.
"First, please look over these documents. This is your formal evaluation," Ms. Hayakawa said, handing me an envelope.
I took it, pulled out the papers, took a deep breath, and scanned the contents.
The review was broken down into three main categories: Professional Conduct, Training Methodology, and Athlete Results. Each was further divided into granular sub-metrics. It looked like a high school report card. But as I read through the marks, I found myself tilting my head in confusion.
(This... isn't as bad as I thought. Actually, isn't this actually kind of good?)