9th AC Group Volleyball Tournament (Part Two)

The victory of Group C was beyond doubt.

In volleyball, the most important thing is not the spike, but the reception.

On one hand, given that both sides were essentially beginners, Futakuchi-san’s receiving skills could only be described as average—perhaps because she hadn't played in a match for so long, I could tell her ball control on the court had regressed slightly compared to last year. As for me, serving as the libero, my daily routine was filled with nothing but first-pass (reception) practice.

On the other hand, there was a significant disparity in stamina.

When it was my turn to stand in the back row, I could cushion the ball with precision, delivering it to the most convenient spot for the setter, which meant my teammates had to run much less.

Since our setter kept feeding me the majority of the offensive opportunities, I effectively shouldered the vast majority of our team’s physical exertion.

The opponents were a different story.

When the first set ended 25-14, they were already leaning on their knees, gasping for breath.

At the start of the second set, it was my turn to serve.

Standing in the back, cradling the volleyball, the entire gymnasium was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. My gaze swept over the hidden hexagonal patterns of the ball, crossed the backs of my teammates, and pierced through to the other side of the net.

I clearly saw the tired and helpless expressions on the opponents' faces.

In an instant, my brain raced to process the information:

Should I just use my serve to end the match quickly? Objectively speaking, everyone was exhausted. Some on the other side even wore their misery on their unhappy faces, with expressions that read "This sucks," "I'm so tired I’m about to pass away," or "I really regret signing up for volleyball." Their reception was poor, and they couldn't even handle the most basic serves. If I utilized my serve, I could rack up several points right at the start.

But wouldn’t such blatant bullying make them feel even more discouraged and annoyed?

I had thought about this question for a long time.

Is it more respectful to "go all out and show no mercy," or is it more respectful to "let the opponent participate more and experience the thrill of winning a point"?

The latter sounded like condescending "downward compatibility," which to someone with a strong sense of pride, would definitely be a grave insult. But this was just a friendly class match. If I were a beginner and realized the opponent was feeding me good balls so I could receive them smoothly and avoid an ugly defeat, I might actually be quite happy.

My train of thought came to a sudden halt.

In the back row of the opposing team, a girl hunched in the middle, her hands poised in a receiving stance.

Futakuchi Seisa’s forehead was damp with sweat. During the break when we switched sides, she had clipped her bangs back with a flat black hairclip, revealing her fair, smooth forehead.

Her expression was very calm.

I didn't know when it started, or which part had gone wrong. It was no longer the bright, fervent spirit from the beginning; instead, it was wrapped in a sense of listlessness that I was all too familiar with.

They had been crushed in the first set. Most of the points they did score were due to our own errors.

This girl—it was clear she was thinking, "Just playing casually is fine."

Yet I knew she was actually very competitive.

I instinctively squeezed the volleyball in my hands. The elastic surface tightly encased the hard core; as my fingertips kneaded it, I could feel a stubborn resistance that refused to yield. Suddenly, a voice echoed in my mind, speaking with a hint of a smile:

"...No matter how well or poorly they play, as long as the athletes give their all on the court, it’s a wonderful match."

Is that so?

A voice rang in my heart—the same as before, yet slightly different.

Within moments, the sharp whistle of the serve tore through the tranquility like a pair of scissors cutting through a web of complex thoughts. I felt my body consciously slip into a state of intense focus. Then, I performed the action that my heart of hearts deemed the right choice.

I tossed the ball high into the air.

Arm drawn back, I approached.

Then, launching myself into mid-air, I aimed for the weakest point of their defense...

No.

That wasn't right.

In the split second of my hang time, I saw the upturned faces of all my opponents.

Shoulders slumped, brows furrowed, their body language was heavy with a sigh-like helplessness. Their lips were moving, whispering nothing more than "I can't receive that," "I should have asked for leave," or "I don't want to play anymore, let's just end this."

My reason rushed back, but a momentary lapse was enough to miss the optimal hitting window. My breath hitched, and I hurriedly reined in my power, switching to a gentle tap. The ball, which should have been blasted across the court, flew over like a bee with broken wings, wobbling as it went.

The volleyball barely skimmed over the net and then tumbled down weakly.

Because it was so close to the net, it hit a spot where no one was defending.

"Ah." The front-row player from Group A just reacted, rushing forward two steps. Seeing it was too late to receive, she slowly stopped in place, turned around sluggishly, and sighed, "...Ugh."

We took the first point again.

The members of Group C cheered softly: "Yay!"

I landed on both feet, suddenly snapping back to reality.

...That was dangerous. It almost didn't make it over the net. Well, I guess this is fine too.

My teammates were happy, fluttering around like little sparrows, coming back to high-five me. I immediately put on a smile and raised my hands—

"—Hey!"

Suddenly, a thunderous shout, aggressive and loud as a booming bell, roared from the corner of the gymnasium with lightning speed: "NISHI-GAAA—!!"

The referee froze.

The opponents were startled.

The Group C players stopped in their tracks: "Eek?"

I was caught completely off guard, stunned for a second, and stood frozen.

Who was that? Are their vocal cords okay? It had been so long since I was yelled at like that in public... wait?

I heard that voice, which cared nothing for the lives of others, continue with undiminished momentum, screaming at the top of its lungs: "What kind of garbage serve was that?! Wake up! They don't have the answers for the next exam written on their faces, so what are you looking at?!"

I turned my head and whispered in surprise, "Makino-senpai."

She actually came to watch my match.

Besides, I wouldn't peek at someone else's answers during an exam.

The person who had loudly reprimanded me was standing with her arms crossed, looking deadly serious in the middle of an empty space where no one dared to approach within a ten-meter radius. She had black hair and black eyes, tied into a high ponytail. The innocent students nearby were filled with terror, struggling to distance themselves, resulting in a clump of people huddled together like disaster-fleeing sardines.

Rolling black mist seemed to emanate from Makino-senpai’s back.

She shouted: "Nishiga!"

She was fierce. I took a half-step back, unable to help but widen my eyes in curiosity: "Yes."

"In the middle of a match, what are you thinking about!" Makino-senpai’s brows were locked, her voice resonant. "When the volleyball is flying upward, who told you to stare blankly downward?"

I was taken aback.

A teammate standing nearby muttered, "Blankly?"

Another whispered, "Who is that?"

Someone recognized her: "Ah, I think that’s the current captain of the volleyball club."

In the lull following the thunderclap, people finally realized the situation, and the murmurs of gossip began to rise like a tide.

"Who is that guy, yelling at my goddess..."

"Didn't they just score a point?"

"No way, even Nishi-san got scolded."

"Wow. That’s scary."

"I’m telling you... the atmosphere of the volleyball club is really terrifying, right?"

"Eh. What's going on?" Someone was confused.

As soon as the words fell, an insider replied: "During last year’s league, our school’s women’s volleyball team was knocked out by Ushime Middle School in the second round, and quite a few people quit. I feel like the pressure must be huge."

"I heard that too! Hey! I heard that too. It seemed like if Nishi-san hadn't insisted on keeping it together, the whole club would have disbanded. Didn't the disciplinary committee specifically come to mediate back then, saying they should disband if they couldn't make it work?"

"Oh my god, so that means Nishi-san saved the volleyball club from that disciplinary committee?"

"Nishi-chan... she’s beautiful and kind-hearted..."

The noisy, gossiping, and loud plotting lingered in my ears. My ears twitched slightly, and a suffocating dull pain rose in my lungs as if oxygen were thin; my heartbeat sounded as if it were muffled by cotton—thump-thump. Thump-thump. Something was itching at the back of my head.

Perhaps because my threshold for endurance had been lowered by the earlier incident, that strange feeling of losing control came surging back.

I immediately spotted the spectators who had said those things in the crowd, and without weighing my words, they just blurted out:

"That's not true."

The students who made eye contact with me were stunned. And as soon as I spoke, I was shocked myself.

That's not true.

I wanted to say, I wasn't the only one holding on.

Even those who sat on the floor playing on their phones during club hours were part of the reason the volleyball club avoided the fate of being disbanded. Even if their training attitude was lax, and they were often late or left early, they still showed up every day, without fail, and properly, diligently completed the practice plan set by the captain. There were also the first-year kids, and there was Makino—

But arguing was useless.

...Damn it, why couldn't I hold back again?

Strangers who spread rumors and believe in gossip don't care about the truth. They would only feel more uncomfortable if they were scolded. So, saying these things was meaningless. It would only be counterproductive. It would only make the atmosphere worse. It would only make me feel terrible, too.

I had known this for a long time.

However, just as the frustration welled up, a warning whistle blew from the side.

"Non-participants, do not interfere with the players off the court." The P.E. teacher serving as the referee squinted, his tone rising, feeling quite helpless. "Calm down, Makino."

In the distance, Makino-senpai went stiff.

She, too, seemed to realize her behavior was inappropriate; she twitched her eyebrows in a guilty manner, and with a stiff upper lip, said in a low voice: "Oh, sorry."

The P.E. teacher had the expression of someone who found middle-schoolers the hardest to manage but was used to it: "I really don't know what to do with you kids... Everyone else, be quiet—players, get ready again, continue the match!"

The gym gradually settled down.

I had to collect my thoughts and, with an apologetic smile, look toward the students who might have been frightened by me.

As expected, they didn't care about that minor incident at all and secretly got excited again, like ripples from a stone skipped on water:

"Nishi-san smiled at me?!"

"No, no, it was at me. At me, okay?"

"Did she say something just now?"

"Don't know~ Maybe she misheard something. Oh my, she’s so cute when she smiles~ My heart has been KO'd~"

I: "..."

Feeling a subtle sense of relief, I glanced at my senior one more time.

This gaze inevitably caught a figure in the sardine-like pile of people who stood out like an EKG spike among the Namimori students, whose average height was 1.6 meters.

Yamamoto Takeshi was staring this way, unmoving.

Others were surprised, gossiping, and happily watching the show. Yet, the tall boy was unusually earnest: his brow was lowered, his lip line pressed straight, making his already sharp facial features look deeper and more solemn; I saw that even his eyes were silently swaying with something.

That expression was as if he understood my situation better than anyone.

But in the next second, Yamamoto-san started blinking his eyes.

Before I could think too much, before this guy could potentially show me his white teeth and sunny smile, I quickly turned my head away. I expressed to my teammates that I was fine regarding their concerns about "Nishi-chan," and encouraged them:

"Don't worry. I definitely made a big mistake earlier... Makino-senpai saw it. The match isn't over yet, everyone, let's work hard and win this set!"

Both sides regrouped.

The minor interlude ended, and the cheerleading squads for both classes pulled out their banners with gusto.

Because we had successfully scored, it was still my turn to serve. I caught the ball thrown by the logistics staff, strode to the back of the court, and bounced it twice to adjust my feel for it.

Then, I took a deep breath.

Filling my lungs with oxygen, I closed my eyes, held my breath, and let my focus effectively relax and regroup—I inexplicably remembered the words Makino-senpai had shouted. The sound, the tone. For some reason, it felt like the steady and unrestrained beat of war drums, hitting the calm, steady rhythm of my chest over and over again.

This made it impossible for me to think about what was the "proper" way to play or what was the "correct" serve.

Right now, she must be watching me in silence.

...While the volleyball is flying upward.

I opened my eyes.

On the other side of the net, someone was moving rapidly and hurriedly. At that same moment, I tossed the volleyball without hesitation, lifted my head, and followed the rotating round shadow in mid-air. Just like the countless repetitions during self-practice, seeking the most stable timing, I jumped with everything I had.

"Oh no, this time it’s really a jump serve!" a slightly hoarse voice warned, "Leave it to me!"

As if there were a transparent launch channel in the air leading straight to the court floor, the volleyball charged toward a cramped corner within the boundary. The landing spot had been empty, but at the last moment, a figure wearing a blue numbered vest lunged toward it.

I saw Futakuchi-san turn to receive it a beat too late.

But the shadow of the ball was merciless; it struck the side of her arm like an electric shock and then bounced away, flying toward the remote backcourt of the gym.

"Damn it...!" She bit her lip, her gaze following the ball for a moment before she turned back.

I had already landed steadily, raising my hand to look at the circles of deep and light red abrasions on my palm.

Meanwhile, the referee blew the whistle.

My teammates’ relaxed cheers and the class’s cheering echoed around me. My ears were filled with laughter; in my field of vision, people were celebrating and jumping. My shoulders were enthusiastically draped—and so, before my brain could react, my face beat me to it, revealing a small smile. Immediately after, through the dense gaps in the net, I caught a glimpse of Seisa, who looked unwilling to lose but seemed to have come alive again, and we shared a long-distance look.