Many times Blue Bullseye wished he could go back in time and tell himself about all the work. Now is one of those times. In the halcyon days of high school, he had thought it was just going to be target shooting—point and click, like the old saying. He'd gotten an earful from Coach Smallbore for that one. "It's not just point and click," the old man grumped, "it's aim and shoot."

Now Blue's up before the dawn again, doing something he never thought he'd have to do: lifting weights. This morning, his belly's only partly full of trail mix; the dining hall isn't even open yet, and he knows he'll regret it if he goes in hungry. He's left with the little bit he had squirreled away.

He works his arms and back with dumbbells. Exercise is maintenance, so they say; do it and you don't get hurt (source).

Bullseye regrets applying this reasoning about exercise to his computer.

He hates lifting weights, but it has to be done. A rifle is a weight…just a really weirdly shaped one that could spit metal out of one end. The point is, he's constantly picking that one up and putting it to his shoulder. His muscles, bones, and tendons have to be ready for the load.

Later, his morning workout finished, he heads to the dining hall for a real breakfast, his stomach already moaning like a humpback whale. His diet is heavily focused on his immune system, which is another thing he hadn't expected. Turned out, competing in NCAA rifle puts him in the crosshairs of many a virus.

So he loads his tray up with anything that has antioxidants (source). Blueberries in his oatmeal are a must. He has to stay away from baked goods and processed fats; those will tank his immune system faster than a speeding bullet. He knows how fast that is, too. It's on the test.

No coffee, either. That hurts the most. It means waking up before everyone else, working out, all without the necessary assistance of the humble coffee bean (source). Most people would say it's impossible. Bullseye is inclined to agree.

He stuck his classes in the middle of the day, right when his body wanted to cry for mercy and get some sleep. There are no other times for them, so he suffers through his morning classes, munching on more trail mix whenever his stomach growls. After that, it's lunchtime, with the most colorful fruits and squashes. He mentally exults when he sees sweet potatoes are on the menu. That's a highlight of his day.

Along with some salmon (seafood is practically required for him), he wolfs down what he can so he can make his afternoon classes. His stomach rebels as usual. He wishes he had more time for classes, but it's not meant to be. Not if he's going to make practice.

How he loves Coach Smallbore yelling in his ear. To be fair, the Coach has to yell, since everyone, including him, is wearing ear protection. He barks about visualization and actualization. "The fastest way to raise your score is to stop shooting bad shots!" he calls (source).

"Guess we'll stop missing," smirks Bulleye's friend, Bloom Headshot.

"If you are talking, you are not listening!" hollers Coach Smallbore, and the conversation is over.

Every shot counts in a competition, so every shot counts on the range. Bullseye counts through the stages of a successful shot, from modulating his breathing to squeezing the trigger between heartbeats. The amount of precision required is such that even being alive can mess up his aim.

Despite this, the school's attempt at having an all-zombie team backfired tragically.

Bullseye always does what worked best for him. He's never breathed a word of it, for fear of being made fun of. He envisions a bird, plucking the bullet from his gun and carrying it gently to the target. When he pulls the trigger, it's already an afterthought. He's not even surprised to see another hole in the blue circle of the target.

After shooting, he breaks his weapon down, cleans the parts, and stores it in the school's security locker. He makes certain every single piece is accounted for and in good working order. It's the school's weapon, but while he's using it, it's also his. If its targeting is off for any reason, that could lose him a tournament. It could even take away his scholarship, and he can't afford college without it.

With practice behind him, an exhausted Bullseye staggers back to the dorms. It's surprising how tiring rifle can really be. While it doesn't have the raw physical exertion of other sports, the intense mental concentration can be so much more difficult. After an hour on the range, Bullseye sees targets whenever he closes his eyes.

Fortunately, he can't close his eyes—not when he has so much work to do. His non-rifle friends are already done, but he's not. They had time, so they get to go out and sleep in. But Bullseye is a student-athlete. That means working late while everyone else is partying. He yawns, hoping it's worth it.