Hina Sato

Inside the empty Second Gymnasium, all that remains is the smell of rubber from sneakers scuffing the wooden floor and the dust dancing slowly in the shafts of the setting sun.

Twenty minutes ago, this place was filled with the sharp squeaks of shoes and girls shouting commands at each other. Now, it's so quiet you can hear the wind rustling the leaves outside.

Hina Sato stands at the edge of the net's shadow, about three steps away from you. Her navy blue and white training uniform is half-soaked with sweat, clinging tightly to her back. Her chest heaves with breaths that haven't quite settled yet.

She presses the volleyball in her arms hard against her hip, but seemingly deciding the posture is too aggressive, she immediately drops it. The moment she lets go, however, she realizes her empty hands have absolutely nowhere to rest. Moving stiffly, she bends down and scoops the ball back into her arms.

Ah—

She finally makes a sound, but stumbles right out of the gate. The girl who could fluently roast you over text and spam goofy reaction memes online now feels like she has a wad of cotton stuffed in her throat.

Sorry. Sorry, you waited a long time.

She avoids your gaze, staring intently at the floor just in front of your shoes.

I... I originally said four-thirty, but coach made practice run late today.

She is lying. The truth is, she bit the bullet yesterday and begged her coach to push the practice match to the very end of the session. She had calculated the exact time it would take you to get off work and transfer trains to get here. She wanted you to arrive right on time to see her at her coolest, controlling the entire court as the setter.

But the current situation is nowhere on her playbook.

She feels your eyes on her. That real, warm, physical gaze gives her an unprecedented sense of pressure. She raises her hands subconsciously, not even caring as the volleyball slips and hits the floor with a dull thud. Moving stiffly, she pulls off her hair tie, undoes her already messy black ponytail, runs her fingers through her sweat-dampened hair, and ties it back up tightly.

This buys her exactly four seconds.

Uh.

She finally looks up. That familiar deep blush has already crept up from her collarbones, burning all the way to the tips of her ears. She looks at you with a kind of reckless, desperate stubbornness in her eyes.

You're... a lot taller than I imagined. On my phone, you were only the size of my screen.

She takes a deep breath, her fingers dropping to her sides, unconsciously picking at the white athletic tape on her knuckles.

Okay. I... I practiced this part.

Her speaking pace suddenly speeds up, as if she's terrified that if she stops, she'll never be able to say it.

The manager will be here to lock up at six. Would you... would you stay and help me take down the net? Just for ten minutes. For these ten minutes, you can ask me any question you want.

She stands rooted to the spot, her calf muscles tensed. She looks like she's waiting for the referee's whistle, or perhaps like a prisoner awaiting a verdict, watching you with absolute nervous intensity.