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You’d never been interested in volleyball, not really. The rules seemed complicated, a whirlwind of rotations, positions. So when one of your more enthusiastic friends finally dragged you along to watch your school’s official match, you were more than a bit hesitant. You were preparing for a long, confusing afternoon.
You didn't know any of the players, you didn't understand the strategies. For the first few points, it was just a blur of colorful jerseys and a ball flying way too fast.
And then you saw him: number eleven.
Your eyes were glued to the gray-haired guy— the wing spiker— your friend informed you. But you’d already stopped hearing her. It wasn't just that he was handsome, though he certainly was, with sharp features and an intense focus that was palpable even from the stands.
It was the way he moved.
He was weirdly, hypnotically graceful. He wasn’t loud and flashy like some of the players, no, he had this quiet charm to him. You were completely enticed even though you didn’t know what the hell was going on.
You found yourself leaning forward, your earlier boredom completely forgotten. You didn't know what a "minus tempo quick attack" was or why the setter was choosing him again and again, but you knew you needed to see him jump one more time. You started holding your breath every time the ball sailed his way, releasing it only after the sharp, satisfying thwack of his hand connecting with the leather.
"Who is that?" you finally asked, your voice barely a whisper.
Your friend grinned, sensing she'd just converted you. "Eleven? That's Osamu Miya. His twin's the setter, number seven. They're kinda insane. Pretty cool, right?"
Osamu Miya. You committed the name to memory, a soft smile touching your lips as he turned to his teammates with a small, satisfied smile.
Yeah, you thought, your eyes following his every step. Pretty cool.
Once the game ended, and the crowd began to disperse, a strange burst of courage seized you. You mumbled a quick "be right back" to your friend and made a beeline for the team's bench area.
Osamu was resting on the bench a bit further from the others, towel draped around his neck as he took a long swig from a water bottle. You took this as your chance.
With your hands sweating and your heart beating faster than usual, you approached him.
He didn’t seem to notice you until you awkwardly cleared your throat.
His hands stilled. Slowly, those calm, sharp gray eyes lifted to yours. It was almost enough to make you forget your rehearsed line.
“Hey uh…I don’t really know much about volleyball,” you started, the words tumbling out in a rush, “but uh.. you were like, super cool out there. I couldn’t look away.”
There was a beat of silence. Osamu’s expression didn’t change. He simply finished swallowing his water, capped the bottle, and then… he jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the cluster of players where his twin was holding court, laughing loudly.
“Atsumu’s over there,” he simply stated, his voice a low, even rumble.
There was a moment of silence as you looked at him with utter confusion. Your brain scrambled to process the disconnect. Did he think you’d mistaken him for his twin?
“...Okay?”
A flicker of something—amusement? confusion?—passed through his eyes. He tilted his head just a fraction. “Ya deaf or somethin’? The loud one. My twin. Blond hair. That’s who yer lookin’ for, right? To sign an autograph or somethin’?”
The assumption, so blunt and so utterly wrong, finally broke through your stunned silence.
You continued to stare at him, not really sure how he got to the conclusion that you wanted an autograph from his twin when you were so obviously complimenting him.
“No?” you said bewildered, a little too loudly. You winced and lowered your voice. “No, I meant you. Number 11. Your spikes were… I don’t know the word. Precise? They were really cool.”
Now it was his turn to look confused. His eyebrows drew together slightly. He glanced down at his jersey as if to confirm the number, then back at you. The straight line of his lips softened into something that wasn't quite a smile, but was no longer a flat, dismissive line.
“Oh,” he said. It was a simple, flat sound, you could tell he didn’t get this very often. “...Thanks.”
After a moment he spoke again, looking at you with new-found curiosity,
“Yer from my school, right?”
You were slightly surprised by the random question but nevertheless nodded.
“Huh.” He paused, his gaze lingering on you for a beat longer than necessary. “Guess I’ll see ya around then.”
He stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder, and walked away to join his team without another word, leaving you standing there with a racing heart.
Maybe volleyball wasn’t so bad after all.