Summary: Even the smoothest player can trip over his own mask. Sometimes the real challenge is letting someone see what's underneath.
#05 - THE MASK
Finals were looming, but the late afternoon painted the gym in a mellow, golden light that nearly made Mitsui forget the impending stress. The scent of old leather hung in the air as he found himself drawn back to the court, shooting absent-minded hoops.
"Mitsui-san?" Haruko's voice pulled him from his rhythm.
He turned, surprised to find her by the water fountain, a stack of towels balanced precariously in her arms. "Haruko, do you need some help with that?"
She adjusted the towels, then met his eyes. "I was..." A faint blush crept up her cheeks. "I wanted to thank you again. Your play has been... it's helped the team a lot."
The honesty surprised him more than the thanks. "You noticed then?" he asked, his smirk widening just a bit.
Haruko nodded vigorously, a lock of hair falling into her eyes. There was a spark in her eyes she tried, but couldn't quite extinguish. "Of course. It's hard not to."
A warmth spread through him, something different from the lingering exertion of practice. He shot another hoop. It swished through the net cleanly. "Then, maybe I should show off more for you."
The words felt wrong the moment they left his mouth—flippant—a practiced shield against vulnerability. He forced a smirk, the squeak of his sneakers on the varnished floor breaking the fragile silence.
Haruko's eyes widened, the spark fading slightly. A tiny flash of disappointment crossed her face before she managed a small, "Right. Well..."
Mitsui felt a surge of something reckless. He hesitated, but the urge was too strong. Leaning in slightly, his voice dropped to a low murmur, "Then you should come watch me more often, Haruko."
Her cheeks flushed a deep crimson. "I...I need to go and stash these towels," she scuttled to the locker room.
Inside, she slid down the cool metal of a locker, heart pounding. "W-why are my cheeks so hot?" Though confused, there was something else there too—a lingering warmth, and the ghost of his voice. It had been low, a rumble she'd never heard from Mitsui before, and the memory still made her shiver.
He'd always been so loud, so boisterous... but this was something else entirely. Maybe part of her didn't want that warmth to fade.
The locker room's cool air couldn't banish the warmth from her face. He'd sounded different, softer, almost vulnerable. The usual teasing tone was absent, and the boldness in his eyes... that wasn't an act; it felt genuine.
A confusing mixture of flustered excitement and a strange, yearning sadness washed over her. She'd always admired Mitsui's spirit, but there was a depth to him she might be only just starting to see.
He stepped back, a cocky smirk returning, but it quickly faltered. Turning, he strode towards the exit, her startled gasp fading behind him. "Why do they always run when I get bold?" he muttered.
The flippancy felt wrong, the usual satisfaction hollow. He was tired of this act, the brash persona he'd worn like armor.
Maybe... maybe he wouldn't mind if just one person saw behind the mask.
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