I stared blankly at the ceiling of the gym, my body motionless against the cold floor.
We lost...
The thought echoed in my head, hollow and distant. My ears were still ringing, my vision hazy, the world around me slowly sharpening as the tension drained from my body. The weight that had kept me standing for so long had finally been lifted, and with it, a crushing headache settled in, pounding against my skull with relentless force. My thoughts felt sluggish, my brain overworked from analyzing, predicting, processing every movement for the past hour. The mental toll far outweighed the physical pain, and yet, none of it compared to the dull sting in my chest.
It was over. Just like that.
Blurry voices drifted into my ears, distant at first, blending together in an indistinct hum. I forced myself to focus, to listen.
"Good match!"
"Well played, guys!"
The cheers belonged to Seiryuu. Of course. They had won. It was only natural.
But then—
"You'll get them next time, Yukigaoka!"
"You were so cool, Maestro!"
"Yeah! You guys fought so hard!"
"You've gained a new fan today!"
I blinked.
They... were rooting for us?
Slowly, I turned my head, scanning the stands. There were more people than I had remembered, way more. Had they all come in during the match? Faces I didn't recognize, students from other schools, people who had just stopped to watch—they had been watching us. They had been cheering for us.
That realization settled in my chest, something warm pushing against the cold disappointment of the loss.
I looked toward my teammates. Their expressions had been dark, weighed down by defeat, but as those cheers reached them, I saw it—a spark. Their shoulders lifted, their gazes weren't so empty anymore. Even Shigeo, who had been sitting in silence, seemed to take in a slow breath, the edges of his frustration smoothing out.
But then, my eyes landed on Hinata.
Unlike the others, he was still staring at the floor, fists clenched at his sides, his entire body trembling—not from exhaustion, but from something heavier. I knew exactly what.
I forced myself up, wincing as a dull, throbbing headache pounded against my skull, and walked over to him.
Gently, I placed my hand on his head.
"You did well," I said, voice steady.
Hinata flinched slightly under my touch, hesitating before finally looking up at me. His eyes were red, glassy with unshed tears, his lips pressed tightly together like he was desperately trying to hold it all in.
I exhaled slowly. So, that's how much it's weighing on him. The last point had been scored against him—of course it was hitting him harder than anyone else.
But that wasn't something he should carry alone.
"Don't lose your ego now," I continued, firm but calm. "Not over one defeat."
His eyes widened slightly. I could see it—his mind replaying the last play, doubt creeping in, ready to steal away the confidence he had built.
"The winners move on, and the losers are left behind," I said. "But that doesn't mean we stay here, buried in defeat."
Hinata's fingers twitched. He swallowed, his jaw tightening.
"Remember this feeling," I told him, my grip on his head tightening slightly. "Let it push you forward—to fly higher than ever before."
For a moment, he just stared at me, the emotions flickering behind his eyes unreadable. But then, slowly—he nodded.
The match was officially over, but there was still one last thing to do. We lined up across from Seiryuu, stepping forward one by one to shake hands. The air was thick with emotions—relief for some, frustration for others, quiet respect exchanged between competitors.
When I reached their libero, his grip was firm—firmer than expected. Then, without warning, he lifted his other hand to clasp my right hand with both of his. His fingers twitched slightly, like he was hesitating.
"You're incredible," he said, voice quieter than before, but filled with sincerity.
He paused for a second, as if unsure how to address me. Then, with a small nod, he finished, "Maestro."
I blinked, slightly surprised. A forced smile tugged at my lips. He must have heard Shigeo call me that during the match. Something about hearing it from an opponent made it feel… different. I returned the compliment, giving him a respectful nod before stepping back in line.
Around us, the spectators clapped—not just for Seiryuu, but for us as well. Their cheers weren't just polite acknowledgment; they felt genuine. Encouraging.
I turned to my team. "Line up," I instructed. They did so without question, standing tall despite their exhaustion. Together, we bowed deeply toward the crowd, showing our gratitude for their support.
With that, we gathered our things and left the gym. The energy of the match faded behind us, replaced by the quiet weight of what had just happened. No one spoke. The only sound was the shuffle of feet against pavement. My head still throbbed, my thoughts scattered.
Just as we stepped outside, a voice called out. "Tenzuki Keiji."
I turned, blinking through my headache. A man stood near the entrance, his posture relaxed but his gaze sharp.
"You may not have won," he began, "but you sure as hell made people remember your name."
I forced a small smile, nodding in acknowledgment. "Thanks."
He stepped closer, reaching into his pocket. "I'm a scout, and I really enjoyed your performance."
I barely registered his words as he handed me a business card. "If you're interested in joining Shiratorizawa, give me a call."
My fingers closed around the card, but my mind was too clouded to process it. I nodded again, murmuring a half-hearted thanks before turning away. Right now, all I wanted was to sit down.
We walked in silence for a while, until Shigeo finally spoke. "Hey… the bus stop's that way."
"Just follow me," I muttered, not breaking stride.
A few minutes later, we stopped outside a small ramen shop. It wasn't planned—I just remembered seeing something like this in the anime. After a tough match, a team meal like this felt… right.
"It's on me," I said, already feeling the pain in my wallet but choosing to ignore it.
We ate mostly in silence. The steam from the bowls rose between us, curling in the dim light. Chopsticks clinked against ceramic, a quiet rhythm against the subdued atmosphere. I watched my teammates, observing their expressions. Their spirits weren't broken, but frustration still clung to them. That wasn't entirely bad.
Frustration is the fire that tempers the ego—let it forge you, not shatter you.