Chapter Text
You must be in heaven. You have to be. Ain't no way Kuroo asked you such a holy question-
Someone needs to pinch you.
Maybe you got hit by a truck on your way to school this morning. Maybe this was your reward for surviving three years of academic warfare and emotional damage. Maybe you had ascended spiritually after finishing that fifty-two chapter slow-burning enemies-to-lovers volleyball AU at three in the morning.
Because there was simply no WAY reality had just handed you this moment on a silver platter.
"Would you like to be the manager for the volleyball team?"
Your soul left your body.
Kuroo stood there casually in the classroom doorway like he hadn’t just detonated the equivalent of a nuclear bomb directly into your fujoshi heart. One hand in his pocket. Smug grin on his face. Completely unaware that you were currently fighting for your LIFE, trying not to scream loud enough to shatter the windows.
Your trembling hand flew to cover your mouth.
“Kuroo,” you whispered shakily, eyes glimmering with unshed tears, “this isn’t some kind of psychological attack, right?”
“What?”
“You’re not filming me for a prank show? There aren’t hidden cameras? Am I being socially experimented on?!”
Kuroo blinked slowly. “What are you talking about?”
“You can’t just ask a fujoshi if she wants direct access to an entire male volleyball team and expect her to stay calm!”
A couple of nearby classmates turned to stare.
You ignored them.
This was bigger than social embarrassment.
This was destiny.
Kuroo rubbed his face with the exhausted energy of a man who had known you far too long.
“It’s literally just being a manager.”
JUST being a manager?
JUST?!
You stared at him in horror.
“Kuroo,” you said softly, like you were explaining basic mathematics to a toddler, “do you understand the cultural significance of sports teams in the yaoi industry?”
“…Unfortunately.”
“The emotional tension. The rivalry. The teamwork. The trust exercises. The dramatic hand grabbing after losing a match.” You clutched your chest. “The rain scenes, Kuroo.”
“There are no rain scenes.”
“There COULD be.”
Your mind was already spiraling violently.
You could practically SEE the possibilities.
Late evening practices where exhausted boys collapse dramatically onto the gym floor while another teammate offers them water with suspicious tenderness.
Training camps, shared hotel rooms, accidental touches, protective gestures, jealousy arcs-!
THE FUCKING POTENTIAL!!!
Your entire middle school and high school life had trained you for this moment.
While other girls were dreaming about dates and romance, you had spent your youth consuming enough BL content to qualify for psychological evaluation.
You still remember the first anime that changed your life forever: Cherry Hearts Revolution.
Two rival kendo captains.
One bamboo sword accident.
Three seasons of unresolved tension.
A beach episode so emotionally devastating you needed a week to recover.
Then came My Roommate Is a Fallen Angel But Also My Boyfriend?!
A masterpiece.
Absolute cinema.
Sure, the animation budget disappeared halfway through the series, and one character’s eyes were mysteriously different sizes every episode, but the yearning?
Immaculate.
And now REAL LIFE had decided to hand you an entire volleyball team.
You were being entrusted with living source material.
“Oh my god,” you whispered to yourself.
“What now?” Kuroo asked warily.
“What if there’s a childhood friends-to-lovers situation already happening?”
“There isn’t.”
“What if there’s enemies-to-lovers tension-?”
“There isn’t.”
“What if there’s only one bed during training camp??”
“Kozume was right. You ARE insane.”
You gasped dramatically. “Kenma said that about me?!”
“He says it every week.”
Your heart skipped traitorously at the mention of Kenma.
Which was annoying.
Very annoying.
Because, unlike your fictional obsessions, your feelings for Kenma were… inconveniently real.
Not that you called it a crush.
Absolutely not.
That would require emotional vulnerability and self-awareness, two things you actively avoided.
Still…
Kenma had always been unfairly pretty.
Like, offensively pretty.
The kind of pretty that made you pause mid-sentence sometimes, because how was one person allowed to have lashes like that naturally? Why did he always look like he belonged in some soft lighting shoujo manga panel? Why did his sleepy voice make your stomach do weird backflips against your will?
Disgusting behavior from your own organs, honestly.
But you never let yourself think too deeply about it.
Because romance involving YOU felt fake.
Boys falling in love with each other? Beautiful. Artistic. Meaningful.
Boys falling in love with you?
Comedy genre.
Impossible.
You had spent years accidentally rejecting people because you genuinely couldn’t tell when someone was flirting with you.
Your classmates would hiss things like, “HE LIKES YOU,” while you stared back in confusion because, no, obviously, he was just being polite.
Meanwhile, you were out here analyzing whether two male side characters standing too close together counted as homoerotic subtext.
Your priorities were correct.
Kuroo snapped his fingers in front of your face.
“(Name), you joining or not?”
You stood, considering your options.
You’d get to be in the gym every day, watching practices, teamwork, and dramatic emotional sports moments unfold LIVE. This was your summer Olympics.
You stood abruptly from your chair so fast it screeched across the floor. “I accept.”
Kuroo immediately looked concerned.
“I dedicate myself fully to the Nekoma volleyball team.”
“Uh- okay...”
“I shall become the greatest manager this school has ever seen.”
“That part’s believable.”
“I will support every player emotionally and physically—”
“PHRASING.”
“—and I will faithfully document all important team dynamics.”
“You mean your weird ships?”
“I mean important data to improve the players!”
“That’s somehow worse.”
You pointed at him dramatically. “One day, when I become a legendary manga author, you’ll regret doubting my artistic vision.”
“I regret knowing you.”
“You love me, Kuroo-kun.”
“Unfortunately.”
—
The moment you stepped into the gym after school, your spirit ascended.
The squeak of sneakers echoed against polished wood floors.
Volleyballs slammed rhythmically against the court.
Voices bounced through the air.
Boys shouted to each other across the net with flushed faces and messy hair and competitive grins and—
Oh.
Oh, this was dangerous.
You stood frozen near the entrance, clutching your bag against your chest like a pilgrim entering a holy land.
This was better than anime.
Anime could never fully capture the raw energy of attractive athletic boys working together toward a common goal.
The sweat.
The intensity.
The teamwork.
The way muscles flexed during receives—
You needed to calm down immediately.
“Manager-san?”
You snapped out of your trance. A first-year stood nearby looking confused but polite.
Cute. Very cute. Very much potential protagonist energy.
You straightened instantly, forcing yourself into Responsible Upperclassman Mode™.
“Yes! Hi! I’m the new manager, (Name). Please take care of me,” you bowed gracefully, shooting him a soft smile.
The boy smiled warmly.
Adorable! Definitely the sweet underclassman type. He was giving extreme uke energy.
Probably the kind of character that confesses in episode eleven after holding onto feelings for years.
You were mentally assigning archetypes before learning names.
This was a sickness.
“Oi.”
Your entire nervous system short-circuited at the familiar lazy voice.
Kenma sat against the gym wall holding his game console, completely detached from the chaos around him like always. Blond hair slightly messy. Golden eyes half-lidded with boredom.
Pretty. So unfairly pretty.
He glanced up at you slowly.
And then—
He smiled a little, one that was barely there, but enough to make your brain blue-screen instantly. “You actually came,” he said.
ACTUALLY CAME?! What kind of line was that?! You couldn’t miss the chance to get a front row seat to BL- ahem. Fun volleyball activities.
Your heart started beating so loudly that you were genuinely worried someone nearby could hear it.
You crossed your arms quickly to hide your internal collapse.
“Excuse you, Kozume. I take my responsibilities very seriously.”
“Hm.”
THAT STUPID LITTLE HUM.
Why was he like this? Why did one syllable from this man cause emotional damage?
Kuroo suddenly appeared beside you and threw an arm over your shoulders.
“Alright, listen up! This disaster is our new manager.”
“I hate you,” you muttered under your breath.
“She’ll help with practice from now on, so try not to scare her off.”
You stared at him, leaning toward him to whisper into his ear. “Kuroo, I survived watching all of Love Me, My Demonic Idol Prince! Nothing can scare me anymore.”
“That explains a lot, actually.”
The team greeted you warmly enough, though several looked mildly frightened after Kuroo introduced you as a disaster.
…Fair.
Then Kuroo leaned down near your ear.
“Try not to objectify my teammates.”
You scoffed dramatically. “I would NEVER.”
At that exact moment, Lev walked past after changing. Shirtless, tall, sweaty. Built like a model that got lost and accidentally joined a volleyball club.
Your eyes widened.
Oh.
Oh no.
He had the physique of the flirty foreign transfer student character that appears halfway through a sports anime and causes chaos by unintentionally making everyone question their sexuality.
You physically turned away and covered your face.
“Stay strong, (Name). Stay strong,” you whispered a small mantra to yourself.
“What’s wrong with you?” Kuroo asked.
“I’m experiencing artistic inspiration for my next doujinshi.”