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“Mine!”
Shoes scuff against the hardwood floor. A hollow, rubbery tang echoes off the walls.
“Mine!”
More shuffling, eyes darting back and forth as the ball again sails over the net—and flies past the court border. A sharp whistle fills the air, and Lilia steps into the center.
“Alright. Practice is over. Go change and go home. Tomorrow’s the tournament, so you’ll need all the rest you can get if you expect to perform even half decently.” Wow, motivating. But that’s just how their coach is. Stern, strict, but mostly fair and almost painfully honest. It was disheartening when Yuri first joined the volleyball team, and all she seemed to do was bitch and complain. But his determination to prove her wrong every time she called him out burned so hot, he’s able to chill now.
Or well, sort of.
There’s still tomorrow to worry about, after all. He can’t let himself get too cold or he’ll freeze up. Figuratively and literally.
Chatting amongst themselves, the team files out of the gym and into the change rooms. Yuri claims a shower for himself—only needing to growl at one person to get priority—the refreshing spray soothing the aches and tension in his muscles. To an outsider, volleyball probably looks easy, but it’s as physical as any other sport. A workout for the legs, back, and damn near abuse for the arms, but Yuri accepted the scorching pain and bruising ages ago. Now, he barely feels when the ball meets flesh.
Until water hits his wrists.
At least he’s smart enough now to wear protective bands to soak some of the impact, unlike when he started, but there’s only so much they can guard against.
Yuri grits his teeth and massages the sensitive skin under the stream before grabbing the soap. The faster he can get back home and crawl under the covers with Potya, the better.
The tournament center is so fucking huge, it’s basically a sports mansion. Sure, it’s all on one floor and not as obnoxious as a real mansion, but that’s not the point. The first time Yuri saw the damn place, he knew he’d get lost. And of course, he did. He was so embarrassed about Viktor, of all people, having to find him and bring him to the correct gymnasium so he wouldn’t miss the second match of the tournament, Yuri studied the center’s floor plans that same night.
He’s never gotten lost since.
Lilia ushers the team to one of the many change rooms in the building, where they all slip into their jerseys and strap on their wrist guards. She isn’t one for pre-game pep talks, so it’s straight to their first game.
As they trek down the long hall leading to the various gyms, another team of some sort passes them from the opposite direction. They aren’t the only sport being hosted today, so the other guys could be there for anything. And Yuri almost misses them, too busy staring at his phone. Until some asshole bumps his shoulder along the way.
Growling, Yuri’s head shoots up. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe not. He doesn’t care. He’s here to win, so like hell he’ll let someone push him around, even if it’s not on the court. But whoever it was doesn’t even look back, so he has no idea which of the guys did it. All he catches is the back of the jersey of the last person in their group. The fabric is forest green with a tan ‘31’ printed between his shoulder blades.
What a random ass number. There aren’t even thirty-one people on their team.
“Yuri!” His head snaps forward right as Lilia yanks his phone from between his fingers. “This should have been left in the locker room. You’ll get it back at lunch.” And with that, she turns on her heel and carries on leading them.
Just. Fucking. Great.
It isn’t the other guy’s fault. But that won’t stop Yuri from blaming him, anyway.
Their first match is a success!
They pour out of the gym, riding high on their near-flawless victory as they trail to their next game. The team chatters and laughs, nudging and grinning at one another. God, it feels so fucking good to win. Sure, they still have hours ahead of them and could be out of the tournament at any moment. One wrong play could end them. But they’re the Ice Tigers! The team with a reputation of being one of the best in all of Russia! They have a long-standing history of winning. Their trophies fill an entire hallway back at school. And a good portion of them have Lilia’s name on them, either as a player or a coach.
Losing isn’t in their nature.
When they reach the next gymnasium, though, they’re not allowed entrance. The damn place double-booked one of their time slots, so there’s already a different sport taking place in there. And since they arrived second; see, this is exactly why Yuri hates not being first. At anything. The loss of privilege with coming in second—or being ‘first loser’, as he likes to call it—is so fucking annoying. But it’s ‘fine’, they’re told. They can use one of the other gyms. There’s just one problem.
One very big problem.
The team gapes at the court. It’s almost two times larger than what they’re used to. The net is so far away and so high up, Yuri’s not sure how they’ll get any balls over the damn thing.
Lilia complains, but it gets nowhere. Which is rare for her. But it’s either have their second match here or … forfeit. Because apparently, their competition’s already deemed this gym acceptable. Fucking assholes. Couldn’t they bitch like sane individuals?
Fine. Whatever. They’ll just have to hit the ball really damn hard.
And pray.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Yuri doesn't say it to any specific individual. But it is about one.
Their competitors file into the room. In forest green and tan jerseys. For a moment, irritation flares before Yuri swallows it. Actually, no. This could be good. They’ll kick these guys’ asses, and Yuri will use their win as a secret form of revenge against number thirty-one. Perfect.
His heart’s already set on the plan when the man in question turns around—Holy. Fucking. Shit.
No.
No, no, no!
This is bad. Really, really bad!
Number thirty-one is none other than Otabek Altin. The underdog of youth volleyball. The dark horse who came out of nowhere and proved so damn good, his team and competition in Kazakhstan couldn’t hold on to him. Yuri heard some Russian scout swooped in and snagged him a few months ago, but he never expected to come face to face with the guy!
Yuri isn’t the only member of his team to notice the infamous player in their midst. Lilia seems to recognize the kid, too. But she straightens her already perfectly aligned spine, holds her head high, and commands their team to take their places.
Maybe he’s the only one who feels this way, but that alone helps restore some of Yuri’s faith.
They can fucking do this! They haven’t been trained by the best for nothing!
Yuri steps into the service zone and draws in a slow, calming breath. A setter is often the one to open a match, but they opt for a different rotation. They have a large enough lineup to afford it, and Yuri’s got the best swing of the lot, so why not start strong? Intimidation is a powerful tool, and the momentary flicker of horror on the opposition’s faces when they’re on the receiving end of his serves is always satisfying.
Across the court, Otabek reverse mirrors his position, taking his place in zone one, seemingly cool as a cucumber. Or dead as a fish—Yuri can’t tell which. The guy’s expression is hard to read. As are their team’s starting positions. He isn’t their setter either, is he? A so-called legendary player would be wasted in that role, so surely they’re using an alternative rotation too?
Whatever. Everyone’s ready. They have a game to play. And a reputation to maintain. Yuri tears his gaze away, fixes his stance, prepares his position ...
The whistle blows. Yuri serves.
And hits the net.
“Fuck!”
“Yuri!” Lilia snaps from the sidelines.
Right. He’s not supposed to swear while on the court. It’s not an actual rule, just Lilia’s. Even still, he prefers to avoid pissing his coach off.
At least it was a let serve, so he gets a second chance, but that wouldn’t happen in a regular sized gym!
It’s fine, though. Well, no. It’s not, but … it has to be.
Yuri takes another deep breath as the ball’s returned to him. He repositions, sways his arm a few times to loosen it and recalibrate—the whistle fills the room, and he throws as much power into the serve as possible. The impact shoots straight through his wrist guard like lightning, but the ball sails over the net. Barely, though not that it matters.
The rally’s begun!
Yuri rushes to his active position as opposition hitter, prepares himself as the other team launches it back to their side of the court, but something seems … off. At first, he can’t place why. Otabek turning out to be one of their middle blockers is strange, sure. He doesn’t have the height for it, but he seems competent enough at working with their setter and adjusting his approach to back up either side as necessary. Hell, Yuri wouldn’t be surprised to discover the guy has a wicked spike when rotated to the front. But no, that’s not it.
He doesn’t figure it out until the third shouted “Mine!” from his own team rings in his ear.
Wait a second …
The ball goes back over the net, and sure as fuck, no one on the competing side says a damn word.
Nothing.
No ‘mine’, no ‘got it’, no ‘fuck off’. The only sounds from their end of the court are the scuff of shoes as number eleven darts into place and volleys it back over.
It takes two more passes back and forth before Yuri’s ready to scream.
How are they doing that?!
The whole point of claiming the ball is to ensure teammates don’t collide with one another or, God forbid, freeze instead and miss it entirely, scoring a point for the competition. Is it annoying as fuck to constantly have ‘mine’ bouncing off the walls? Sure, but it’s better than dropping the damn thing! And yet, Otabek’s side remains dead silent, and not a single crash or freeze happens. They stack, set, block, and cover flawlessly, somehow knowing who will go for it, even when the ball flies in between two zones.
It’s so unfair, so outright disgusting how well they work together with nothing more than glances, Yuri wants to vomit.
Their coach doesn’t even look pleased. He’s just … standing there, arms crossed, scowling.
Maybe he and Lilia should date. They seem made for each other.
More serves, wins snagged for both sides. Yuri doesn’t want to admit it, but the rushing in his veins and pounding of his heart is proof enough; despite their black and white styles, compared to the pushovers in their last match, this team’s actually putting up a good fight.
By sheer luck, eventually their alternating sideouts put Otabek directly in front of him, and Yuri uses the moment to his advantage. “Hey, loser,” he snaps. “Quit with the eye sex and play the damn game. You can fuck your teammates after we kick your ass.”
Whatever reaction Yuri was expecting, a slight smile isn’t it. “Why? Jealous?”
“Pffff, no.” That would be stupid. What’s there to be jealous about? His response only seems to amuse Otabek even more, though, so of course Yuri isn’t going to let that slide. Except, he has to—the whistle blows, and the ball is served. But this time, instead of Otabek watching its trajectory and getting into his active position, he keeps staring.
At Yuri.
What the fuck?
Number five volleys. Yuri’s head tilts back, analyzing its angle. “Mine!” he shouts before charging into someone else’s zone and sending it over the net after a near-collision. Their setter glares. Lilia hisses his name. He knows better than to pull that shit, he does, but he can’t think with Otabek’s gaze boring into him.
Trying to shrug off the criticism, he returns to his place. The ball’s still in play, after all. And Otabek’s still staring. Smirking, even. Asshole.
A quick glance to ensure both coaches and the referee aren’t watching.
Yuri flips him off.
Otabek winks.
The ball meets the floor right at Yuri’s feet.
The whistle shrieks. His teammates bitch. Lilia demands a time out. But Yuri ignores them all in favour of the little shit standing before him. Oh, his gaze dropped to the ball the second it kissed the floor, the tang of the impact echoing through the gym. His eyes returned to the so-called dark horse a heartbeat later, though.
Yuri gapes. Otabek arches a brow, smirk still in place.
Lilia storms onto the court and parks herself in front of him, cutting them off. Her lips are flapping, words are pouring out. Yuri’s forced to look directly at her as she towers over him, but it’s going in one ear and out the other, his brain still on the man on the other side of the net.
The man who’s rotating to a new zone, along with the rest of his team.
Damn it.
After being thoroughly chewed out, Yuri nods as if he’s digested any of it, and Lilia huffs. Her expression makes it clear she’s aware he wasn’t paying attention, but they have a match to get back to, so she sweeps off the court, regardless. Otabek is one space over now, though, so there’s no opportunity for direct revenge. Not yet, anyway. If they can get the serve back and score one more point, Yuri will move to the bench for a few rallies, giving him time to plot before he’s back in play.
The serve is made; they score a point, earning the ball back. Perfect. But they’ve been trading wins so consistently, he’s not sure they’ll manage a sideout this turn ...
The whistle blows. The ball sails over Yuri’s head. They zero in on the rally—and Yuri almost hollers when they win the round.
Smug grin in place, he steps off the court and plants himself on the bench, only to look up and find Otabek’s eyes glued to him again. What the hell is his problem? Doesn’t he have better things to do? Like winning the fucking match?
The thought’s like a missing puzzle piece discovered under the couch and finally slotted into place.
Oh.
Goddamnit!
It’s all been on purpose, hasn’t it? The taunt, the staring, the wink. Otabek is in this to win. And he’s using cheap tactics to throw Yuri off. Was picking him a mere coincidence because Yuri opened his big mouth? Or had the son of a bitch done his research before the tournament and pinned Yuri as the team’s sharpest claw?
Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Two can play this game. He may be an Ice Tiger, but the cold can burn too. And if Otabek’s willing to play dirty, so is Yuri.
He stands and walks over to Lilia between rallies. She glares before focusing on the court again, a warning to keep silent, to not distract the team. But Yuri has no plans to ruin the game. At least, not for his own side. Finger’s itching, he waits for the referee’s whistle, then carefully eases his hand into his coach’s pocket—
Lilia grabs his wrist and yanks it back.
Yuri gasps, stares into her scorching gaze. Surely, this is enough to bench him for the entire match, if not the tournament. Fuck, fuck, fu—“Altin!” he squeaks.
Her brows furrow. Then ease. Her eyes trail past him, across the room to … the other coach? Two nerve-racking seconds pass. Her lips purse. She releases Yuri’s arm.
And hands him his phone.
Holy shit! Does this mean, despite the public lecture, she noticed Otabek’s foul tricks, too? Or is this some kind of personal vendetta against Yakov Feltsman? Doesn’t matter. Yuri would hug her if this weren’t the most inappropriate time and place. But he’s sure his expression gets the message across because her lips twitch a little as she pushes the device against his palm.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“I saw nothing.”
“... saw what?”
Her mouth curves at the corners again, her gaze back on the court.
Fucking hell, she’s the best.
Yuri makes a mental note to do something nice for her after the tournament as he unlocks his phone and scrambles for any information possible on the opposition’s dark horse. He expects to find all kinds of obnoxious social media posts and gym selfies and all manner of evidence of the ego Otabek must be carrying around on those broad shoulders. But ... nothing of the sort exists.
He doesn’t own any social accounts except Instagram, and even that’s privated. And the few interviews he’s done since being scouted leave Yuri with absolutely nothing.
Or do they?
A single profile he stumbles upon describes the man as shy of all things, along with a single quote from Otabek himself, admitting he doesn’t know how to handle or reciprocate the open interest of others.
Yuri’s eyes return to the man in question. So, is it … all an act, then? Fake it till you make it? Well, technically Otabek didn’t make the first quip, Yuri did. Otabek just took over the conversation right after, using the opportunity to fucking with him. The opportunity Yuri handed to him on a silver platter. So maybe that’s where his confidence comes from? Being in control?
But what happens when you take the cards out of the player’s hand?
Time’s up. He’s ordered back onto the court. With a nod, Yuri hands the phone back to Lilia and steps into zone one, head held high and a plan brewing so thoroughly, it’s almost bubbling over.
This time, when those eyes inevitably land on him again, Yuri smirks.
Otabek blinks.
Yuri blows him a kiss, and Otabek’s face morphs into pure confusion.
Beautiful. Perfect. Yuri’s always been good at poker, and it’s time to make his enemy fold.
Rally after rally, Yuri splits his focus between the match and the real game on the court, upping his strategy every time Otabek makes the mistake of looking at him again. Sure, it means he’s personally less effective, but he trusts his team, despite what his earlier behaviour indicated. So he relies on their skill and judgement to back him up.
The tricky part is flirting without getting yanked out of the rotation by the referee. But bless his coach; whatever Lilia’s issue with Yakov is, she’s trailed around the room and engaged him in what seems to be some kind of mild yet intense debate, keeping both of their gazes far, far away from him.
See no evil, he supposes.
Oh yeah, he’s definitely going to do something nice for her.
Maybe Yuri pops his hips or ass out more than necessary when extending for the ball. Maybe Yuri winks and blows more kisses between volleys. Maybe Yuri throws in a few lip bites and brushes his sweat away like he’s auditioning for the lead female role in a Michael Bay film. A few more eyes on the opposite team are on him now too, but so what? The more people he can distract, the better.
When luck again places Otabek and Yuri in front of each other, the former actually exhales and looks toward the ceiling for a second as if he’s praying for his God to have mercy on him. Then he steps into the zone mirroring Yuri’s—and right into the Ice Tiger’s trap.
“Tell you what,” he purrs, a thrill shooting through him when Otabek’s throat bobs, “throw the game, and after we’re done kicking your ass,” he leans a little closer to the net and licks his lips, “you can have mine.”
Otabek’s face melts into what can only be described as utter gay panic.