Mamori paced nervously around the clubroom, her thoughts racing. The chairmen and Honjou-san were due to arrive soon, and both Yamato-kun and Honjou-kun were already present, waiting in silence. It seemed like a comfortable quiet between them, but the atmosphere felt undeniably tense for her.
What didn't help was the conspicuous absence of the clubroom's owner—Hiruma. He had sent her a vague and characteristically crude message instructing her to prepare to receive visitors but provided no further details. While Mamori had discussed the World Youth Tournament with him beforehand, as usual, he had kept critical information to himself.
That Hiruma-kun! she thought, frustration simmering. To disappear before such an important meeting! Now that I think about it, I haven't seen him for two days… including today.
Forcing herself to focus, Mamori turned to the two young men with a polite smile.
"Can I offer you some coffee or tea while you wait? We also have pastries if you prefer."
Yamato's kind and confident smile lit up the room.
"Ah, how thoughtful of you, Anezaki-san! Hiruma-shi wasn't exaggerating about your warm hospitality. I can't refuse such kindness—black coffee for me, please. Thank you so much!"
He turned to his companion. "Taka, you want anything?"
"No, I'm fine. Thank you," Honjou replied, his tone quiet but polite.
I don't even want to know what that horrible Hiruma-kun told Yamato-san about me! Mamori thought, her hands twitching slightly at her sides. A vivid image flashed unbidden into her mind:
"Hey, fucking muscles—now former Eyeshield 21—when you come by our clubroom, make sure you show up on an empty stomach! Our fucking manager keeps a private hoard of creampuffs, kekeke! If you bastards eat enough, I might actually have space for more of my fucking guns!"
And Yamato, ever unfazed by anything, would likely beam that confident smile of his and reply, "How kind of you, Hiruma-shi!"
Mamori pinched the bridge of her nose, shaking the mental image away with an exasperated sigh. It was almost too easy to imagine the exchange. For all of Hiruma's vulgarity and lack of manners—or more accurately, the complete absence of them—Yamato didn't seem to mind in the slightest. If anything, he found Hiruma's antics amusing, even endearing.
Mamori couldn't help but feel a begrudging sense of respect for Yamato's unshakable confidence and easygoing demeanor. Not many could handle Hiruma's abrasive personality so effortlessly. But that doesn't mean Hiruma-kun should keep running his mouth like that!
Her train of thought was abruptly interrupted by the shrill tone of her phone. Startled, Mamori fumbled to answer it, quickly excusing herself. "Oh! Apologies! I need to take this. Please make yourselves at home!" She bowed politely to the two men before stepping out of the clubroom and answering.
"Hello?"
"FUCKING MANAGER!"
Mamori winced and instinctively held the phone at arm's length, her free hand flying to her ear. "HIRUMA-KUN, STOP YELLING! Oh my goodness! Where are you?! Both Honjou-san and Yamato-san are already here, and the chairmen are arriving soon!"
"Don't worry about small shit, fucking manager. They didn't even consider speaking with me. I just offered our humble establishment for their fucking meeting. Besides, I already know what they'll be discussing—and so do you."
Mamori took a deep breath, calming her nerves. "It's about the Youth World Tournament player selection, just like you expected, right? By the way, your signal sounds terrible. WHERE are you?"
"I'm in AMERICA! Kekeke!"
Her jaw nearly dropped. "YOU'RE IN AMERICA?! Hiruma-kun!"
"Yes, I was! I'm coming back now. Be prepared, fucking manager. I want every single fucking detail of the intel I'm gathering well-documented and edited! Kekeke!"
"Wait, but when—"
"Close to two hours for landing."
The line went dead before she could protest further. Letting out a soft sigh of resignation, Mamori lowered the phone and pinched the bridge of her nose, again, a habit born out of dealing with this chaotic individual. It's always the same with him—unpredictable, impossible, and always following his own agenda. There was no point in arguing with Hiruma once he'd set his course. All she could do now was wait and prepare for his inevitable whirlwind return.
Sure enough, two hours later, Hiruma arrived in the most Hiruma way imaginable. By landing in the middle of the school's field in what seemed, was a military jet.
Since he'd had the courtesy to warn her, Mamori was already waiting on the field, ready to meet him.
"Hey, Fucking Manager! Here's the data I grabbed in America—edit it."
Hiruma tossed the tape in her direction without breaking stride. Mamori caught it mid-air with practiced ease, her expression a mix of exasperation and determination. Wordlessly, she headed back to the clubroom, where she already had everything set up.
As she inserted the tape and prepared to begin, her thoughts drifted to the shocking revelation Hiruma had shared.
Morgan-san is offering prize money and an NFL contract…
It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, almost unattainable for a foreigner. The weight of it settled heavily in her chest, but Mamori shook her head, forcing the thoughts aside. Now wasn't the time to worry. "I better get to work," she murmured, pulling herself into focus.
Hours later, the room was dimly lit, the light from her monitor casting a faint glow. She stretched, wincing as her stiff muscles protested. Sitting for so long had taken its toll, but she'd finally finished processing all the data. The content on the tapes had been nothing short of daunting.
Her brow furrowed as she recalled what she'd seen. This is going to be the toughest opponent we've ever faced. The sheer power of the American players was overwhelming. It wasn't just their physicality but their precision, strategy, and unrelenting pace. As the chairman had said, this was the birthplace of football—the holy land of the sport. It was no wonder the players seemed born to dominate the field.
Mamori stifled a yawn, exhaustion creeping in. Tidying up her workstation, she gathered her belongings. Her gaze fell on a small pack of sugarless gum lying haphazardly on the far end of the table.
She grunted, a faint smile tugging at her lips despite herself. Hiruma might have been a genius, but he was hopelessly disorganized. Guns, gum, papers—it didn't matter. He always left his belongings scattered across the room. Picking up the gum, she resolved to drop it off in his locker on her way out.
As she approached the locker room, she noticed light spilling through the cracks in the door.
"So weird," she muttered. "I thought everyone had gone home. Maybe someone forgot to turn off the lights?"
Without hesitation, she opened the door—and froze.
Hiruma sat on the bench, his lean, athletic frame casually perched, midway through pulling off the left leg of his football pants. The rest of his uniform was already discarded, leaving him in nothing but his boxers. The door's sudden swing made him jolt, his sharp instincts failing to shield him from this particular ambush.
Mamori's breath hitched, her face turning a shade of red she didn't think was humanly possible. A cold shiver swept down her spine as her pulse roared in her ears.
"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, CAN'T YOU FUCKING KNOCK?!" Hiruma's voice tore through the silence, snapping her from her mortified stupor.
"I—! The light—! Um—" she stammered, her blue eyes darting wildly, desperate to focus on anything other than him.
His lips curved into that wicked, predatory grin she knew all too well. The sharpness of it, paired with his calculating gaze, sent a shiver of indignation and embarrassment down her spine. As if to twist the knife, he stood up, closing the distance between them. His tall, lean frame towered over her. His movements were deliberate, each step slow and measured as he approached her. His towering presence loomed closer, the movement showcased his toned chest and abs with an almost casual confidence, the lean, defined lines of muscle on full display.
He didn't break eye contact, his smirk deepening as he caught the way her eyes darted away, refusing to linger too long in any one place.
"Now that I think about it," he drawled, his voice rich with mockery, "this isn't the first fucking time you've barged in on me like this, is it? The sweet, motherly disciplinary committee representative sure is a perverted woman! Kekeke!"
The cackling laugh that followed grated on her last nerve, igniting her fury.
"HIRUMA-KUN! YOU'RE SO HORRIBLE!" she shouted, her voice breaking from both mortification and rage as she spun on her heel and bolted from the room, slamming the door behind her.
Outside, Mamori stood frozen, her back pressed against the door as she tried to steady her breathing. Her heart pounded against her ribs; her face still unbearably hot.
Her thoughts raced, flipping between indignation and frustration. While what he'd said wasn't entirely untrue—it had happened once before—it was entirely accidental! That infuriating devil of a man had a terrible habit of staying late to train alone, putting himself in situations ripe for misunderstandings like this.
Mamori clenched her fists, still trembling from the mix of emotions. She could almost feel his laughter echoing in her ears, that smug, teasing tone he used to poke at her every chance he got.
"Unbelievable," she muttered, pushing off the door and stalking away. "That man is impossible."
Then it hit her. Hiruma had just returned from a grueling 13–14-hour round trip to America, all within the span of two days. He'd gathered intel with the ruthless efficiency he was known for, likely skipping meals and sleep in the process. Now, here he was, mid-change from his uniform after yet another late-night practice session. Her eyes caught the tape tightly wound around his right arm, evidence of his effort to regain arm strength and control of his throws after recovering from his injury.
"This reckless idiot," she muttered, frustration warring with admiration. Before she could second-guess herself, she turned back and slammed the door open again.
"GODFUCKINGDAMNIT WOMAN! FUCKING AGAIN?!"
Hiruma barked, his voice razor-sharp with irritation. At least this time, he'd managed to pull his pants on, though his arm was still half-wrapped in tape. He scowled at her, clearly annoyed by the interruption.
"Hiruma-kun, you've known about the prize for this tournament for a while, haven't you?" she asked, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions within her.
He froze for a fraction of a second, then fixed her with a sharp glare.
"If you already know, then don't fucking ask," he retorted, his tone flat but edged with exhaustion. Turning his back to her, he added with a sharp grin,
"Now, unless you're here to keep sexually harassing me, go the fuck home. Tomorrow's going to be hell for you, and I expect that intel fully edited and ready, fucking manager! Keke!"
Her gaze lingered on his back as he spoke. Lean and scarred, his wiry frame bore the marks of battles fought both on and off the field. Despite his toned muscles, it was clear he lacked the natural bulk suited for this brutal sport. Yet, what he lacked in physique, he more than made up for in sheer willpower and brilliance. Hiruma Youichi was every inch a football player—not by birthright but by grit and heart.
Mamori's chest tightened as her expression softened, sadness creeping into her features.
"You idiot," she whispered under her breath, but there was no anger in the word—only quiet admiration.
At first, Mamori couldn't understand why anyone would willingly subject themselves to the brutality of American football. But after nearly a year of watching the team grow—watching how this "caveman sport" gave each player a purpose and drive—she finally understood. It wasn't just the game itself but the unyielding determination of the one leading them. Hiruma Youichi, gun-toting, sadistic demon that he was, possessed a will so fierce and contagious that it had infected her too. Beneath the vulgarity and sharp edges lay a refusal to back down, no matter the odds.
She wasn't on the field with them, but she still wanted to win. As the manager, it was her duty to ensure the team was ready: well-fed, rested, and in peak condition. And that included him, no matter how infuriating he could be.
"I can still feel your fucking eyes glued to me, damn manager! Why the fuck are you still here?" Hiruma's voice snapped her out of her thoughts. His tone was sharp, but there was a faint edge of discomfort beneath it. While he had no qualms about being half-naked in front of her—after all, she'd already seen him bare-chested during the Hakushuu game while patching him up—something about the way her gaze lingered made him oddly self-conscious.
Mamori ignored the bite in his words, her blue eyes steady. "Hiruma-kun. We must win."
"The fuck? Of course, we'll win! Those fucking Americans won't know what hit them! Keke!" His sharp grin returned, but it faltered slightly when he noticed the shift in her expression. She wasn't flustered or nagging him; her gaze burned with determination.
"Yes, but that's not what I meant." Her voice was calm but firm as she set her belongings on the bench and approached him. The change in her demeanor made him instinctively take a step back, his sharp instincts alerting him to the breach of his personal space.
"Sit down," she ordered, her tone leaving no room for argument.
"What the fuck has gotten into you, fuc—"
"Just sit down!" she snapped, her voice rising slightly. "If you want to achieve that NFL contract, then we need to start preparing ASAP. Now, sit DOWN. Please."
Hiruma blinked at her, thrown off by the sudden intensity in her tone. For a moment, he simply stared at her, his usual smirk replaced by cautious curiosity. Then, with a dramatic sigh and a slight scowl, he dropped onto the bench, his movements deliberately slow and exaggerated.
Without missing a beat, Mamori sat beside him on his right, her hands immediately moving to the taped arm. Her touch was gentle but firm, undoing the haphazard job he'd done earlier.
"To improve your chances, you need to heal properly," she began, her tone shifting into calm, managerial authority.
"That means sleeping on a regular schedule, eating balanced meals, and sticking to proper training. As manager this team, it's my job to make sure you're as prepared as you can be for that tournament."
She paused briefly, holding up the poorly applied tape with a pointed look.
"By the way, this is terrible. You can't even tape yourself up correctly, Hiruma-kun. I'll oversee your training and eating schedule from now on. And your ball control needs work. Your throws used to be accurate, but now they're consistently deviating by at least fifteen degrees—"
Hiruma leaned back slightly, studying her. She was speaking softly, her voice almost soothing despite the criticism laced in her words. The determination in her tone was unmistakable, igniting something unspoken in the air between them. He wasn't sure what had brought this on, but he wouldn't argue against her logic.
If he wanted to win, no, because he had to win, then every edge mattered. She wasn't wrong—an NFL contract wasn't something someone like him, with his lean frame and so-called average athleticism, could attain easily. He knew that better than anyone.
He also knew her words were right—he needed to heal and prepare properly. But her calm authority, her precise criticism of his flaws, and the gentle touch on his taped arm gnawed at something raw inside him. Her logic wasn't flawed, but that same logic twisted in his mind, clawing at insecurities he rarely acknowledged. It wasn't just about his body or skill—it was about how she saw through him. The thought gritted against his pride, his defensive walls snapping up like iron gates.
"Don't you wish for the fucking shrimp to get that coveted prize instead of me?" he snapped, his voice dripping with venom. Leaning forward, his eyes narrowed, daring her to respond.
"Thought you'd be all over the place, doing everything in your power to make sure he fucking gets it." Mamori froze for a moment, startled by his sudden attack. But she quickly steadied herself. "Sena is now perfectly capable of fighting for and attaining his own dreams," she replied firmly, meeting his glare.
"Oh, and I fucking can't?" Hiruma's voice rose, his sharp laugh cutting through the room like a blade.
"Am I your replacement fucking charity work, fucking manager?!" He jerked his arm free from her hands and stood, towering over her with an almost feral intensity.
"Just because the fucking shrimp stopped sucking up to you, now you want another fucking weakling to nurture and care for like a goddamned pet?! Newsflash, fucking manager: I don't need a mom to help me get my goals."
His words hit like a physical blow. Mamori's brow furrowed, her lips tightening as she absorbed his tirade. She stood slowly, her movements deliberate, and reached into her bag. Without a word, she placed the pack of sugarless gum she had come to return inside his locker.
The air between them crackled with tension as she walked past him, picking up her things without so much as a glance in his direction.
"Good evening, Hiruma-kun," she said softly, her voice faint and tinged with disappointment.
He watched her go, her quiet dignity more cutting than any retort. For a moment, silence filled the room, thick and suffocating.
"Tch! That damned woman…" Hiruma muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. But the anger in his voice faltered, leaving only frustration—at her, at himself, and at the words he couldn't take back.
Mamori walked home, her steps slow and aimless, her mind a tangled web of emotions. Why is it always like this? she thought, frustration bubbling beneath her calm exterior. Every attempt to connect with him felt like slamming into an unyielding wall—cold, sharp, and designed to keep everyone out. He didn't just hold people at arm's length; with her, it felt like he deliberately pushed her farther away, as if the very idea of her closeness was something he couldn't tolerate.
His words replayed in her mind, each one hitting like a slap. Charity work? A mom? She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. I was just trying to help. Why does he have to be so cruel about it?
The sting of his accusations mingled with a deeper ache, one she couldn't shake. Hiruma treated Kurita and Musashi with a rough sort of camaraderie, but with her, it was different. He was harsher, more guarded, as though her presence alone was a threat to the fortress he had built around himself. And yet, she couldn't stop caring, couldn't stop trying to breach the walls, no matter how often she was pushed away.
Lost in thought, Mamori didn't notice the wrong turn she had taken. Her surroundings shifted subtly, unfamiliar streets replacing the well-trodden path home. But she barely registered it, her mind still caught on the tension in his voice, the weight of his gaze, and the quiet, unspoken truth she wished he would let her see.
"Hey! What's a pretty schoolgirl like you doing out tonight? Wanna have some fun?"
The voice slithered out of the shadows, low and slimy. Mamori froze, startled as a vulgar man emerged from a dark corner of the street.
"What? Wait—where am I—?" she stammered, her heart racing as she tried to process her surroundings. Before she could react, the man grabbed her arm with a rough jerk.
"Hey! Let me go!" she shouted, panic rising in her voice. But he leaned closer, his filthy hand gripping her head as his rancid breath assaulted her senses. She recoiled, disgusted and terrified, as he attempted to force his lips on her.
"I said, LET ME GO!" she screamed, adrenaline kicking in. Thinking fast, she lifted her knee sharply and drove it into his groin.
"YOU BITCH!" he howled, doubling over in pain. Without waiting to see his reaction, Mamori turned and ran, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. The unfamiliar streets blurred around her as she desperately searched for a way out.
She darted down what she hoped was a path leading to the main road, only to find herself trapped in a narrow alley.
"Oh no! I need to go back—" she muttered, spinning around. But before she could make her move, the man tackled her from behind.
She hit the ground hard, the impact jolting through her as his weight pinned her down.
"This is bad!" her mind screamed, fear gripping her as she struggled to break free. He covered her mouth with a grimy hand, muffling her cries. The stench of his skin made her stomach churn, but desperation sharpened her instincts.
With a burst of determination, Mamori bit down on his hand as hard as she could.
"ARGH!" he bellowed, recoiling in pain. She took advantage of his distraction to shove him off with every ounce of strength she had. Scrambling to her feet, she bolted down the alley, her legs trembling but moving faster than ever.
"YOU BITCH!" the man roared, his voice echoing in the dark as he lunged after her.
Just as his shadow loomed closer, a deafening bang ripped through the night. The sound was sharp and unmistakable—a gunshot.
Mamori instinctively clapped her hands over her ears, her eyes squeezed shut as the air grew heavy with dread.
"That was a gunshot," she thought, her breath hitching in her chest. "It can't be—"
The vile man froze, his filthy hands still mid-motion, as a low, menacing voice cut through the oppressive night air like a blade.
"YOU stay the fuck down, you fucking little BITCH."
Mamori's breath hitched. She recognized that voice—sharp, husky, and dripping with venom. From the shadows, Hiruma Youichi emerged, his lean frame backlit by the pale moonlight, his sharp grin and predatory gaze gave him an almost otherworldly, demonic aura.
"Kekeke… I've got everything on camera, you stinking pig. Your sorry fucking ass belongs to me now." Hiruma's devilish chuckle sent shivers down her spine, his words as sharp and calculated as ever.
The assailant whimpered, trembling as he took a stumbling step back.
"A demon?" the man stuttered, his voice cracking with terror.
Hiruma's eyes gleamed with malice as he leveled his beloved AK-47 with one hand, the weapon aimed unflinchingly at the man's head.
"Damn right, you fucking piece of shit. Now get the fuck outta here, or I'll blow your goddamn brains out."
The man's knees buckled, his body betraying him as a dark stain spread down his pants. Hiruma didn't flinch. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, his grin widening.
"What's the matter? Can't run? Here, let me motivate you."
With a deafening BANG, Hiruma fired a shot deliberately close to the man's feet. The crack of the gunshot echoed through the alley, and the scumbag finally scrambled to his feet, screaming incoherently as he fled into the night.
Hiruma scoffed, lowering his weapon. "Fucking trash."
Still shaken, Mamori pushed herself to her feet, brushing off dirt and dust as she took a hesitant step toward him.
"Hi-Hiruma-kun," she stammered, her voice soft but steadying. "Um… thanks."
Hiruma's sharp gaze flicked to her, and for a moment, it softened—just a fraction, barely perceptible.
"Tch, don't thank me, fucking manager. What kind of idiot gets lost in the middle of the night?" He slung his weapon over his shoulder, his tone cutting but not entirely devoid of concern.
"You stupid woman. Next time, look where you're going, otherwise you might not be as lucky. Get your fucking ass home already." Hiruma grumbled, his shoulders stiff as he turned to leave. His words were as harsh as ever, but there was a barely perceptible edge of something else—something unspoken.
Mamori knelt to pick up her school bag, feeling the weight of his words settle in her chest. She couldn't explain it, but the tension in his tone lingered in the cool night air. She'd heard those words countless times before, but this time, something felt different.
Suddenly, she heard him shout.
"HURRY UP, DAMN MANAGER! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!"
Mamori blinked in surprise. He wasn't just walking away. He was... waiting for her? She didn't hesitate. Grabbing her bag, she broke into a light jog, catching up to him. He didn't even look at her, just popped a piece of gum in his mouth and continued walking.
For a moment, they walked in silence, the rhythm of their footsteps punctuated by the distant hum of city life. Mamori's mind raced. Was this—could this be? Was he walking her home?
Her lips curled into a small, quiet smile as she looked at his profile—so composed, so distant, yet somehow, there was something behind the hard edge of his eyes. He hadn't said it aloud, but she knew.
"We'll win, fucking manager," Hiruma muttered, his tone gruff but carrying a quiet determination.
Huh?
"That fucking plan of yours... we'll start tomorrow, so it better fucking work."
Mamori's smile deepened, warm and genuine. The weight of everything she'd tried to tell him in the locker room—the care, the frustration, the hope—was now reflected in his words. He had listened. And though he would never admit it, he was showing it in his own way.
She caught herself walking just a little closer to him, the subtle connection between them felt more tangible than ever.
"Thanks, Hiruma-kun," she murmured, her voice soft but laced with sincerity. He didn't respond, but for the first time in a long time, it didn't matter.
The silence was comfortable, even with all the unspoken words between them.