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“A basketball player?”
Kirino’s image frowned.
“Yes, he even bounced the ball outside the goal last match…”
Shindou dropped his head in his hands and only looked up at his best friend’s light chuckle.
“Please don’t laugh at me.”
"Sorry, it’s just that it doesn’t make any sense! There are only four actual soccer players on that whole team!”
“Yeah… I don’t understand what the coach is thinking at all. I miss Raimon.”
Kirino smiled softly. Shindou knew that he still felt hurt from not having been selected for the team, so he tried not to add salt to the wound. Kirino was an angel to listen to him complain.
“And what does the captain say?”
“Matsukaze already has a lot on his plate dealing with Matatagi and that boxer guy. I want to deal with Ibuki myself.”
It would have been lying to say that his pride hadn’t been hurt, even if a little bit, when the title of captain had been given to someone else. But he had learnt from experience to trust and even to look up to Tenma. He could tell that this captain would manage to make their mismatched team work. And he was relieved that intergalactic duty didn’t fall on him.
But bad habits died hard, and Shindou couldn’t help but give into his feeling about that one teammate. His trained intuition as a captain kept telling him that Ibuki had potential. If only he could stop dribbling…
“What are you going to do?”
Kirino’s voice was still ringing in his ears when Shindou found himself in front of the door to Ibuki’s room. He knocked.
“What do you want?”
The goalkeeper didn’t seem happy to see him. Shindou felt even less so, but he balled up his fist.
“Come train with me.”
“Huh? No way.”
Ibuki went to close the door but Shindou moved his foot in the way.
“Come on, it’s important.”
“What’s in it for me?”
As tempting a response it was, “The skillset to play on this team” wouldn’t lead him anywhere. He had to appeal to Ibuki’s interest, since he apparently lacked any sense of duty. He mentally browsed very quickly through a repertory of answers, and what came out was:
“Running away? That’s so like you.”
An indignant gasp echoed back and Shindou knew he had hit the mark.
“What’s wrong with you? I’ll crush you.”
“You better try.”
It was that same boiling tension that coursed through his veins when they found themselves on the training court. If he had paused for a second, Shindou would have asked himself why anger was the emotion that came the easiest to him when confronted with Ibuki. But not now. Now he had to strike the iron while it was hot.
And Ibuki was burning with rage to make him swallow back his words. He strived to stop every ball Shindou shot his way, but failed to half the time.
“Again!” The player kept pushing the goalkeeper.
Ibuki moved well, he was deft and quick on his legs. His reflexes were excellent. But he had the unfortunate tendency to expect shoots from above and to ignore lateral openings.
“The goal is wide, you’re open on all sides!”
He roared back:
“That sucks! I want to shoot too!”
“You’re the goalkeeper, idiot!”
The ball skidded to a stop between the gloves. Ibuki stared at his opponent, eyes wide and burning with furious hatred. Shindou held his gaze.
“What did you just call me?”
“Idiot. A goalkeeper who can’t even stop shoots that easy is an idiot.”
He knew that was a dangerous road to go down. Shindou didn’t usually insult his players. That was even forbidden as a captain. But it had come out without warning, it was too late to take it back. And he wasn’t the captain this time.
Ibuki tossed the ball aside in rage. He stomped over to Shindou.
“I’ve had enough! Stop talking down to me, you think you’re so much better?”
He looked at him in the eyes, his breathing ragged. Any answer would have only fanned the flames, so Shindou kept silent.
“Dammit!”
Ibuki tore himself away, fists clenched at his sides. Shindou stared at him unblinking, but blood was pulsing rapidly to his head.
“You know what? We’ll see how you manage at basketball.”
That doused his fire for sure.
“What?” was all he could muster.
Ibuki shoved his index to his chest.
“I’ll hear whatever you have to say if you beat me at basketball.”
A hundred reasons for protest crashed in Shindou’s head, including the clever “We’re soccer players”, and he weakly came up with:
“But there's no basketball c-”
There was a basketball court on the ship. A gym, actually. It served Sakura for her stretching routines, it had a boxing bag for Terudo, and yes, it had basketball markings and hoops.
And thus Shindou found himself standing unwilling and unhappy on the basketball court.
“So!” Ibuki had recovered. “Let’s start with dribbling!”
Still feeling the whiplash, Shindou barely caught the ball that had been tossed his way. It was roughly the same size as a soccer ball, but the texture was rough and the ball sounded hollow.
He began to bounce it on the floor, the noise was unfamiliar but he quickly became accustomed to it. It was harder to follow the ball once Shindou wanted to actually move. In a very ridiculous manner, he had to trot after the ball trying to control it. And Ibuki looked indeed like he was watching the funniest thing ever.
“Control the ball! Stretch you fingers!”
Shindou felt more like clenching his fists. He was feeling humiliated. Why was he putting up with this? He could tell Ibuki to go to hell.
But a challenge was a challenge, especially when it was the only language Ibuki understood. And Shindou never ran away from a challenge.
In truth, Ibuki knew his sport and wanted to give advice, but by now Shindou wasn’t feeling receptive. He would do it on his own, for God’s sake! It was just a stupid game! But he kept losing the ball after two bounces.
Ibuki grabbed his hand out of nowhere. Before Shindou could argue, he studied his palm, frowning:
“Hm…”
“What?” Shindou barked, he wasn’t feeling up for another taunt.
“That’s what I thought… Your palm is all smooth. There’s no grip.”
Since he was a small child, Shindou’s parents had taught him to take care of his hands. They were a pianist’s instrument after all, and especially a maestro’s. Sports like basketball and tennis were to be avoided.
Ibuki showed his own palm for comparison and without thinking, Shindou took it.
The parts of his palm that were jutting out were harder to the touch from repeated impacts with the basket ball. The tips of his fingers were softer than Shindou’s who had endured blisters from intense piano play.
Shindou grazed the calloused palm with his thumb, pressing down lightly. Those hands were made to block shoots.
He dropped Ibuki’s hand, startling him. It really was such a waste.
“Okay, how do I win at basketball?”
After a few seconds of fleeting bewilderment, Ibuki collected himself. He began to explain the rules of the game: where to aim, how to defend, the authorized number of steps. Shindou’s mind was racing to catch up and memorize these new rules. It had been a while since he had had to learn something from zero. He wasn’t used to it. He wasn’t sure he liked it.
A few unsuccessful tries later, frustration was boiling in him and Ibuki took mercy on him:
“Okay, forget it. All you have to do to win is a slam dunk.”
Shindou wiped his brow. Ibuki had shown him the different types of dunk, and he demonstrated the slam dunk once again. It looked easy enough: run while dribbling, jump in the air and… Shindou collapsed square on the floor.
The touch of the cool waxed floor against his cheek only fuelled his rage.
Ibuki didn’t let up. He defended the basket, unblinking and unmovable. All the while he kept taunting and yelling corrections that Shindou didn’t want to hear! A lump started forming in his throat, growing bigger and bigger at each exhortation from his opponent. It occurred to him that not knowing how to play sucked. It really sucked. He had enough, he wanted to play soccer. He was good at soccer.
Shindou jumped for the hundredth time. His fingers hit the rim of the hoop, they almost clung to it… He fell back down.
“Ouch!”
On impact with the floor, pain erupted in his left leg. Everything collapsed all at once: the ball, the tension, the scary focus on Ibuki’s face.
Shindou reached down to his ankle and tested its movement. He let out a small cry of pain.
“Shit!”
He looked up at Ibuki with furious eyes that were starting to tear up. The basketball player, frozen like a dear in headlights, furrowed his brow and shouted:
“It’s not my fault!”
And left him there.
In a rage, Shindou threw the basket ball away. It made a perfect bounce.
If Mizukawa was upset from that incident, she didn’t let it show and went to inform the coach. Aoi had offered more compassion, even more when it had been decided that Shindou wouldn’t play the next match.
That was to be expected. Matsukaze had spotted him limping through the ship and had taken him to the infirmary. His concern had felt to Shindou like a glass of a water to a parched throat. Since he apparently couldn’t expect Ibuki to care.
The basketball player didn’t show up once, and maybe that was for the best because Shindou wasn’t sure he wouldn’t punch him if he saw him.
Shindou then was confined to his bed, torn between the anger from missing the match because of Ibuki, and a strange feeling of unease.
He shook his head and focused on the screen. He could watch the match between Earth Eleven and a team of aliens with wings like dragonflies. He felt as anxious as if he were on the court.
The whistle kicked off the match. As usual, Tsurugi excelled at attacking. But Shindou was also surprised to notice that Matatagi had improved his control on the ball. He glided between his opponents with ease without ever losing the ball. Whatever the captain had said or done, it had worked. Shindou wished he could say the same of his face-offs with Ibuki.
The reason to his discomfort then appeared to him. Before getting injured, he had felt what Ibuki might when playing soccer. Shindou had been put in his shoes, and only now was he realising how blind he had been. That was unworthy of a captain. That was unworthy of a teammate.
He wished he could call Kirino again to share those thoughts with him, but telecommunications with the Earth were limited to one per person per week.
All this time, he had only kept putting Ibuki down. And it had been easy. He could still feel that spark of anger threatening to come ablaze whenever his ankle hurt. He couldn’t stand that guy. And he had let that feeling take over his sense of duty.
Shindou raised his hand to his face and studied it for an instant. He balled it up on his chest.
He gritted his teeth when the opponent broke through the defence field, in a rough action to Morimura who had tried her very best to stand up to him. The enemy player came face to face with the goalkeeper and shot without hesitation. By the look of it, his hissatsu must have felt like a heavy artillery shoot. Ibuki took the goal in and Shindou hit his thigh with his fist.
They wouldn’t make it unless the forward fielders lead the team. But coach Kuroiwa had ordered them to take a defensive stance.
So with rising panic, Shindou could only watch his team struggle and give in to the enemy assaults. But in the whole frenzy, his sharp tactician eye caught on some interesting moves. The goalkeeper moved more and more, he didn’t neglect his sides unlike usual. And he hadn’t bounced the ball even once.
At another goal scored, he watched Ibuki roar in frustration and kick the pole. But in the next instant, the goalkeeper clapped his hands together and got back into position. His eyes fixed on the court burned with the same determination Shindou had seen when he defended the basket.
When Ibuki stopped the next goal, Shindou let out a cry of joy that startled him. He watched his teammates congratulate their goalkeeper, and relief mixed with some sort of pride filled up his heart.
As if he had shown what he had to show, coach Kuroiwa then had them assume an offensive stance. Tsurugi and Matatagi managed to even the score, and victory had to be seized during prolongations. Earth had barely won that play-off.
Once they were back on the ship, their coach didn’t drag on that unsatisfying result and only made a cryptic comment about their potential waiting to bloom.
The Earth Eleven players were relieved but knew that they had a lot to make up for.
That was why Shindou headed, limping a little less, to the gym. The sound of the basket ball stopped right upon his entrance.
“Shindou?” Ibuki froze still. His eyes drifted to his ankle. “You… How is your ankle?”
“It’s your fault, you know.” Shindou walked up to him. “You could at least apologize.”
The goalkeeper stiffened. Anger was so eager to resurface. He could feel it rise under his skin, curling like smoke. Shindou breathed out his nose. Ibuki squared his jaw but did the same.
“Yeah… Sorry… about the match,” he finally spat out.
“You played well.”
The magenta eyes slid up to his face so fast that Shindou stumbled back.
Ibuki looked properly dumbfounded from the compliment.
He recovered quickly and handed him the ball.
“Come on, you owe me a slam dunk.”
It was Shindou’s turn to be taken aback. He had taken the first step, and Ibuki was mocking him again?
“My ankle’s hurt ‘cause of you, are you stupid?!” “What are you doing?!” he shouted when Ibuki touched his shoulder.
“Just get on, you idiot!” his teammate gestured as he crouched for Shindou to climb up his shoulders.
And Shindou got suddenly lifted up in the air, all his anger left forgotten on the ground. The rim of the hoop shone under the lights, triumphant.
As he dunked the ball, Shindou thought that he definitely couldn’t stand that guy. But maybe he could trust him.
And that was a good start.