Chapter Text
It's the day of their first official match against Karasuno, and she doesn’t know why her eyes keep drifting back to him. The tall, unassuming boy from the other team. His face is so... plain. Nothing about him stands out. He squints just a little, the same way her brother did before getting glasses. He shouts, just like the rest of his teammates, but there’s nothing distinct about his voice. And yet... There she is, watching him more than the game itself. He doesn’t even get a chance to play the whole game.
Karasuno wins—of course they do—and Mai forces herself to focus as they line up for the post-match handshakes. Still, her eyes are drawn back to their number 8. She has to fight the urge to keep staring. The way he walks off the court with his team, expression neutral despite the high of a win, makes her stomach do something unfamiliar. Something she refuses to analyze.
"What’s wrong with you, Mai?" Futakuchi’s voice snaps her out of it, his usual shit-eating grin replaced by genuine concern.
"What are you talking about?"
"You’re all spaced out. It’s one game. Relax. We’ll still wipe the floor with them next time."
A laugh bursts out of her before she can stop it—one of those full-belly laughs; it catches Futakuchi completely off guard. His face turns from concern to utter confusion, and that only makes her laugh harder.
"Let’s do it," she says, grinning, but for some reason, her eyes keep flicking back to his retreating figure, just for a second too long.
They don't get far at the next tournament, narrowly missing their opportunity to face Karasuno again. It stings—more than it should, maybe—but she tells herself it’s just disappointment in their own performance. They’re still adjusting to the new starting lineup, after all. Without the third years, their attacks lack weight, the timing is off, and their receives are shakier (though not for lack of trying on Sakunami’s part—he’s practically throwing himself across the floor to make up the difference).
Futakuchi insists they stick around to watch the remaining matches. She tries to insist she has things to do (she doesn’t), but he waves her off and almost drags her toward the final game with Aone by their side.
Karasuno vs Shiratorizawa.
Mai wasn’t sure what to expect, but certainly not this.
Karasuno looks nothing like the team they played earlier in the year. They’re sharper, louder, more coordinated—sparks instead of sputters. And they’re holding their own against Shiratorizawa, of all teams. The reigning champions. The kind of team most schools lose to before they even step onto the court.
And once again, her eyes find Karasuno’s number 8.
He’s on the bench at first, hands folded stiffly on his knees, watching the match with this quiet focus that makes him stand out more than any shout could. He’s subbed in when the blond middle blocker injures his hand.
A blocker, she notes. Of course he is.
Even from this distance, she can tell he’s nervous. His shoulders rise a little too high when he breathes in; his fingers hover awkwardly near his jersey, like he’s not sure what to do with his hands. But the moment he steps onto the court, his teammates swarm him—the libero bouncing on his toes with a grin, the bald spiker patting him hard on the back, the setter saying something quick and firm that she can’t hear but can feel in the posture of it.
And then something shifts.
It’s small, barely there, but noticeable—the way his stance settles, the way he looks at the net instead of the floor. He plays well. More than well. He reads Ushijima’s approach early enough to get his hands in place; it’s not a perfect block, but it slows the spike just enough for their ace to dig it out. The crowd surges with the volley, energy rippling through the gym. Mai’s leaning forward before she realizes it.
Even after the blond middle blocker returns and number 8 jogs back to the sidelines, she can’t take her eyes off him. His chest rises and falls with the kind of exhausted pride she recognizes from her own team—the I did it kind, even if no one else will say it.
The match stretches on. Long rallies, impossible saves, Shiratorizawa pounding again and again like a tide trying to swallow them.
But Karasuno doesn’t break.
And when the final whistle blows—Karasuno wins.
Mai doesn’t cheer. Futakuchi does enough of that for ten people. But she can’t look away from Karasuno’s bench, where number 8 is smiling, small and tired and almost disbelieving.
She wonders if he knows just how good he was out there
Mai walks briskly across the gym, jotting down notes like she always does during practice games. Karasuno’s gym isn’t much different from their own—maybe a bit smaller, a little more cluttered—but today, her focus keeps slipping.
It’s him again. The plain guy. Number 8.
He catches her looking before she can drag her eyes away. He smiles—small, almost shy—and she almost drops her pen. Ridiculous. Why does his smile do that to her stomach? He’s just another player. Just a middle blocker. Just… someone she keeps noticing for no reason she can explain.
Date Tech is playing well, at least. Futakuchi looks seconds away from starting a turf war with their number 6, and even Aone, their gentle giant, seems energized as he shuts down Karasuno’s freak quick. The gym echoes with shouts and sneakers and the sharp smack of the ball, but Mai’s attention keeps drifting toward the bench where number 8 stands, hands clasped awkwardly behind him.
When the game wraps up and both teams scatter to clean, she takes a steadying breath. This is the first time she’s ever approached a player from another school like this. Her nerves hit all at once—loud, fluttery—but she forces her feet to move.
He turns when she stops in front of him, arms full of volleyballs.
“Do ya need something?” he asks. His voice is deeper than she expected. His posture is a little stiff, like he’s not sure what to do with the rest of him. He's taller too, the top of her head just reaching his chin.
“Nametsu Mai. I don’t think we were properly introduced,” she says, wishing her heartbeat would calm down. She starts to offer her hand, then quickly pulls it back when she realizes he couldn’t shake it even if he wanted to.
He stares at her—longer than necessary, long enough that she feels it in her stomach—but then he nods and gives a tentative smile. “Oh, um… Narita Kazuhito.”
She smiles back. “I’ll take one of those,” she says, plucking a ball from the top of the stack. They fall into step, walking toward the storage bins. Somehow, the distance between them feels smaller than it should.
“Your team’s really good,” he says quietly, after all the balls make their way into bins, like he had to work up the courage just to say it.
Mai blinks. Most players from other schools call Date Tech annoying. Or scary. Or both. “Yeah, they’re pretty solid. It’s too bad they didn’t give you more time to play.”
Narita shrugs, cheeks warming as he rubs the back of his neck. “It’s fine. Tsukishima’s a better blocker than me. I only go in if he gets hurt.”
“Oh—the tall, scowling one?” she asks. “I think Futakuchi wanted to punch him. Repeatedly.”
A small laugh escapes him, soft and genuine. “Yeah… Tsukishima’s kind of a jerk.”
“I’m glad the first years on our team are nicer than yours.”
He chuckles again, and for a moment, the gym noise fades into a comfortable hush around them. Mai isn’t sure why it feels so easy to talk to him. It shouldn’t.
“Your manager’s pretty awesome too,” she says, trying to sound casual. “Kiyoko, right?”
Narita’s expression melts into something warm. “She’s incredible. And Yachi—she’s new, but she works really hard.”
Mai follows his gaze across the gym. Kiyoko is wiping down a ball cart with precise, practiced movements. Yachi is chatting nervously with a spiker, notebook clutched to her chest. There’s so much passion in the way they look at their team. It mirrors her own, she realizes.
Then, almost too quietly to catch, Narita says, “They’re lucky to have you.”
He freezes as soon as the words leave him, eyes widening. His face goes red as he rubs the back of his neck again, like maybe he can hide behind the gesture.
“I—I mean, um, your team. Since you care so much.”
Mai’s throat tightens in a way she doesn’t expect. “Thanks.”
They fall into silence—comfortable, if not a little charged—as they stack the last of the volleyballs. She digs out her pen on instinct, fingers brushing the warm paper of her notebook.
“Can I give you my number?”
His head jerks up. A pause—surprised, hopeful, unsure. Then he nods slowly and holds out his hand.
Her fingers skim his palm as she writes, and his breath catches almost imperceptibly. When she’s done, he closes his hand around the numbers like he needs to keep them safe.
“There,” she says, trying not to smile too brightly. “Just for you, okay?”
And it’s the way he looks at his hand—like he can’t quite believe what’s written there—that makes her stomach twist all over again.