17 Unwilling to Accept Defeat

“Has the supervising teacher resigned?”
“Yes,” senior Makino said. “He’s getting married and moving to Hokkaido with his wife. So the academic affairs office will appoint a new teacher to take over his duties. I had a preliminary conversation with that new teacher today.”

Club activities had ended, and the gymnasium was being cleaned. Through the tall windows fitted with anti-theft bars, the occasional sounds of mopping and the thuds of balls bouncing or being thrown into carts could be heard.

Most members had either left or scattered.

Outside the building, only Makino, club manager Yuri Koie, and I stood by the wall.

Gray-black shadows stretched crookedly in the corner. I watched the senior speaking. The purple, gold, and red twilight was trembling on the verge of fading; behind her, the sun, losing its warmth, was sinking.

The teacher who could spare time to take on this new supervising role was even from our grade’s office…

I looked at her expression and furrowed my brow slightly. “Is it Mr. Nezu?”

Makino was surprised: “You guessed that, Your Highness?”

I was silent.

The second-year manager was speechless as well.

Yuri’s lips twitched slightly, her silence deafening. We exchanged a glance and easily read the earth-shattering subtext in each other’s eyes—

Better the old absentee manager than this.

After a moment, the manager calmly uttered:

“Our club is done for.”

Makino teased: “Can you speak in modern language?”

Suppressing my urge to mock them both, I closed my eyes briefly. “Senior, what did Mr. Nezu say to you?”

Trying to steer the conversation back from the verge of derailing, the third-year captain, upon hearing this, straightened his expression and relayed bluntly: “Nezu will bring his own philosophy into the club. Since you know him so well, you probably know he believes if you’re not elite, you simply don’t deserve to exist.”

Yuri and I listened silently.

“So,” Makino crossed her arms, “after learning about the volleyball club’s situation, he told me outright that it’s better to disband early than to waste the school’s resources.”

As expected.

“What?” Yuri frowned, her hostility unmasked yet weary. “What kind of nonsense is that guy spouting now? It’s one thing to say such annoying stuff in class… but I really don’t get it. Teachers, coaches, the disciplinary committee—they’re all like this. We’re just a normal middle school club, after all.”

“Who knows,” Makino replied.

Her expression remained calm and unchanged, speaking as if she had long anticipated this day.

I pondered for a moment and asked, “Did you negotiate terms with him?”

“Terms?” the manager also turned to look.

Makino didn’t answer immediately.

She glanced carelessly at the murky shadows on the gym wall, then at the white, neatly kept volleyball club jacket draped over my shoulders, before meeting our eyes expressionlessly.

“Yes,” she said. “I opposed disbanding. When Nezu saw I wouldn’t back down, he didn’t insist on confrontation. He said that if we want to continue sports club activities, winning matches is the top priority. So, to make us comply, he doesn’t mind contacting other schools on behalf of the volleyball club—”

Through a gap in the twilight, I saw the captain’s calm, steady, unwavering black eyes.

“In two weeks, we have a practice match against Ugly Third Middle School.”

My fingertips twitched at my side.

Yuri’s eyes widened, and she opened her mouth but said nothing.

Makino looked at me a moment longer before withdrawing her gaze; she lowered her crossed arms and slipped her hands into her pockets. Standing before dusk, her voice dropped heavily, like a smashing spike:

“Win, and the club continues. Lose, and it’s disbanded. That’s all there is to it.”

-

“Vi… Vi?”

“Hm?”

I blinked, snapping back to reality, only then realizing I had been gripping my chopsticks motionless for a while.

The lighting in our dining room was a warm orange-yellow, like a greenhouse—soft and steady, bathing the space in calm. At the rectangular dining table sat my father, opposite me. His eyes behind his glasses held a gentle, anxious concern.

“What’s wrong, Vi?” he asked. “Anything troubling you lately?”

My thoughts stalled, and I sighed reluctantly.

“Ah, so you found out after all…”

I reached for some teriyaki meat from the colorful dishes on the table, placing it atop a bowl brimming with rice, muttering with frustration, “I lent out my foreign language notes a few days ago and only got them back today. I forgot to retrieve them earlier… I need them for my homework tonight.”

The meat was glazed with a thick sauce. The shallow juice spilled over, mixing with the white rice grains, releasing a tempting aroma.

My dad’s worried look softened as he picked up some cabbage: “Want me to call that classmate’s home? I’m going for a walk later and can bring it back for you.”

“I was just thinking about that.”

“Afraid of bothering them?”

“Yeah,” I lowered my head, eating the flavorful food, chewing and swallowing, “I’m so conflicted. How did I forget?”

Dad reassured me: “I forget things all the time too, it’s okay.”

I shoveled more rice: “I know. After all, you once got Mom’s flight wrong and waited for two hours in the cold wind.”

Dad sighed helplessly: “You child…”

I ate quickly, then looked up and gave him a triumphant little smile.

The university professor smiled back, his eyes crinkling warmly.

“So, will you call?”

“No, I’ll get it tomorrow. Tonight I’ll work on something else!”

“All right,” he said softly. “Eat slowly, don’t choke.”

I rebellious finished quickly.

After dinner, as usual, I washed the dishes with Dad; then took a shower, hung up clothes, and donned my Eevee-print pajamas—long sleeves and pants—before locking myself in my bedroom.

I flipped on the light.

The door shut behind me with a heavy thud.

I stood still for over ten seconds.

Inside the room, to my left was a built-in pale pink wardrobe; ahead lay a neatly organized desk and bookshelf; to the right, my bed. Soft rugs lay beneath the desk and bed, while the exposed floor between them showed faint vertical grain in natural wood tones.

Returning to my familiar private domain, I relaxed the moment I closed the door. Leaning against the sturdy door, my gaze drifted aimlessly downward to the floor beneath my slippers.

Wooden floorboards.

At that moment, I was wearing volleyball shoes.

I retied my shoelaces, stood up, and did a simple jump to warm up. As I began stretching my arms, a hand suddenly patted my back—before I could turn around, the instigator slipped past me and stood before my eyes.

“Good luck,” the third-year captain, not yet graduated then, smiled gently. “Don’t mind what the coach says. Just do your best.”

I straightened my back. “Leave it to me.”

The captain sighed: “So reliable. As a senior, I should be setting an example, supporting you all... but now, the one who really lets everyone fight freely is you, Vi.”

Inside the gym, the sounds of players warming up and their pounding hearts intertwined. I saw the bright, burning lights making everyone’s shadows shrink and gather at their feet. I heard her soft encouragement to the gathered teammates.

“Nervous?”

“Not really. We’ve got great new blood this year, and most importantly, there’s Nishiga. I don’t have to worry.”

“We did well last time, which means nothing’s impossible. Let’s do our best again.”

“Of course! No ball will touch the ground, right, Vi?”

“No fear of blocking this time?”

“Absolutely not.” Someone answered. “With Nishiga around, even if we can’t fully block, we’ll make contact at least.”

Then, a familiar weight lightly gripped my shoulder.

-

“We’ll win,” the captain said.

Looking at my teammates’ varied expressions—all still fairly spirited—I gave the brightest smile I could muster.

But sometimes, I felt the weight of time was too heavy.

Ugly Third Middle School versus Bisei, second round of the elimination tournament.

First set: 28-26;

Second set: 25-17.

As the final whistle blared and cheers erupted on the other side of the net, it pressed down on my spine like a tire rolling over me; I could only rise a moment too late.

Behind me, silence was unnervingly absolute.

Volleyballs bounced away, hitting the corners of the gym, picked up by staff and taken out of sight. I remembered the hem of the uniform, the shorts, the worn black kneepads, the shoes treading on the wooden floor.

I saw a vague reflection of myself, head lowered, staring at the floor.

“Ah,” someone said, “we lost after all.”

The sound of footsteps, sleeves brushing.

“The opposing setter is too strong. That serve was impossible to receive.”

“Whole team, whole team.”

“Want to go shopping with me later?”

“Eh... I’m dead tired, don’t feel like it.”

Line up, bow.

Someone patted my back. I turned to see the third-year captain, already two steps ahead, glance back with a faint, forgiving smile. She said, “It’s over, Vi.”

The match was over—just like a movie without an ending theme or an epilogue, no reason to stop, and no chance to do so.

The next team entering the arena came through the entrance; we were to leave.

But just as I took the second step toward her retreating figure, a voice pierced through the net, forcibly anchoring my ankle.

“Hey, number 8.”

I turned around.

The opposing setter stood alone, his hand reaching under the gray-white net.

I walked back.

The moment our fingers clasped, he said, “See you at the league next year.”

His grip lingered for two seconds before letting go. Yet I still vividly recall the touch: warm skin, rough and tight, bones pressing indistinguishably together. Strong, heated, enveloping.

A little painful, but not unpleasant.

I looked at the delicate lines in his palm, then lowered my hand, forming a fist at my side.

The whole bedroom was silent, the bright ceiling light hanging motionless, watching over me.

Out of habit, I glanced at the corner of the desk.

It was empty.

Right. I remembered—the volleyball I’d been practicing with recently was in the living room. The ball that had always quietly rested there was no longer at home.

It had been given away.

I stood there, the door firmly closed behind me.

This was my own refuge, with no one else around. I could daydream freely or remain silent; I could only hear the faint rustle of my clothes and a murmured, meaningless whisper from deep within my throat.

“…Damn it.”