Disclaimer: I don't own SD boys, Inoue does. The events that follow are not included in the original plot but enjoy anyway.
Ryonan High: Ryoji Ikegami. 8:30 in the morning. Valentine's Day.
I'm panting. My sweat drips like toxic fire works on a Chinese New Year, evaporating before colliding with the wooden molecules of the stadium's glittering floor. 30 minutes have passed and we're still down by 4. Unnecessary turnovers ruin our possession as Ryonan Team A scores points off every offensive violation we commit. A bad day for me.
I've got 18 points, 8 boards, 4 assists, 4 blocks, and 5 steals. Not bad except for a couple of charging fouls.
Another steal. Gotcha, Uekusa. You should know better than to break through my impeccable D. Tightest defender in the L, ain't I?
The familiar horn sounds, game ends, and we're trailed by 6. Shit. Taoka delivers his run-of-the-mill ceremony and eventually hits the roof which sends Uozomi's water bottle soaring to the air and, poof. Somebody mop the floor for crying out loud. He cusses Team B's (my team) lousy performance as if nobody stuck it out. Well, that's how it goes; a set of triple doubles doesn't make anyone a good athlete unless he wins the game. Crazy.
Ryonan Team squeezes in to the shower room like a phalanx retreating from an open battle to a fox hole; all because Mr. Underworld summons his serpentine allies to annihilate the army in a single blow. Yeah, Taoka's fits invariably conjure that sort of panic.
Ryoji!' He shouts before I disappear behind the locker room's door. Uh oh.
'Coach?' I ask innocently.
'Your team (team B) will have 50 laps before dismissal. Next time you lose, I'll double the quantity. Clear?' He glares venomously at me like a Boa constrictor about to devour its herbivorous prey. Life's never fair.
'Sounds great,' I mutter beyond his earshot.
I call forth every member of the losing team including Koshino and Fukuda.
'50 laps, boys. His majesty needs amusement,' I tell them. Nobody complains, number one rule, remember?
I ask Hikoichi to deliver a package to Shohoku High.
'Give this to Mitsui and handle with care, kid. And don't tell anyone who's it from. Got it?' I tell him.
'Hai, Ikegami-san,' he frowns slightly. The glint in his eyes reveals a deadly curiosity. That's the nosy git for you.
Shohoku High: Mitsui Hisashi. Same time.
23 points, 4 rebounds, 8 assists, 2 steals, and 1 block. I'm 5/7 from the 3 point line, 2/3 from the 12 footer, and 2/2 from the foul line. An almost perfect accuracy; my hoops barely shake the net as the score sheet continuously loses stock of integers. This is a sure win over Black team, but damn those 3 misses.
Whistle blows. My team wins. No surprises there. Rukawa starts to scowl like a senile goat. Mmmph. That's what he gets for fueling a scoring machine. So who's the man now, the MVP shooter or the Rookie superstar? I ain't betting a dime on that one.
I hit the showers and turn on the heater. My body's still on fire after 35 minutes of dragging my feet to both ends of the court. Maybe because it's Valentine's Day and Cupid's arrow got me all pumped up; didn't know the God of Love has this grace to fill up one's stamina bar, huh?
I go to my locker, fit into my school uniform, and remove a letter from my pocket.
I got it all planned before January ended; I ask Hotta to slip the letter inside Ryonan's Koshino's bag after they leave school on February 14. Easy. I'll come out clean before somebody makes me a laughing stock of Kanagawa.
I leave the stadium to meet Hotta at the gates. Few vehicles are out in the streets today. Hotta's motor bike's nowhere to be seen
He's not there. Darn, where is he?
Somebody moves to my direction. Oh, it's Ryonan's research boy carrying a ludicrous looking parcel. Probably a present for his girlfriend or boyfriend. Valentines is in the air.
'Mitsui-san!' he calls out to me.
I walk to meet him, clutching the letter inside my pants' pocket.
'Mitsui-san, Ike-I mean, this is for you,' he hands me the cheesy package.
'Who gave this?' I ask suspiciously.
'Can't tell. private business.' he answers succinctly.
This guy's from Ryonan too. Why don't I ask him to deliver the letter to Koshino? Not a good idea but better sent than delayed.
'Hey, kid. Can you send this to...,' I pause. He studies my expression. I have to give out all courage so I continue, 'give this to your team mate Koshino. Don't tell anyone who's it from. Got it?' Sigh. A mass of heavy clouds is leased from my chest.
'Sure thing.' he answers as he leaves Shohoku's entrance.
Ryonan High: Akira Sendoh. One hour later, at the school canteen.
Kuso. Why's nobody answering to me? I've given out 5 letters even before February graced my calendar and nobody has yet agreed to date me on Valentine's day.
Boy and girl are sitting on one stool. How sweet. One cube of sugar and they'd be diagnosed with diabetes. This is gonna be a lonely day for Ryonan's hottest guy.
I decide to go home and there wait for a call. I need someone to go out with tonight.
I switch on my room's light and lay on the bed waiting for someone to give me a ring.
Still no sound from the receiver. Minute particles hover above my face assuming a multitude of indistinctive patterns and forms. None of them seems to blend with the supposed atmosphere of today's special holiday. Sigh. I'll just do the home-works, I guess.
I zip my bag open as a voluminous roll of paper sticks out of it. I open the note and a bunch of neatly written paragraphs flash on the smooth layer of the paper. A romantic fragrance flows from each stroke of ink that transforms each alphabet into a collection of poetic and love seeking words of bold confessions.
I read it slowly, absorbing the sine qua non of the author's sentiments and emotions. No line is rendered with hesitation or clandestine; Each is an authentic outpouring of a heart long hindered by shame and guilt. What kind of idiot would dare speak his/her mind in a letter? What if someone gets wind of it and puts in the school paper?
I think, seeming lost in the darkest abyss of the verge of the world. Many faces loomed before mine, translucent as the ozone layer but tangible as a solid rock on the ocean's floor. Who could've given me that letter? Koshino? Ikegami? Fukuda? Aida? Isn't there a signature somewhere?
I rummage every millimeter of the paper and come upon a PS note at the last page: 'I'll be waiting at Don Rafael's coffee. Don't come if your health fails you but understand that your presence would mean the world to me. 1-4-3. H.M.'
That's what it says. The cliché of the millennium; that 'you mean the world to me' line. Sigh. But who's H.M.? There's no guy in our team whose initials start with H & M.
TBC