8th AC Group Volleyball Tournament (Part One)

Before the match, both teams gathered inside the gymnasium.

The school gym had no spectator stands. Teachers and students who came to watch naturally formed a circle around the edges, with those in the front rows sitting on the floor to clear the view for those behind. Some even leaned over the second-floor railing to look down.

I pushed a cart full of volleyballs, clattering noisily as I ran from backstage into the arena. “Gather up! Come warm up!”

The girls, having changed into their numbered jerseys, responded in unison.

“Coming!”

“Right away—”

“Ah, I’m so nervous!”

“Relax, just get your body moving and you’ll be fine!” I pulled out a ball and tossed it single-handedly to a teammate standing beside me, calling out loudly, “Let’s practice receiving first. I’ll serve the balls, and line up according to your numbers!”

“Yes!” the players chorused.

I let go of the cart, then picked up another volleyball, watching as a line slowly took shape.

On the other side, the opposing Group A also began their warm-up.

The ceiling of Gymnasium One hung high above, the space vast. Even the anxious scraping of sneakers against the floor echoed sharply through the hall. The spectators, standing at a distance, created a natural brown noise with their lively, scattered conversations.

Even with many students from other classes or grades watching, as long as no one spoke loudly, it was difficult to disturb those on the court.

The atmosphere heated up with each sharp thud of the ball being caught and passed.

After serving a set of balls and giving some final advice on correcting certain missteps, I led my teammates—except the libero—to the next warm-up drill.

Passing the volleyball to the net.

The girls ran in succession, jumping and swinging their arms to spike.

Amid the shifting figures before me, as I served the balls and shouted encouragement, my gaze suddenly caught that of an opponent from afar.

In the first second of eye contact, the tall girl with deep brown short hair slightly widened her eyes, as if surprised to be caught, then a little guiltily looked away.

In the second second, she glanced back again.

I smiled at her. She seemed to want to respond but was called by her captain just then, so she hurried off to stretch, throwing me a quick look before disappearing.

Her name was Hoshisa Futakuchi, the volleyball club’s former middle blocker.

Before warm-up, I had bumped into her once outside the gym near the vending machines. She was buying milk alone. I was just passing by, but when our eyes met, she froze, her face full of the impulse to flee. I was stunned too—then my body moved on its own.

Feigning nonchalance, I bought an extra drink.

This bottle, meant to break the awkward silence and spark conversation, was now lying in my backpack, barely touched.

If I were to replay that moment now, I could still critique how unnatural I’d been, since moments before I’d been racking my brain over how best to apologize to someone. But in such a torturous social situation, it was enough that Hoshisa didn’t notice anything was off.

…Luckily, the conversation was lighter than I expected.

Among those who quit the club last year, Hoshisa was the person I had the least contact with.

She wasn’t cheerful or gentle. On the contrary, she seemed to take a certain pleasure in watching opponents get crushed.

After quitting, her attitude became even more genuine and laid-back than the others.

If she didn’t like something, she just said so.

If she felt no reason to engage with someone, she wouldn’t initiate small talk.

With such clear boundaries, it was naturally awkward to bother her casually.

To be honest, I admired her.

I thought this while setting the ball for my teammate, then instinctively glanced toward Group A.

As time passed, more and more people came to watch the match in small groups. The “Victory for 2-A” banner was unfurled, glowing red like a flame blazing on one side of the gym.

Just then, it was Hoshisa’s turn to practice spiking.

Tall, with long limbs, she swung her arms with reserved strength, gathering momentum as she leapt.

“Bang!” The ball hit the floor and bounced back.

A good hit.

I couldn’t help but smile.

After finishing her spike, the girl turned smoothly and left, giving way to the next player waiting to run up. My gaze followed her as she passed the crowd of onlookers.

Then, at a certain moment, I paused on my own.

Hoshisa’s figure quickly vanished at the edge of my vision.

Among the crowd gathering like a curtain, one figure stood taller than the rest, towering in the back row.

He was focused, watching the warm-up with great interest, but almost immediately caught my gaze. Yamamoto Takeshi grinned widely, waving enthusiastically at me.

A troublemaker.

My smile faded. Seeing his face reminded me of a recent awkward incident, and embarrassment flooded over me.

He really came to watch. Then again, the opponents were his class… But does he not realize that every move he makes draws attention?!

Because of curiosity about whom Yamamoto was greeting, more people looked this way!

If not for that accident, I might have considered nodding politely or smiling in return. But now, without hesitation, I quickly and discreetly averted my eyes and called out, “One more set!”

The team responded, “Oh!”

Soon after, the referee’s whistle blew.

Warm-up ended, and the teams lined up.

I didn’t glance toward the spectators again. I stepped forward a few paces and shook hands with the Group A captain to decide the serve order: our Group C would serve first.

Then I returned to my team.

The next moment, with a bow, the gym fell silent, then both teams echoed in unison, “Let’s do our best!”

The match began!

As one of the main attackers, I stood at the net in the first round, forming the front row with two others, ready to block.

Opposite us were three front-row players.

A setter.

A main attacker.

And a middle blocker.

Hoshisa, taller than her teammates by half a head, wore a stern expression. She stood firm, bent slightly, waiting.

No one spoke.

In the almost frozen silence, only the thudding sound of the server striking the volleyball echoed behind us.

Without turning my head, I called out, “Nice serve!”

The whistle blew sharply.

To maintain morale, the first server was the most reliable player. The ball, colored white, red, and green, flew smoothly over the net: steady and error-free.

“I got it!” the opposing libero shouted, swiftly receiving.

The first pass wasn’t stable, veering too far from the setter’s position.

I watched the spinning ball in midair and immediately predicted the next move—the opposing setter was in position 2 (right side) and would adjust the ball’s direction. She wouldn’t recklessly set to the charging main attacker in position 4 (left side). She’d go toward the center.

I took a step toward the net, shouting, “Double block!”

The rookie middle blocker beside me hurried over.

As expected, the opposing team’s pass arched high, and only one option fit this trajectory.

The Group A setter called out, “Hoshisa!”

The deep brown-haired girl seemed surprised her first touch would be on her. A flicker of hesitant excitement—long absent—passed over her raised face.

Her brows furrowed, but she didn’t hesitate, taking two running steps, extending her arms, and jumping.

“Bang!”

The spiked ball grazed her fingertips, instantly changing course—from a downward smash to a high rebound. I turned and signaled, “Receive!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hoshisa bite her lip slightly.

The successful block softened the ball’s power and corrected its trajectory, making it bounce obediently toward the center of the court behind us. Our back-row players reacted swiftly, arms raised in unison, securing the ball steadily.

“Komomo!”

“Nice receive!” setter Komomo raised both hands, preparing to set. “On you, Wei!”

Of course, I was ready.

Having already retreated to leave space for my approach, I timed my run, charging from the left toward the net.

Just as I was about to leap powerfully upward, I heard Hoshisa’s voice suddenly rise in pitch.

She was probably the most alert to me over there; otherwise, she wouldn’t have shouted so urgently from the other side of the net:

“Block up! Stop her!!”

Winning the first point was important for both sides.

I spread my arms, left arm guiding, and jumped high in the textbook spike position. The air around me stirred, whipping my forehead hair wildly, cold against my adrenaline-heated skin.

Right before me, the three-person block centered on Hoshisa closed in simultaneously.

Their long arms fanned out like umbrella ribs, casting shadows from their spread fingers.

In midair, my eyes met Hoshisa’s.

In that moment, my complete focus slowed time like a scene from a movie: I saw her furrowed brow, burning gaze, lips pressed tight in concentration. Her entire body tensed for the block, perfectly positioned. She watched me intently, her dark brown eyes burning with alert, bright spirit.

I instinctively widened my eyes.

…What was that?

That was not the look of someone ready to give up halfway.

The shadow of the volleyball came from the edge of my vision. I felt a strange, long-forgotten tremor piercing my racing heart.

My right arm was still swinging hard, heading straight toward the blockers’ hands, mercilessly—

Just a gentle tap of the fingers.

The ball stalled midair, then was leisurely pushed higher.

At the same moment, I saw Hoshisa freeze, then quickly recover.

The ball traced a small arc, lightly passing over the opponent’s fingertips.

We began descending.

Hoshisa whipped her head around. “Tip shot, cover…!”

But it was too late.

Our back-row defender clumsily lunged, and before her fingers could reach it, the dull thud of the volleyball hitting the floor was heard first.

The ball bounced twice, then rolled to a stop.

The referee, whistle in mouth, pointed his hand toward us.

“Beep!”

1–0.

“Waaaahhh—!” cheers erupted from the Group C spectators.

“Ahh…” Group A clutched their banner tightly.

Group C: “Long live Wei Wei!”

Group A: “Don’t mind, keep fighting!”

Amid the rising cheers, stomping, applause, and consolation, my teammates and I slapped hands, the claps sharp and lively. The rookies already wore faces of impending victory.

“Awesome! Keep the rhythm, let’s take another point!” I encouraged each of them.

No sooner had I spoken than I suddenly sensed something and turned.

Hoshisa still stood by the net.

She looked down, dazed, staring at her palm before clenching her fist. The brown-haired girl clicked her tongue softly.

Then she raised her eyes.

When our gazes met again, she looked at me with meticulous seriousness, burdened with thoughts for two seconds, then turned and ran back to her teammates. I heard her steady voice:

“Don’t lose heart, go get this point back!”