"Team USA's best shooter confers with his captain. With three minutes to go in the fourth quarter, there is only one possible decision."
"That's right, Marv, interestingly enough, Team Japan has never progressed this far in internal play. If they manage to squeak out this win, it will be a major upset."
"The Team USA bench is active. They can't be considering sending in..."
POV Midorima
"I didn't expect to see you here, Seijūrō," I say, looking at the back of his red hair.
"Why not? Do you actually think there is a better Point Guard in the NBA?" he asks, then turns to look at me, a smug little smile on his face. His eyes, both of them, are smiling when they lock on mine. He's dressed out in red and white; I wear blue and orange.
"In the NBA? No," I answer truthfully, matching his smile. It is unspoken, but understood, that there will always be one Point Guard I value above him. "But your name was on the disabled list the last time I checked."
"It was minor and I have recovered. I can't believe you, of all people, would doubt me."
"Even infallible friends get hurt." I shrug; the very American habit is now second-nature to me.
"It will be good to play with you again," Seijūrō says. "It took these Americans long enough to realize your value. You should have been a starter your first season, and the league's Number One Shooter not long after."
"We are both Americans now, least you forget," I tease, "but that title isn't important to me anymore; I have more important ones now."
"Let me see the latest picture," he says.
"I don't carry my phone on the court, but I will afterward. Why didn't you tell me you were coming? Where are you staying?"
"It was last minute. Because of my status on the injured list, I wasn't given an invitation to join until I was cleared on Tuesday. We didn't want to impose upon you at the last second. Kazunari has enough to worry about with school and family life, he doesn't need the extra layer of a month-long house guests.
"He'd be glad of the company –"
"Fish and company smell after three days."
"Once we're done here, you'll call Furihata and make the move to our place. I won't hear any protests. Our home is yours, Seijūrō, it always will be."
It is immediately obvious to me that Seijūrō is still hurting no matter what he insists. He isn't limping or favoring his ankle, but he is more cautious under the pretense of 'getting to know' the other team members.
It is a ridiculous room full of egos. We are the cream of the crop, the all-stars of the all-stars, players known not so much for their team work, but for their singular qualities. It sounds ridiculously familiar; Tetsuya would be pleased that I recognize the syndrome for what it is. I'm not sure if I want to be counted among them, but the honor of playing for the Dream Team is so tempting that I had jumped at the chance to play for my new country's team. I've only been an American citizen for about six months, so this honor is new and exciting.
"Huddle up!" The coaches – likewise culled from a menagerie of teams – are disorganized. They work well with those they already know and are distant from those that they do not. I'm grateful that this team will be working on my home territory. "Warm up slowly with laps around the court."
Seijūrō, like Takao, has to modify his stride frequency to keep in step with me, and it takes only a moment for us to find our rhythm again. For a moment it feels like we are back in middle school, back before our hubris led us astray. But then I look forward and in front of us are different men, the other members of the starting line-up. Each wears their own team's colors. Our new uniforms won't be in until later in the month and wearing our colors is just another ego-centric move on our part.
"I've played against all of these men before," I say as we jog around the home team side of the court.
"It's a crime that you didn't make the All-Star Game last year," he sighs. "But I've played with at least half of them. Anything you want to know about them?"
"How do they compare to Teiko?"
"The Power Forward," he says, careful not to say any names. We are speaking Japanese, but there is no need to antagonize the native. "He's like Aomine was at his lowest point. He's arrogant and hostile. He thinks taking direction from anyone other than the coach is beneath him."
The Power Forward in question, Jermaine "Pretty Boy" Floyd, is dark-skinned man – I still don't feel comfortable with the nuanced differences between the words "African-American" and "Black," so I categorize him as darker than Quentin, and leave it at that – and he's at least 213 cm tall. Judging by the way he moves he's carrying more than 120 kg on his frame and not a bit of it is excessive. He's taller than Murasakibara, but he doesn't seem to care that he towers over everyone other than the Center. He wears green and white.
We switch to running the lanes. As the whistle blows we sprint down court, touch the line, and return. It is a very familiar exercise, but I can see that Seijūrō isn't giving his all. It is… disturbing. As we wait for our next turn, we continue to exchange information.
"I haven't played with the Center, nor against him. I was already benched with the ankle injury the last time his team played mine," Akashi tells me.
"I played him last month. He's good at all things defense, but his shooting percentage is extraordinarily low. He's always in motion, which is the opposite of Atushi. I can't say if that's good or bad, but without the ability to consistently score, I don't have high hopes. We'll have to be prepared for him to be fouled often at the end of the games."
"Good to know," Akashi responds as he dashes down the lane.
The Center, Carmine Bianchi, aka "the Sausage," is even taller at 216 cm. He wears yellow and purple. The ground shakes as he moves by me in the opposite direction and we switch, so that I launch down the lane. I overtake Akashi in three long strides.
We switch to a new exercise, one I'd never even contemplated before where we walk backward on our heels, our toes pointed as far up as possible. It is awkward and uncomfortable at first, but once my toes hit the ground again, I feel how much the stretch has helped. Once all the players have caught up. We turn around and proceed back to the other side of the court in the same manner.
"And your opinion on the Small Forward?" I ask, as we stretch.
"I enjoyed playing with him." Akashi frowns as he says it.
"You face does agree with your mouth." It is a tease Akira loves to use against me, and it fits the situation so well.
"I apologize." Akashi shakes his head and smiles. "I was thinking about our Power Forward. From what I know of this one, he's fluid and graceful, but without Kise's Perfect Copy... well, he's the best available to us."
The Small Forward, Arty "The Shark" Montgomery, is the shortest player, aside from Seijūrō. He's only 198cm and he's as thin as a whip. He plays on the coach's team. He wears white and black.
I've played all these men before – sometimes victorious, sometimes not – but now we, and a dozen more back-ups and specialists, are here together for one common goal: to bring home a gold medal for team USA.
After two quarters of play, the coach calls us in.
"I'm not really sure we need this entire month. You're all professionals, after all," he says and I have to run that sentence through my translating mind more than once before I fully comprehend what he has said. I miss the next few words; Takao would be ashamed of me. He says that I must learn to think in English rather than translate the words, but my mind just doesn't work that way.
"...practice Monday through Friday, two hours before lunch, two hours for lunch, two hours after lunch. That should give you enough time to gel as a proper team. Just stick to what you do best, do your job, and we'll bring home another gold medal."
Akashi's eyes narrow. There is calculation going on behind those multi-colored orbs that says he's unhappy and I find myself agreeing with him.
No one hangs around after practice and the shower room is empty. It is unsurprising that Seijūrō doesn't take a shower in this open space, so I forgo mine as well. Our home will be just as good.
"You take the subway?" he asks when I lead us underground. "You're not... harassed?"
"I sign a few autographs, but New Yorkers are not impressed by celebrities," I say, shrugging.
I help him purchase a railpass, remembering when Quentin did the same for me, six years ago. The nostalgia is pleasant now that I am not the one in need of assistance.
We slip into the last car of the train and as Akashi fights to keep the pain off of his face.
A/N: Am I the only one who feels so lost without the KnB manga? I'm glad it ended before it got repetitive, but the 30 second wrap up for Akashi... that was just not enough. So, I'm glad that I'm writing more of the story myself. If you agree, how about hitting me up with review? I could use the encouragement in this post-KnB world we find ourselves in.