4 Before the Storm

“Table tennis matches are on the third floor. Players, don’t be late!”
“Sports drinks are being handed out here—wait, only one bottle per person!”
“I heard the disciplinary committee member is refereeing the boxing match…”
“Did a fight break out? I want to go see!”
“Not sure, the next match is about to start. Let’s go, hurry!”

The class competition was in full swing.

The weather had warmed considerably; sunlight filtered through the swaying tree branches, shimmering like tiny luminous fish swimming across beige curtains.

Some students had already switched to short sleeves, running around with sweat-drenched heads. Voices calling out, laughter, and footsteps filled the classrooms and hallways.

Outside, sharp sounds of whistles and starting pistols rang faintly, followed by the loud cheers of the youngsters.

Even I, who tend to be sensitive to the cold, felt hot now. Wearing only my long-sleeved school uniform shirt and cardigan with sleeves rolled to my elbows, I helped classmates carry sports equipment up and down the building.

“Is this the last box?” I asked, lifting the carton.
“Yes, thank you for your hard work!”
“You too. I’ll take it inside first.”

Peeking inside the box, I saw spare badminton and tennis balls along with a few rackets.

For this school event, I had signed up for volleyball again and also participated as a temporary substitute in the high jump competition, which had ended early.

Because I was naturally good at running and jumping and had previously trained systematically in high jump, I had easily won the grade-level championship representing Group C.

The girls’ volleyball team event was scheduled for the afternoon and hadn’t started yet.

If nothing unusual happened, it would be the preliminary match against Group A.

These friendly matches, aimed at fostering student interest, mostly involved beginners—only I had prior experience in our class.

As for Group A, I had seen their team roster, which also lacked any current volleyball club members.

To be precise, none of the current volleyball club members.

One student had quit the club midway last year, citing that playing didn’t feel as expected. Seeing her name listed as a middle blocker on their roster was quite surprising.

I presumed she was drafted simply because they didn’t have enough players for the match.

Likewise, not all students on our team had volunteered. During after-school practices, I acted as a half-coach but didn’t enforce strict training: those who wanted to practice could, while those who didn’t only needed to handle the ball sufficiently to leave early.

After all, I understood how it felt to be forced into something you didn’t enjoy.

Once the overall training was over, I teamed up with the entertainment committee member to bake cookies, which we distributed to the athletes dedicating their youth to the class. There was enough for the competition and the post-match celebration as well.

Come to think of it, perhaps the bribe worked—few skipped practice.

By the way, the entertainment committee member excelled in home economics; although long hours in the kitchen were tiring, I picked up quite a few baking tips.

Although a few cookies ended up slightly burnt… I couldn’t bear to throw them away.

Hmm.

I’ll just eat them myself.

But having diarrhea would be worse… Would it be too much to swallow some medicine right after? A little burnt should be fine, right? Let me think it over.

Muttering to myself, I steadied the box and headed for the temporarily vacated equipment room—the biology classroom.

Along the way, I responded to passing familiar and unfamiliar classmates with bright or shy glances, returning their greetings with flawless smiles. Then I politely declined some boys or girls from other classes who wanted to help but were really just seeking conversation.

I went upstairs and nudged open the equipment room door with my shoulder.

The classroom windows were wide open, letting a gentle breeze flow through. A pool of soft, milky sunlight calmly streamed into the corner of the window. Outside, the clear sky stretched over the thumb-sized playground, and beyond the back door of the school building stood towering trees, their leaves whispering in the wind.

The branches stretched, the green leaves quivered lightly. The transition from late spring to early summer always began with the sun sketching the foliage’s silhouette.

There was no one else here.

I felt an inescapable sense of relief. Sighing, I stepped over other boxes blocking the doorway.

All the biology equipment was locked away safely in cabinets, freeing space on the floor and among the lab tables where the event materials were gradually being arranged.

I placed the last box beside the podium, stood up straight, and took out a notepad I always carried. To avoid any reimbursement confusion, I needed to check the inventory for the event’s budget.

“Two tubes of shuttlecocks, numbered vests... huh?” I glanced around the podium and murmured, “The soccer vests aren’t here? Did Osaki-kun put them in the wrong place again…”

No matter, I’d check the others first.

I pulled out a pen, ready to mark the list.

But just as I clicked the pen open, the classroom door I had just closed swung open again with a rush—“Whoosh!” I instantly tensed, straightening my back.

Half a second to compose my expression, and when I recognized who it was, my eyes widened slightly.

“Yamamoto-kun?”

“Ah.” The black-haired boy at the door looked surprised to see me but quickly regained composure, his face lighting up with joyful energy. “Hey, Nishiga! I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“Yes, I just finished moving the stuff over.”

I answered, noticing he held a stack of plastic-wrapped clothes.

Yellow numbered vests.

Those must be for our class’s soccer match. Why was someone from Group A bringing them here?

Just as I was about to ask and take the class supplies from him, Takeshi Yamamoto stepped fully into the room.

He casually closed the door behind him, placing the pile of clothes on the empty spot on a lab table, and explained, “I just finished my match, came back for water, and happened to run into someone from your class—he seemed a bit rushed, so I helped bring his stuff over.”

I discreetly withdrew my hand from reaching for the vests.

The boy he mentioned wore a white baseball jacket. This time he wasn’t wearing a cap, and the sunlight from outside illuminated his profile clearly.

Yamamoto’s features were sharp and defined.

Unlike the ruggedness of youth, his face was more strikingly edged. Anyone who followed school sports had seen him play—when he got serious, he was always stern, focused, and ambitious.

I had quickly realized he was not to be underestimated during matches I watched.

Facing him as an opponent was always a headache. That was one of my first impressions of Yamamoto-kun.

But now, he was happily chatting, perhaps still sweaty from the game, his short black hair tousled and sticking up—reminding me oddly of a scruffy puppy that used to roll around on the lawn in my childhood.

Suddenly, I felt a pang of nostalgia, but now was not the time to dwell on it.

After listening to this inter-class helper’s words, I nodded in thanks. “I see. Thank you.”

Takeshi Yamamoto smiled generously. “It’s nothing.”

Standing about three paces from him, I tucked the notepad and pen back into my skirt pocket.

Though I wasn’t eager to interact much with another prominent figure, this situation called for a bit more concern.

“No, really, thanks for making the trip. Did your match go well?” I asked.

“Yeah—we advanced,” he said loudly. “The rematch is tomorrow afternoon.”

“Group D must be strong too. Congratulations!”

“Hahaha. It was definitely a tough battle.”

The baseball player scratched the back of his head, squinting with a slightly embarrassed smile. But then I caught his deep brown eyes looking straight at me, filled with pure, kindly curiosity.

“I didn’t expect you, Nishiga, to remember the baseball schedule so clearly,” he said. “If it were me, I’d probably forget it soon after watching.”

Many people had remarked the same to me—that it was impressive how I remembered so many details.

For me, handling these things was second nature. But now, having finally found a quiet space at school, I hoped this kid would leave soon… Didn’t he want to celebrate with his teammates?

Coming all the way back to the classroom for water, helping around without rest—such a troublesome good person.

No matter what I grumbled inwardly, I wouldn’t say a word aloud. I smiled appropriately, a little shy but sincere, and replied as usual:

“My memory is pretty good, after all.”

I spoke with pride but kept the tone modest and light. “And as class president, it’s my duty to remember the competition schedule… Speaking of which, our class’s preliminary baseball match against Group B is coming up soon. If we win, the next game will be against you.”

This key player from Group A kept his gaze fixed on me as I spoke. When I finished, he blinked and replied with high spirits, “Yeah! I’m looking forward to it.”

I confidently spoke for the class: “We won’t lose.”

His expression instantly turned serious. “That’s something we should be saying.”

Okay, time to end this conversation.

Looking into the boy’s eyes, which seemed naturally filled with competitive fire, I paused briefly and couldn’t help but smile softly.

“That’s great,” I said.

Yamamoto’s gaze flickered in slight surprise.

But that didn’t stop me from wrapping up the topic. I leaned against the podium, took out the notepad and pen again—having just put them away to chat properly—and clicked the pen open.

“Provided our class wins the preliminaries,” I said with a final smile to the black-haired boy standing by the table, then bent over to write, “Until then, please rest well for your upcoming rematch. Leave this here to me.”

The soccer numbered vests were accounted for—check.

Ribbons, confetti, custom cheering banners… checked and marked.

But the next moment, the response I heard wasn’t a farewell.

I heard Yamamoto’s voice, calm and carrying his robust tone:

“What if Group C makes it to the rematch? Will you come watch?”