Chapter Text
The Kanto Finals against the Hakushuu Dinosaurs had been their most brutal match yet—harsh, chaotic, and unforgiving. But strangely, what lingered with Mamori wasn’t the violence on the field.
It was something else.
Amid the raw carnage of the game, something had stirred in her—a quiet, unexpected thirst to push herself further. The feeling didn’t settle in until long after the game ended, but looking back, she could trace it to one moment: Gaou Rikiya barreling down the field with murderous intent, aiming straight for Hiruma.
It was the most terrifying scene of the entire tournament.
She hadn’t even thought about it—she’d left the field without hesitation, following Hiruma straight to the infirmary. It was a crucial turning point for Sena, who had stepped up on his own. But Mamori’s choice, unconscious as it was, had been clear: she would follow Hiruma.
As she tended his broken arm, she saw something raw in him—not just pain, but obsession. A brutal clarity of purpose
They’d spent countless hours in the clubroom, reviewing footage, crunching stats and dissecting strategies. But that day, with his arm broken and his body trembling, Mamori had seen the real Hiruma for the first time. Not just the manipulative devil with a machine gun, but a brilliant strategist who believed in this game—and his team—with fanatical, reckless loyalty.
She had tried to convince him not to return to the field, her voice cracking with contained emotion. But he had gone anyway. Of course, he had.
“Me too, I have a promise to keep, fucking manager. This isn’t about playing or not; I don’t have a choice on the matter. For the sake of defeating Hakushuu and going to the Christmas Bowl with everyone!”
He had said before disappearing into the changing room. And miraculously, he had kept his promise; with an arm he could barely lift, he threw a perfect long pass to Monta. And then, as if that weren’t enough, he ran the final touchdown himself.
Mamori had watched it all unfold from the sidelines—calculating, communicating, steadying the team. Yet somehow, it felt like her victory too.
Hiruma had made her part of it when she became Manager of the team. And over time, she’d come to thrive in the chaos. The endless problem-solving, the precision, the strategy—it was shogi, brutalized. Her intellect, her organization, her will to adapt had shaped her into the ideal manager.
Her confidence flourished.
But it still wasn’t her dream.
Her fingers curled tightly around her delicate shawl. The cold hadn't quite reached her skin—but something colder was starting to settle inside her.
She couldn’t be on the field—not like Sena. Not like Hiruma.
And slowly, unease began to bloom.
What about her dream?
Did she even have one?
The nagging feeling never truly went away. She didn’t like dwelling on it, but it clung to her—like a rash. Sometimes it only itched a little. Other times, it burned so sharply it was hard to think of anything else.
Especially on nights like this one.
The cruise party had started as a celebration, a victory lap before the Christmas Bowl, but the weight of finality pressed heavier with each passing hour. The game wasn’t just a distant hope anymore—it was real, and it was close.
A reminder that everything eventually ends, and you’re forced to begin again. The cycle keeps spinning. Endings that become beginnings. Beginnings that lead to inevitable ends.
Such is the tragedy of life.
That evening, Hiruma had vanished from the party after staging a penalty game in the most Hiruma fashion imaginable: detonating a giant balloon in the middle of the room. After the chaos settled and the partygoers stopped screaming, the celebrations carried on. There was music, food, and enough noise to keep people distracted.
Someone organized a cream puff-eating contest. Mamori, somehow, got roped in—and to her own shock, she won. She’d taken the prize (and the bragging rights) as the fastest creampuff eater in all of Kanto.
Later, as the festivities began to wind down, she found herself wandering—looking for Suzuna, Sena, and Monta. At some point, she’d lost track of them.
“I wonder where those three went…” she murmured, resting her hands on the ship’s railing and leaning slightly forward. The horizon stretched wide before her, moonlight painting a shimmer across the sea.
The familiar, uncomfortable feeling returned, creeping up her spine and settling heavy in her chest. Her fingers curled tighter around the cold metal bar. She didn’t want to be alone with these thoughts. Being with the others was supposed to drown them out.
Mamori sighed. Who knew where everyone had gone by now?
Truthfully, she’d hoped to spend the evening with the trio. She’d grown fond of Suzuna—it was nice having a girlfriend involved in the team, even if they attended different schools.
As she watched the pale ripple of the moon’s reflection dance on the water, something caught her eye. A familiar figure sat on the dock, facing away from the ship, legs dangling over the edge.
“Is that... Hiruma-kun?” she whispered.
She hadn’t seen much of him since the Hakushuu game, after Musashi had taken him to the hospital. Now he sat in solitude, his gaze fixed on something far beyond the boat.
What’s he doing out there? I thought he’d gone home already...
She took a step, then stopped.
Knowing him, he’d just bark something awful to send me running. So... why bother?
As she stood debating, movement to her side caught her attention.
“Ah, there you are, Anezaki-san. Good evening!”
Mamori blinked. “Musashi-kun?”
His tone was light, almost distracted, as if he’d just remembered something.
“Hiruma was looking for you,” he said casually, nodding toward the dock. “He headed outside a little while ago. You’ll probably find him there.”
Without waiting for a reply, he continued on his way.
“Hiruma-kun was... looking for me?” she echoed under her breath. “Wait, Musashi-kun—!”
But he was already gone.
She took a deep breath, her heart racing as she glanced back at the party. The laughter and cheers of her teammates faded into the background.
Her gaze dimmed.
Though she was the Manager of the team, in that moment, Mamori felt like an outsider peering in through a window—catching a glimpse of a cozy, familiar world that no longer truly included her.
This isn’t really my dream, she thought bitterly, the familiar itch of uncertainty creeping in. I’m just here to support them—Hiruma-kun, Sena, the others. They’re the ones chasing something real. And I believe in them. I really do. I think we have a chance to win...
But once the Christmas Bowl is over—what then?
Her eyes returned to Hiruma’s distant silhouette on the dock. He, too, looked like he was deep in thought.
This will be our first and only Christmas Bowl, she realized. Next year, Hiruma-kun, Kurita-kun, Musashi-kun, Yukimitsu-kun... and me. We won’t be part of this anymore.
The thought sat heavy in her chest.
What then?
She furrowed her brow. Doubts swirled—restless and sharp. For a brief second, she considered turning around and rejoining the others. Disappearing into the noise and warmth of the crowd.
But her feet didn’t move.
A flicker of something pulled her forward. Maybe hope. Maybe curiosity. Maybe just the stubborn urge to see what Hiruma was doing alone out there.
His arm is broken. Maybe he needs help carrying something? she reasoned. Or maybe it’s about strategy... the next match...
Or maybe—something else. With Hiruma, it was impossible to guess.
Her hesitation finally gave way to resolve, and she made her way to the dock. Each step slow, heavy with thought.
Hiruma sat on the edge, legs dangling over the water, his face turned away, lost in the moonlit distance.
Does he even realize how much he’s changed? she wondered.
Despite all his bravado and sharp-tongued bravura, there was something different about him now. Not softer, exactly—but deeper. Just days ago, he had pushed through a brutal injury to lead the team to victory. That kind of devotion was terrifying—and inspiring.
Now, in this quiet moment, he looked so unlike the Hiruma she was used to.
She hesitated at the dock’s edge, taking him in. The silver light smoothed out his sharp features, casting a gentler glow across his profile. Her chest tightened. He looked...
Attractive.
Not in the usual, smug, smirking, chaos-personified kind of way. But serious.
Real.
The image of the “Commander from Hell” didn’t quite match the man she was seeing now. She shook her head. It’s just the tuxedo, she reasoned. Men tend to look more attractive when they’re dressed well.
That was all.
Nothing else.
She took a step ahead, getting close but stopped. What if he doesn’t want to see me?
The thought made her waver. She almost turned back.
Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself, shaking it off. He’s the one who asked for me. This is no different from the talks we’ve had in the clubroom.
She steeled herself and called out, “Hiruma-kun?”
He turned slightly. His sharp emerald gaze met hers with familiar intensity.
A smirk tugged at his mouth.
“The hell are you doing here, fucking manager?” he drawled. “Shouldn’t you be back at the party still shoveling down those damn cream puffs? Never seen anyone beat the fucking fatass at an eating contest before! Kekeke!”
Mamori clenched her fists. Heat pricked behind her eyes at the taunt, but she lifted her chin and stood her ground.
Typical Hiruma-kun. Mean. Cruel. Always antagonistic.
She ignored the jab. “Musashi-kun said you were looking for me.”
His smirk widened—but something flickered behind it. Confusion, maybe. Then irritation.
“Oh, did he now?” he muttered, a spark of realization flashing in his eyes.
Mamori blinked, her cheeks flushing. “Yes, he did! Now stop playing games. What do you want?”
Hiruma leaned back slightly, clicking his tongue. So that’s what the fucking old man was up to. Of course, he hadn’t asked for her.
But Musashi knew him too well—and clearly decided to interfere.
Hiruma blew a bubble with his gum and let it pop lazily, his eyes never leaving the horizon. “Tch. Forgot about it,” he said coolly, voice flat as stone.
Dismissive. Detached. Like the whole thing was a waste of time.
Mamori’s chest tightened. The air between them felt thinner than before.
“…Right,” she muttered, swallowing the heat crawling up her neck. “If you didn’t actually want to see me, I’ll just go.”
She turned sharply, the sting of frustration mixing with something sharper—hurt. She’d walked right into it again. Let herself hope there was something real behind his call.
But then—
“…Fucking doc says my arm won’t heal in three weeks.”
Her breath caught.
She didn’t turn right away.
The words came quiet, almost drowned by the sound of the wind and waves—but not quite. Not from him.
She slowly turned back to face him.
He hadn’t moved. Still looking out over the water, jaw tight, gum gone.
Mamori stared at his back. At the way his good hand was clenched. The weight in his voice finally caught up with her.
“…Hiruma-kun?”
His voice had shifted. No sarcasm. No swagger. Just a blunt, quiet fact. She stood still, not sure if he was thinking out loud or to her. As if reading her mind, he continued.
“Said my fractured humerus is gonna take six fucking weeks, minimum.” His left hand rose to rest on his casted right arm.
Mamori turned back around, stunned. Not just by his words, but the way he said them.
“What?”
Hiruma didn’t look at her. His gaze remained on the water, unreadable.
“They said it’s impossible for me to play in the Christmas Bowl.”
A heavy silence fell between them, broken only by the distant murmur of waves and muffled noise from the party above.
Mamori felt a pang at his words, her mouth opening to respond—
But Hiruma cut her off, his sharp-toothed grin flashing in the moonlight.
“But that’s fucking bullshit.”
His voice was alive now, charged with defiance. “Nothing’s gonna stop me from playing in the Christmas Bowl. I’ll play even if my damn arm falls off!”
She felt the urge to scold him—something about how reckless he sounded—but the words stalled in her throat. That look in his eyes...
She’d seen it before.
“Hiruma-kun...”
“I’m using an oxygen capsule to speed it up. I’ll be healed by then,” he said like it was already settled. “Even if it fucking kills me, I’ll play in the Christmas Bowl with everyone. And we’re going to win.”
For a moment, she said nothing. Just studied him.
Then, quietly, she sat beside him.
He tensed, almost instinctively—people usually knew better than to get that close—but Mamori didn’t flinch.
Hiruma didn’t tell her to move.
The silence stretched. Not awkward. Just… still.
Then, she broke it.
“And... what will happen after we win the Christmas Bowl?”
He blinked. The edge in her voice caught him off guard.
“The fuck do you mean?”
“You know... just, what comes next?”
She wasn’t looking at him. Her gaze was distant, almost fragile.
Hiruma frowned. That wasn’t like her. Mamori was sharp, blunt when she needed to be. She didn’t usually ask vague, dreamy shit like that.
It dawned on him—her question had two meanings.
“Next, huh?” He clicked his tongue. “Well, next is the fucking Pro League.”
He said it like it was obvious. Unshakable.
Mamori smiled softly, gaze still out on the water. “Of course. That’s the only natural progression for you.”
And I envy that certainty, she thought.
“Damn right, it’s natural,” he muttered. Then, after a beat—
“And I could say the same about you, fucking manager.”
She turned to look at him, brows lifting. He wasn’t smirking. Not this time.
“Always figured you’d end up as a teacher or some boring shit like that. You’ve got that massive caregiver complex and can’t stop momming every idiot within a five-meter radius.”
Mamori opened her mouth to protest—
“But,” he added, almost carelessly, “that’d be a fucking waste with that brain of yours.”
Her breath caught. “What?”
He huffed, flicking a pebble into the water. “Not sure what the hell’s gotten into you tonight, fucking manager, and I don’t give a shit either. But since I’m feeling generous, I’ll say it again: It’d be a goddamn waste if you ended up just a damn teacher.”
Mamori crossed her arms, brow furrowing—but the irritation faded almost instantly, replaced by a quiet stillness.
She sat there, letting his words soak in.
Her mind drifted—back to strategy meetings, to long nights over stat sheets, to that surge of clarity when a plan clicked into place and worked exactly as it should.
She hadn’t just kept the team afloat.
She’d built something with him.
And it had mattered.
It wasn’t about being in the spotlight. It was about being part of something. Something clever. Something real.
She took a deep breath, steadying herself, and looked him straight in the eye.
“I always thought if I worked hard and did everything right, the path ahead would just... appear. Maybe I’ve been so focused on being useful, on doing the right thing, that I forgot to ask what I want to do. But... I think I want to figure it out.”
Her words hung between them, quiet and unassuming. But inside, they echoed. Deeply. The confession settled into her mind like a quiet promise—one she hadn't realized she’d been waiting to make.
Hiruma didn’t answer at first. He simply leaned back, supporting himself on his left arm, his expression unreadable. A lazy smirk tugged at his lips—dismissive as ever—but there was a flicker in his eyes.
Fleeting. Barely there. But it told her enough.
“Tch. Whatever, fucking manager.”
He muttered with a shrug, though his grin lingered just a second too long.
It was only then Mamori realized how close they were—how strange it felt to be sitting alone with Hiruma of all people. Side by side. In a party dress, no less. The layered ruffles of her skirt brushed against her calves as she shifted, the soft fur of her shawl tickling her neck. The contrast of it all—scarlet satin and silence, vulnerability wrapped in ribbon and draped beside a ticking bomb—sent a chill through her. She tensed, painfully aware of every inch between them… and every inch not between them.
She clenched her fists, her composure slipping as heat rushed to her cheeks. What she failed to register, however, was that he hadn’t moved. Not even once. He hadn’t barked at her to leave, hadn’t shifted away. If anything, he’d stayed—rigid, tense, but still.
Whether it was stubborn pride or just inertia, she didn’t know. But for someone so quick to snap or snarl, his silence spoke volumes.
Unable to bear her embarrassment any longer, Mamori stood up, brushing invisible dust from the crimson fabric.
“Sorry,” she murmured, barely meeting his eyes before turning away.
He didn’t stop her. Didn’t glance back. Just sat there, still as stone, letting the wind carry away the delicate trace of lily and cherry blossom she always seemed to leave behind.
His gaze stayed locked on the dark horizon, unwavering.
“So... what’s fucking next, huh?”
He muttered to no one, a crooked chuckle escaping under his breath. Her voice still echoed faintly in his ears. Quiet. Uncertain. But determined.
There were too many answers to that question, but only one that mattered now.
The Christmas Bowl.
Victory wasn’t optional. It was inevitable. And he would tear it from the world with his bare hands if he had to.
No matter the cost.
No matter the pain.
He would win.
Epilogue.
Musashi leaned back against the wall, a rare, quiet smile tugging at his lips. He’d been watching from a distance—unnoticed, as usual. Just the way he liked it.
The tension had finally simmered down, replaced by a calm stillness he found oddly satisfying.
A small sense of pride settled in his chest. Hiruma—the master manipulator, the control freak—had been nudged into something he couldn’t quite steer. A genuine moment, even if laced with his usual scorn. Musashi knew exactly what he’d done. He wasn’t trying to play matchmaker—not really. Just wanted to give the bastard a taste of his own medicine.
And maybe, see what happened when the trickster found himself on the receiving end of someone else’s setup.
He had no illusions about Hiruma and Mamori. They clashed like fire and ice, but underneath the friction was something steadier. Mutual respect. Unspoken understanding. Maybe even something they hadn't yet figured out themselves.
Even the sharpest flames could be tempered by the right touch.
Musashi had seen enough to know tonight would leave a mark on both of them. Not something they'd acknowledge—definitely not Hiruma—but something that would linger all the same. A quiet victory. The kind Musashi appreciated.
Pushing off the wall, he walked away with that same faint grin. His work here was done—no more meddling required. He’d planted the seed. Whatever came next, that was on them.
With one last glance over his shoulder, he thought,
A little push in the right direction... that’s all it takes.
And for the first time in a while, Musashi felt a quiet satisfaction settle in his bones, knowing that what he’d done tonight wasn’t a trick.
It was a kindness.