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Nijimura’s dad died in his last year at UCLA.
It went like this: the cancer invaded his bone marrow, he underwent four brutal rounds of treatment, lost all of his hair and ten kilos, the chemo kicked in and he made a full recovery. What a miracle! everyone said. Then some fucking asshole hit him with a car on the way back from the grocery store.
Nijimura quit basketball entirely after that. Two years later, he moved back to Japan.
LA was too plastic, too shiny, and something was always on fire, which meant that on top of having to pay six bucks a gallon for gas, even breathing the fucking air felt expensive. Who knew if you were inhaling a one-way ticket to lung disease? Not that Tokyo didn’t have its own issues, but at least here he had home turf advantage.
The main problem with Tokyo was the discrepancy between reality and what had once been familiar. The Lawson by his neighborhood had become a hair salon but the vending machines still sold his father’s favorite brand of genmaicha. Which was just another way of saying the city was indifferent to the way everything had changed for Nijimura.
He was walking past a neighborhood court when he halted, doubled back, and squinted against the weak light of a streetlamp.
“Aomine?” he said. “Aomine Daiki?”
The person turned around, looping the ball over his shoulder and into the hoop.
“Nijimura,” said Aomine, then added as what felt like an afterthought, “-san. I thought you lived in California.”
“Not anymore.” Nijimura nodded at the ball. “Are you still playing?”
Aomine shrugged. “Some,” he said. “Not really.”
Nijimura frowned. “I always took you as the type—”
“—to play until my body gave out?” Aomine smiled. He retrieved the ball and angled up for a three. The ball went in, swish, nothing but net, but now that Nijimura knew what to look for, he could see it: the way Aomine’s left elbow hesitated fractionally before pulling up with his right. Nijimura had spent enough time around Kiyoshi to recognize the signs of an old injury.
Aomine caught the ball and turned to Nijimura. “What about you?”
“I haven’t played in years.”
He was relieved when Aomine turned and started dribbling. Between the legs, behind the back. Nijimura took it as a sign the conversation was over. He’d almost reached the end of the court when Aomine called out, “Senpai.”
Nijimura halted instinctively. He looked back.
Aomine was standing with his hands in his coat pockets. The ball lay discarded on the ground. Somewhere in the dark, maybe around his feet. Nijimura couldn’t see it.
There had been a time, once, when Nijimura had rested his hand on Aomine’s soft hair and advised him to be honest. But those things—victory, basketball, fucked up miracle children—what did they matter anymore? It was all so long ago.
He continued walking. After a moment, the familiar sounds of dribbling resumed. Swish, thunk. Then silence.