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It was hot.
July in Japan always stretched on for far too long, too grueling, too wet and sticky. Mamori hated the way the humidity made her bangs stick to her face. And it was a losing battle, to keep tucking damp strands behind her ears.
Equipment was scattered across the football field after a grueling practice, along with discarded jerseys, pads, water bottles. If she could get any hotter at the moment, she would be fuming at her teammates' boyish negligence.
She didn’t have the time or patience for this.
Mamori unceremoniously whipped her head forward, wrangling her frizzing hair up into a messy ponytail. It was an uncharacteristic look for her, but she gave herself no time to be self-conscious.
She was already padding across the field towards a certain blond quarterback, who seemed to always radiate a heat of his own. Perhaps it was just his devilish aura, or maybe he was the source of this week’s heatwave. It really wouldn’t surprise her if he was capable of manipulating even the weather.
Mamori just stopped herself before barreling into him, her own abstract thought and the oppressive heat having distracted her.
He was shirtless, just like the other boys who so rudely dumped their gear on the field for her to pick up. And he was sweaty, just like her and the others, which was always strangely comforting. Her mind kept an ever-growing collection of “Hiruma Moments”, ones where he proved to be a mere mortal like the rest of them. Just a human, a young man.
She would smile right now if she wasn’t so peeved. She might have even let her eyes linger a bit longer — a crazy and embarrassing thought she willed herself to ignore.
Hiruma beat her to the punch, sizing her up, probably about to poke fun at her moving like a bat out of hell.
“Am I in trouble?” He questioned in his fake ‘goody-two-shoes’ voice.
“Maybe! Do I look like a maid?”
“You look like a fucking manager.” Hiruma stared at her, his eyebrows cocked in the way they did before their typical, disciplinary spats. “Actually, you look different.”
His eyes floated up to her head, where her ponytail sat up high. She smoothed her bobbing tresses, almost falling off her train of thought.
“Have everyone clean up the field. I’ll help, but I’m not touching any dirty clothing.” Now it was her turn to examine, her eyes burrowing holes into his bare pecs, an indication of his culpability in the field’s mess.
It was in his instinct to retort, but instead, he grinned wide. Mamori tried to quiet the glee in his voice as he bum rushed the freshman out of the clubhouse, and onto the field, doling out cleaning commands. She wasn’t 100% satisfied with this outcome, but at least there were no guns or explosives involved.
Mamori resigned herself to the covered bench, happy to write up notes and tactics than do heavy-lifting. A few of her teammates — Agon, Ikkyu and Jumonji — gathered near her, cold towels slung over their shoulders, and one in hand for her. They started hooting and hollering at the scene before them, talking trash in a primal, boyish way.
“Seems he’s really in his happy place.” Jumonji noted, smirking.
Mamori later found herself in her happy place, alone in the air-conditioned clubhouse, wrapping up for the day. All football notes finished, she turned her attention to other work: practice lesson plans for her teaching major.
What was the best way to teach a grade-schooler algebra? Should she use some blocks? Maybe some drawings would help?
Definitely not drawings , she reconsidered, not risking a room of children poking fun at her creative skills.
Her focus broke when Hiruma kicked open the door to the clubhouse, sitting adjacent to her. He popped open his laptop, busy with whatever “work” and proclivities he was currently obsessed with. His bubblegum snapped periodically and it was like clockwork, how they found themselves like this almost every day.
He was cleaned up, hair damp from a shower, smelling sharply of sandalwood. It was embarrassing to even notice such things, and noticing almost always made her blush.
Things have gotten stranger in her sophomore year of university. She once saw Hiruma as nothing more than a reprehensible, demon-like creature, a nuisance that required taming. But now, perhaps because of time, or the charged, college culture surrounding her — Mamori was changing.
She still appreciated the rules but didn’t sneeze when someone broke them. She still denounced Hiruma’s violent ways, but understood, it was all just a show. She still wished to tame him, but sometimes yearned for him to tame her.
Mamori didn’t quite understand what it all meant, she only felt it deep in her stomach. That she was a woman, and he was a man , and there was a mysterious wave swelling up between them.
Or, that was simply the heat talking, that she was still quite delirious from the day’s sun exposure.
The note-taking had ceased, pencil frozen to paper, and she hadn’t even noticed that the tapping of Hiruma’s keyboard had stopped as well.
He was examining her, like he could somehow read her mind, and some days it felt like he really could.
“Anezaki,” he bit, calling her to attention by her real name, something he used so rarely that it sounded intimate coming from his lips. “Pack your crap, let’s go.”
All too easily abandoning her lesson plans, she nodded, stuffing books into her tote and following him out the door.
To anyone familiar with Yoichi Hiruma and his reputation, they would assume he must have kidnapped Mamori and taken her to some sinister, dark place. That he took advantage, scheming and plotting to blackmail her, or hypnotizing her into becoming his lackey.
But none of those things actually happened.
Instead, she was led to an adorable, tucked away ice cream parlor, splashes of baby pink and blue signage adorning its windows. If Hiruma was attempting to set a so-called “trap”, it was the cutest, most enticing trap. Especially on this hot day.
She gave no thought to Hiruma holding the door open for her, as she slipped in, already eyeing the menu. Ice cream could never compare to cream puffs, but it measured up pretty closely in her books.
This spot specialized in shaved ice, something she wasn’t too familiar with. While she was scanning her options, Hiruma approached the timid woman at the counter, no doubt spooking her with his garish looks. She worked nervously fast to deliver and ring up his cup, just a symptom of the effect Hiruma had on unsuspecting folks.
And before Mamori had time to empathize with the counter girl, or put in her own order, Hiruma stuffed his cup into her hands.
She looked at him, confused, and it felt like she had started sweating again.
“You’ll like it.”
“This is for me?”
“You think I’m gonna eat all that sweet crap?”
Mamori stared at all the fix-ins on the shaved ice — strawberries, mangos, condensed milk, sweet red beans and warm rice cakes — and had to agree. Hiruma would never eat this .
So why were they there?
Mamori willingly followed the devil across the neighborhood, without a second thought, no questions asked. Hiruma didn’t do things just because and he never wasted his time. There was always a purpose, a motive, something to gain and strings to pull.
She had to refrain from digging in before she got some answers.
“Is this a proposition?”
“For what?” He laughed. “Just eat the damn thing, it’s melting.”
She obliged, mostly because the sticky, little mochi balls were begging to be eaten.
“I know you’re up to something.” She said with her mouth full, and it made the both of them grin. They sauntered back outside, claiming a seat on a bench under the parlor’s awning. He sat with his legs widely crossed, his arm draped on the back of the seating, maybe too close to her.
Of course he was wearing black pants despite the heat, and as usual, he looked cool in them. Even as beads of sweat dotted along his forehead, he still looked so effortless and good . Even as his chest was shining in the sun, one too many buttons undone on his linen shirt…
Mamori chose to distract herself from these thoughts, instead carefully savoring the way the sugary ice dissolved in her mouth.
Hiruma still had not confessed to his true intentions of this ice cream outing he dragged her to, though she could probably guess it was football related. She wanted to press on, find out more.
“What does shaved ice have to do with football?”
“It doesn’t.”
“That’s what you always say.” She rubbed the back of her neck, annoyed, and remembered she still had her hair tied up.
Mirroring her movements, Hiruma’s hand that lingered far too close to her, reached out and touched her neck. Hiruma’s long, calloused fingers were touching her, sending the coldest shock down her spine, more so than the shaved-ice.
She was frozen, stunned by how out-of-character and out-of-the-blue this was. Her mind began to sputter and short circuit, flooded with thoughts on how surprisingly gentle his touch was…
Hiruma let out his signature laugh, but his face — when she mustered the courage to look at it — was not mocking, but strangely sincere.
“Your hair looks good.”
By some mysterious force, she leaned into his touch. Just add it to the list of her bizarre behaviors fueled by the heat. She felt suddenly drunk from all the sugar, her sweat, his compliments and touch.
Hiruma’s fingers floated downwards, palm resting near her shoulders.
“We should really get more heat waves around here.” Now he was smirking, and she was pouting playfully, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. For them to keep teasing, to toe the line between only teammates and something more .
Or maybe the line was already crossed. Maybe Hiruma did not drag her through the hot city for the sake of scheming and football, but rather, for a date. Maybe he knew her too well, and her love for sweets, and how much she hated the heat. Maybe, he reached out not to torment her, but to bring her closer.
And perhaps, the most troubling thought of all, one she so often had to shamefully stuff down:
Maybe he likes her.
She considered the way he sat beside her, confident and yet vulnerable, defenses temporarily and yet willingly set down.
Maybe she liked him?
She considered how he looked: pointed ears were pink from the sun, skin dewy and tanned, muscles and veins carved from the heat. She considered how it made her feel , the fluttering in her stomach growing more wild.
Maybe — no, definitely — she wanted him.
Before she could find the time to hide away these thoughts, before she could be wrangled back with reason and her own shyness, she stared at him.
Different from how Mamori ever looked at anyone, she beckoned him, her eyes wide and scared and pressing. Like she learned from Hiruma and American Football, if there was a tiny opening to victory, she needed to throw the ball and score.
She would never forget his face, an expression that betrayed his devil persona and the wickedness he had conjured around himself, as she leaned in and kissed him. A rare image to add to her “Hiruma Moments” list.
Her icy, pink lips met his, his mouth unexpectedly warm and minty from his gum. In typical Hiruma QB fashion, he responded quickly and accurately, squeezing her shoulder, bringing her in closer and deeper.
It was sugary and soft, yet fiery and jolting, a true representation of their strange relationship.
Mamori swore her skin couldn’t burn any hotter, dancing with the devil like this.
And as soon as it started, it ended, as customers approached the shop and her modesty kicked in. Mamori nearly lept back, suddenly so aware of how she was kissing an infamous bad boy, in public . Her face flamed rosy and sweaty, tank top strap slipping, dessert cup melted and crushed in her hand.
Hiruma was smiling way too widely, something she only saw when he was gleefully plotting.
“So,” He cut through the intensity, patting his hands on his thighs in a jittery way. “What would you do if I said you look hot with that hair?"
She pushed him off to the side and hung her head in response.
“How about if I said you look slamming? Absolutely fucking—”
Mamori shushed him with a hand to his mouth and cursed the weather again, the heat being the source for all her bad behavior and bad decisions. At least, that’s what she would tell herself…
It was hot, way too hot .