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Filling shoes wasn’t an easy thing to do, and Yahaba wasn’t sure that he was ready to do it. The school year had begun in a flurry, with handshakes and welcomes and “Wow! You’re the new captain?” The first-years that had been recruited looked strong, and the team was on the right track. Everything was falling into place, but with each missed set Yahaba felt like he was on the verge of falling out of place entirely.
It wasn’t like he was a bad setter. He knew where the ball should go and he knew how each of his teammates preferred to have their ball set. But every time the ball touched his fingertips, it sent a rush of nervous energy coursing through his palms. Sometimes Oikawa’s voice would ring in the back of his head; don’t mind, I’m leaving the team with you, I believe in you, you’ll be fine. They were easy phrases to say when you were a king. Yahaba felt more like a peasant in robes he had pilfered from the throne.
Practice that day was a disaster. None of Yahaba’s sets were hitting their marks, and he could feel the concerned eyes of his teammates on his back. The first-years eyed their captain with frustrated glares at Yahaba uttered out his millionth “Sorry, my bad” that day. Everyone has their bad days, Yahaba thought with a bitter frown. So why are they picking on me? It was just a bad day. Just another bad day to add to his week of bad days, which had been piling up on his month of bad days. Yahaba looked down at his hand in between sets. It was sore and bruised on the edge where the ball had made a bad connection, just a bit of dark purple and oozy yellow beginning to peek through the skin.
Oikawa’s hands had never been bruised, as far as Yahaba could remember. Maybe at some point before he had come to Seijou his hands had been equally purple, but the saying was that once you were here, you were good. You didn’t bruise and you didn’t make mistakes. Oikawa’s hands had always been delicate and graceful, but powerful enough for him to conjure up a storm within a serve at will. Yahaba’s serves were barely making it over the net these days. “It’s just a phase,” his coach had said. “It’s nerves. You’ll be fine.”
As he stared down at his hand and stewed over his thoughts, the ball flew over his head and landed squarely on the ground behind him.
The court was silent.
Ball. Ground. No connection. Weak. Thoughts raced around Yahaba’s head as he whizzed around to face the aggregator of all his problems. The ball that he couldn’t connect with; no, not the ball. It was the team he couldn’t connect with like his predecessor had. Their faces said it all. Who are you to be calling yourself our captain?
“Yahaba.” His coach’s voice was a hollow jolt back to reality. “Take a break.”
There it was. The subtle, yet all-encompassing way of saying “You’re disappointing.” With fists clenched and jaw hard as a rock, Yahaba jogged off the court, keeping his eyes on the floor. Someone else took his place, but he didn’t turn around to see who it was.
It was warm outside and Yahaba found himself slumped on the stairs just outside the gymnasium, throwing himself a bonified one-man pity party. What was he doing leading one of the best teams in the prefecture? He couldn’t even set consistently, and here he was in charge of motivating and leading a group of top-notch volleyball players.
He was so enveloped in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice the water bottle being thrust in front of his face until it started waving and doing a dance. He almost wanted to swat it away, but his body betrayed him. As much as he wanted to, his body wouldn’t let him die of dehydration just yet. He snatched it away and then looked up to see who his knight in shining armor was.
Of course it was him. Yahaba couldn’t even feign surprise.
Kentarou was a lot like a dog. People often thought of him as a wild dog who refused to follow the orders of the pack, but Yahaba knew better. Kentarou was the kind of dog who, if given a bone, would latch onto you for the rest of your life. Yahaba had no idea what kind of bone he had thrown at Kentarou, but here they were.
Yahaba sipped on the water. Kentarou watched him. This was how most of their interactions went: when Yahaba got particularly dramatic and had to walk away to cool down, Kentarou would almost always appear at his heels, much like a dog does when its owner is upset. Sometimes they’d talk, and sometimes they wouldn’t. More often than not it was just Kentarou watching Yahaba, like some kind of guard dog.
“Can I help you?” Yahaba wasn’t in the mood to be guarded today. This was the last thing he wanted. He didn’t need this kind of help and he didn’t need to be watched by someone like Kentarou. He knew what his teammates said behind his back, that he was hiding his own weaknesses behind the explosive power of Kentarou. Sometimes, Yahaba wondered if they were right.
“Coach told me to,” was the gruff reply. “I didn’t want to.”
“Right.” Silence and water sipping.
“Your sets are really shitty today.”
Leave it to Kentarou to be completely and utterly honest. Leave it to Kentarou to say the one thing that Yahaba absolutely didn’t need to hear.
“Really? I had no idea. Thanks for letting me know, I’ll be sure to file it away under ‘things you’ve told me that are really important and relevant to anything.’ Thanks. So much.” He set the water bottle down, probably with a bit more force than he intended to.
Kentarou scowled back at him. “If you know you suck, why are you still here?”
Why? Yahaba looked at him, at the ground, at the water bottle, back to Kentarou. Why was he here? Why was he here setting ball after ball only for them to go nowhere? Why was he here when he could be doing homework or preparing for college? What was he doing sitting on this stoop, sipping on this water, talking to Kentarou Kyotani?
“I,” he stood up. “Have an obligation to this team.” The past year flashed in the back of his head; the practices, the games, that one game. It was a teeth-gritting game, one that still haunted his nightmares. The mistakes, the errors, the faces of the third-years after the match point. It was something that couldn’t happen this year. Yahaba couldn’t let it happen. He felt something welling up inside of him, something he hadn’t felt in a long time: motivation. Energy. The spark of love that he felt when the volleyball pressed against his fingertips. Victory.
“If you have such an obligation, stop sucking.” Kentarou was a simple man who spoke his mind and spoke only the truth. Yahaba was an elaborate man who sometimes dabbled in the emotions of denial and daydreaming. You couldn’t have one without the other. “You’re the captain.” Kentarou clapped Yahaba on the back of the shoulder. “Start acting like it.” The spot tingled on Yahaba’s shoulder, and he hit Kentarou back as they shuffled towards the gymnasium. The captain was back, and his dog— no, his partner, followed at his heels.