LET ME DOWN SLOWLY ⸻ sakusa kiyoomi.

𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧 | youth training camp, day two

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YOUTH TRAINING CAMP, DAY TWO !!

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kina tsukishima !
FOLDING MY HANDS INTO TWO L-SHAPES, the ball hit the tips of my fingers, and with the utmost dexterity, I set the ball up in a high, spinning arc, over the head of Kousaka Hana, who landed before the net after a feinted hit (which I definitely did not do on purpose) and was slammed onto the floor of the other side by Rui.

The coaches turned the score on our team — 13-16, and I, along with some others in the team, grinned at the first-year middle blocker, jerking our thumbs at her. The tall girl tucked a strand of stray black hair that fell out of her ear, and nodded at us in thanks.

We rotated positions, and I crouched down in my spot at the back, flanked by Abe Chizuru — a second year wing spiker from Soraya — and Hana Kousaka on my right; her dark and annoyed expression hadn't budged since just now, and it feels as though even Rui was beginning to get concerned between the total frigidity between me and the dark-haired Itachiyama player.

Coach Arata tossed the ball at Kousaka, who caught it and walked over to the back right of the court. I could hear the sound of the ball being bounced on the floor, Kousaka slapping the surface of the ball. Coach Arata put the whistle between her lips, and blew.

A fraction of a moment's pause, and I could hear the telltale sound of soles squeaking on the court floor, as Kousaka jumped to serve the ball over the net —

WHAM.

I staggered forward, dropping onto my knees as something hit my head, hard, and used it as a fucking launch pad to fly into the air and fall a few metres away from me. I clapped a hand onto the back of my head, nails digging into my scalp.

"Oh, shoot," I could hear Kousaka simper, holding in smug laughter, "I'm sorry. My hand slipped."

Blinking furiously against the dreadful ache of my head, I turned to the wing spiker, whose dark blue eyes were full of mirth, shoulder shaking to keep her lips maintained in a thin line. Coach Arata called out, "Can you still play, Tsukishima-chan?" as I lifted myself onto my feet, grudgingly taking my hand off my aching head — which, coupled with the dull drill of my lack of sleep that had already been weighing on my head, simply just amplified the pain, discomfort and irritation.

Oh, fuck you, Kousaka, don't think that I'll let you get away with this shittery. Lifting my lips into a smile, I nodded. "I'm fine, Coach." The salt-and-pepper haired woman nodded, satisfied with my answer, and signaled for Kousaka to serve again.

As Kousaka went to collect the ball, I resisted the urge to ram my arm, my knee, whatever, into her face. Break a nasal septum or something. Keeping my pride in check was the key to not fulfilling Kousaka's desires in seeing me as some senile, unhinged weirdo who went by the morales of 'an eye for an eye' — that would only result in her win and my fall.

I won't get charged for assault on someone as undeserving as her, I told myself as Kousaka served again, this time the ball going over the net, a wide serve that a blonde wing spiker from Hibiya High School passed over the net with an underhand pass.