You Never Were the Physical Type
"Fucking manager."
With one hand on her hip, the other hand gripping the broom until splinters were heard coming off, and eyes glaring at the quarterback with an intensity that could pierce through the devil himself, the manager of the Devilbats commanded quite the intimidating presence.
Too bad he was never fazed by it. With feet propped up on the table, arms crossed behind his head, and grin mocking the infuriated manager with feral taunts, the demon quarterback of the Devilbats played his cards without even batting an eye.
"We're sticking to that strategy, and you're not gonna do a damn thing about it, fucking manager."
"Hiruma-kun. I've tolerated more than enough of your suicidal plays these past few months to know that I am not over-reacting when I say that you have gone too far this time."
"Keh, you would over-react if the damn sun was one minute late in its rising. The strategy has been decided – I'm not looking for your approval, fucking manager."
"Stop calling me that!"
The rest of the team sat huddled in the corner of the clubhouse, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, lest Hiruma's attention would become directed at them. They were caught in another battle between Hiruma and Mamori. And with just three days remaining until their game with their challenger guests from Rome, the Spartans, everybody's nerves were on edge. Especially the nerves of those two.
Hiruma rose unexpectedly from the table, kicking his chair back behind him. It clattered to the floor, disrupting the momentary silence that had befallen their war zone.