He was quite sure that she didn't notice.
That, or, she hadn't bothered to do research further then she had to.
Hiruma wasn't one to really care, per se, but, he found it slightly amusing that Mamori hadn't taken the time to research what her hand signals really meant in sign language. He had told her to come up with a signaling code, and had suggested she look at a modified version of sign language. He didn't think however, that she would use actual signs and just turn their meaning around, or, not bother to figure out what they really meant.
For one thing, the signal for 'kid' was actually a short version of 'airplane'. Mamori's signal for 'long pass' was actually 'cheese' combined with 'hat'. And her hand signal for 'change player positions' was, in all truths, 'screw me tonight'.
During a scrimmage with the Cupids, Hiruma had almost started laughing when she had used the signs combined with the actual signs for 'later' and 'hot'. Almost, being the key term.
When she had first handed him the print out of the signals and their meanings, his face had held up. He hadn't laughed. He hadn't told her differently. Hiruma had just stood there and taken in the information. That was how it had to be. He had to keep calm when she signaled him from the sidelines. It was his job to relay the information or modify it to the next play. The job wasn't to start laughing. It wasn't to imagine Mamori under him. That wasn't how things were. At least, not for a while. Not until he could focus on her rather than the game.
Sacked. He had taken .7 seconds to long to make the long pass.
"Fucking fatty!" His voice sounded like knives. It was his just reward for yelling drills at the team while the damn drunk was suffering a hangover. "Are you fucking stupid? The damn shits are pushing you around. Hold. The. Fucking. LINE!" He was screaming now. His throat felt like Cerberus had bitten it.
Another signal from her. 'sleep with self/me now'. Literal translations. His mind was buzzing. Not right. The correct translation, the one she meant, was 'stop yelling, get (in) positions'. That was it. Smart. She was smarter then he gave her credit for. Though the Devil Bats may be up by a few points, that didn't mean he could waste time. Who knew when his ace might fall over, his leg injured? Or if the fucking goatee screwed up so bad it resulted in a turnover?
He sighed. It felt like this a lot. He liked being in control, he disliked having to nit-pick his teammate's actions. At least the damn shorty and monkey could do well on their own. He didn't always need to bark orders at them. Half the time they went with what was best, relying on instinct.
"The next play is going to be a sweep. Don't fuck it up this time." His eye rolled over to Kurita. Sometimes, he was too nice for his own good. They were playing the cupids to boost morale, not 'have fun'. They had a 99% chance of getting over 30 points in the first half. 99%. But if Kurita kept holding back as not to beat the cupids too badly, Hiruma's plan for team moral would fail. One percent was all they needed. It was still a chance.
He signaled to her, 'sweep'. It wasn't right. 'Bed.' He had signaled bed. The hell was wrong with him. With her? His mind was buzzing again, his voice felt like it was ripping away at his lungs. "Set, Hut, HUT!" There. The two shorties could do the rest of the work. It was nice to know at least they wouldn't hold back.
Half time. Game over. It seemed too soon. 70-0. They had over a 80% chance that they would score over 100. Kurita had held back. The monkey had shown off. Damn goatee had screwed up and caused a turnover. He took out his semi-automatic at shot at them. Demands. Yelling. He never got tired of it. It gave him a thrill to see them so scared of him. He wouldn't really shoot them, but, the fear was still present that he might.
They were too valuable to shoot. Ace running back, ace receiver, ace lineman, ace after ace after ace. Sometimes he wondered if that made him an ace. Ace quarterback. Commander from Hell. The second suited him better.
"-feeling good?" Her voice was soft. Kind of like ice to a hot patch. His voice felt like it was killing him from the inside. "What did you say fucking manager?"
Her face made the expression he adored so much. It was a mix between a scowl and a smile. She had he way of dealing with him. He didn't mind it. "I asked if you were feeling good. You haven't quite been yourself today." He glared. How? He felt fine. Minus his throat and leg and arm and the damn sexual frustration she made. Thank the gods American football required cups. If it didn't she'd have seen the salute ages ago.
"I'm fine, fucking clucking hen." Lies. He didn't like lying to her. She saw through them to easily. Besides, it was more fun to give her half-truths.
"Well, alright." Her legs took her father from him. His mind buzzed like an angry hornet. He had to stay seated on the bench analyzing the data. Not much time before he got distracted or had to move. The data was too important.
It started to rain.
Club was spotless. Time was moving too fast today. The rain sounded like musical drums in his head.
Dark outside. The team was heading home. She was staying to finish her half of the game analysis.
He shook his head. She said nothing, but made her 'I'm worried about you face, but, I won't ask.'
It was his face. The one she had for him. Her gift to him. She never made the face at anyone but him. It didn't make him feel special.
She made a hand signal to him. 'Go chicken lost confused.' Not correct. 'Making coffee, want any?'
He made one back. 'Black.' Correct hand signal. Her face was confused.
"I don't know that one." Mild confusion, she could figure it out.
"Then you damn well better do your research next time!" Yelling at her. He wasn't like this. She was afraid. That face again. His face. The one that she always made, just for him. The coffee tasted bitter. He welcomed the harsh wake up. While it scalded his mouth, his lips, his tongue, he welcomed it. His throat felt like crap.
"I'm sorry." Quite apologies. No sound followed.
"Forgiven." Silence filled the space like a heavy fog.
"Does it always have to be like this?" Soft question. Did he want a hard answer?
"No." She sat next to him. "It doesn't." Who said it first? Did it matter?
"The signals you use for 'change player positions'…"
She made them. With her hands "You mean these?" Mamori's hands were small compared to his.
"Yes, those signals." He stood up and poured himself another cup of coffee. He knew he would need it.
"Do you know what it means?" She shook her head.
He took a sip. Grinds. He hadn't noticed he had gotten the last bit of the coffee. He looked at the machine. It was outdated. Needing to be replaced.
"They mean, literally, 'screw me tonight'." Her face was flat. Seconds ticked by before a red tingle arose to her cheeks.
"You're lying." Her voice held malice, or, as much malice as her small frame could muster.
"Do I have to prove it?" He had already. Flipping over his laptop, images of the signals and their meanings filled the screen.
Her face reminded him of apples. Or Cherries. Fruit in general.
"I never..oh god…I…" Hiruma knew what would come next. "I'm sorry. Oh…god, I'm sorry Hiruma, I'll go back and change them and…" She turned to leave. Her jacket was on. He wanted to…
"Would you take it back if you could?" His question hung in the air, she didn't move.
Her lips moved as she left, closing the door behind her. The sound of rain washed over the noise of everything.