Chapter Text
Two seconds left on the clock.
The sound of basketball shoes squeaking against scuffed floors is drowned out by the sheer volume of the crowd, some forty thousand spectators screaming throughout Jujutsu Arena as the scoreboard glares 106-108 in the Fangs' favor.
Two seconds left on the clock, and the Sorcerers need a hell of a shot.
You lean on the white-painted cinderblock wall, arms crossed and jaw tight, just outside the open doors to the court.
“Ah, hell,” Ieiri mutters as the team gears up for the clock to start again. “They aren’t getting there in two seconds.” The trainer has had a relaxed game, for her part, only a false alarm when Itadori took an elbow to the head. He was back up and running a few minutes later. You’ve started to think nothing fazes him.
“I’ve seen crazier,” you offer, but it’s looking bleak for your team. In the headset, Zenin is saying as much, the other commentator—they call him Panda, and at this point you don’t remember what the hell the guy’s real name is—echoes her pessimism.
For all you want your team to win, you know they’ve already performed well enough that you don’t have to worry about securing a spot in the playoffs, or even in the play-in tournament that determines the final two spots in each conference. Assuming these next few weeks pan out the way you’ve predicted, the Sorcerers will go into playoffs as third seed. After five years working in basketball management, you like to think you’ve gotten pretty damn good with your predictions.
“Two on the clock, and unless Gojo or Itadori can swing at least a two-pointer here, we’re looking at a home loss for the Sorcerers for the first time this season,” Zenin says. She’s right—Fushiguro’s got the ball near the far end, and he makes to throw it in toward Ino but hurls it in Gojo’s direction without even looking at him. It happens before you can even really process it—the fake-out, Gojo sweeping down the court in two strides, the ball rocketing from one hand just before the three-point line. The buzzer blasts and you launch off the wall, grabbing Shoko’s arm in half-shock, half-glee, and the Sorcerers win 109-108 on their home court.
“Fuck yeah!” Ieiri hollers as the subs crowd the court, and you grin with a nod at Kusakabe before the assistant coach heads to join the fray. The shouts in the headset become electric as Zenin and Panda exclaim over each other, and you tug them off to hang around your neck.
You wish it hadn’t been fucking Gojo who scored the buzzer beater, but beggars can’t be choosers.
You glance at the clipboard in your left hand, stacked with schedules and brackets. Playoffs still feel a long way off, but you know they’re not really—the play-in tournament is in early April, and playoffs start immediately after.
Yaga and Kusakabe, though, won’t allow the team to grow complacent. You can rest easy in that regard.
You’re scribbling notes into the margins of the old division standings when the players start filing back through the hall, Yuji the first one to bounce through the doors with a massive grin and his pink hair matted down with sweat.
“Alley-oop!” he shouts, unnecessarily loud, and practically knocks your clipboard away in his effort to engulf you in an NBA-body-odor hug. Oh, well. You like Yuji too much to really protest, and his excitement is infectious. The team has taken to calling you by your college nickname—initially because it got a reaction out of you—and it just stuck. They usually shorten it to Alley, but Gojo calls you a lot of things just to mess with you.
“Nice work, Itadori,” you say when he pulls away, patting him on the shoulder with a grin. Fushiguro gives you a nod as he passes, Ino offers you a fist bump, and Nanami raises two fingers to his brow in a little salute. The rest of the team thanks you or offers a smile or high-five as they trek back to the locker room, Yuta going as far as to give you a quick side-hug and Toge playfully sticking his tongue out at you before darting away to catch up with the others. You laugh, and then Gojo is towering over you, and any mirth in your expression evaporates like smoke in the wind.
Gojo, who’s always last off the court because he just has to show off for the press. Gojo, who’s been with the Sorcerers three years longer than you have and never lets you forget it. Gojo, NBA poster child and man of the hour, first draft pick at the ripe age of 20 and the peoples’ player ever since.
Your blood boils.
“No hug for me, Miss Manager?”
You have to restrain yourself from outwardly groaning as you look up at him, that stupid headband making his shock of white hair stand up absurdly, his eyes always oddly bright against the black-and-blue Sorcerers jersey. It clings to his sweat-drenched skin, and you watch his broad shoulders move up and down as he pants, still, from playing nearly a full game. Your clipboard is suddenly of great interest.
“You’ll hug me when we get first seed in the playoffs, right?”
“Third.” You don’t look up from your notes, don’t let your gaze track the movement as he tugs the bottom of his jersey up to wipe his face.
“What?”
“Third,” you say, glancing up briefly this time. “Third seed. Watch. I’m never wrong.”
“I am hurt,” Gojo gasps, clutching at his heart, “that my own manager has so little faith.”
“Piss off, Six,” you mutter, scribbling in the corner of your clipboard even though you’ve got nothing left to add. You started calling Gojo by his jersey number after he made some deplorable comment about liking the way his name sounded when you yelled at him. “Don’t you have places to be?”
“But I’m your favorite,” Gojo whines. “You followed me all the way here from the West Coast!”
“Kento’s my favorite,” you say, just to piss him off, “and I did not follow you from—”
But Gojo, per usual, is not listening. The rest of the team is already disappearing around the corner in a rowdy cluster of shouts and cheers and back-slaps, and Gojo is already calling out to Ieiri as she returns from the court with her med kit in tow.
“Shoko, you love me, right?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Dude, you reek.”
“Yes, but you mean that with the utmost affection,” Gojo insists, patting her on the head. Ieiri swats him away and rolls her eyes.
“Get to the locker room before Yaga chews you out, asshat.”
Gojo sighs and bows dramatically, winking at you before practically skipping off to the locker room.
Your knuckles have gone white around your clipboard. That man infuriates you like nobody else. All that talent, all that fortune, and no fucking gratitude for it. No discipline, no filter, no brain cells. And it seems you’re the only one who sees it, sees him, for the slacker that he is.
Satoru Gojo, who somehow Ieiri has known for years and still doesn’t hate. Satoru “Six Eyes” Gojo, who has a fucking “Limitless” merchandise line with Nike. Satoru Gojo, who you thought you’d gotten rid of when he left the Curses after that fucking tantrum with Geto. But no—when your contract with the Curses was up, you somehow ended up here, unhappily reunited on the court of their rivals.
Ieiri Shoko, long-time friend and athletic trainer extraordinaire, is your only saving grace.
“Take a breather, girl,” she says, nudging you with an elbow. “Damn. He doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s just stupid.”
You snort, tucking the clipboard back into your bag as you follow her down the hall to the offices. “He sure doesn’t think he is.”
“He sure doesn’t think, as a general rule,” Ieiri amends. She stops at the door to your office and leans against the frame as you toss your bag onto the desk. “What seed for playoffs?”
“Third,” you say, and she nods.
“Then who’s first?”
"In the Eastern Conference? Probably Samurai."
"And Western?"
When you meet her eyes, you can’t find it in yourself to say it, and that’s answer enough. Ieiri sighs deeply, fingers twitching at her side like she needs a smoke. For someone always preaching to the players about their health, she’s sure not good at following her own advice.
And neither are you. You jerk your head toward the back door and Ieiri grins, knowing precisely what you’re asking. There’s only one thing you can really do when Gojo riles you up like this, and you’ve never known Ieiri to pass up a cigarette.
“You never fail to provide,” she says, slinging an arm around you as you lock your office door, and the two of you head out the back doors, leaving your work—and the team—behind.