Chapter 2: The Lucky Charm
The foam finger was absurd. A giant, garish hand painted in the university’s colors, perpetually pointing skyward. It felt ridiculous clutched in my fist.
“You have to,” Mayu insisted, bouncing on the bleacher beside me. The metal stands vibrated with every collective shift of the crowd. The air was a soupy mix of popcorn, cheap artificial turf, and the sharp tang of sweat. “It’s scientifically proven. He spikes harder when you’re here.”
“That’s not science, that’s your delusion,” I muttered, but I held the finger up anyway. The stadium lights buzzed overhead, casting long, dramatic shadows across the court.
Down on the polished wood, Yuki moved like a different person. The quiet, sometimes-awkward guy from the rooftop was gone. Here, he was all coiled tension and explosive release. He called plays with sharp hand signals, his voice a low, carrying command that cut through the echoing slap of leather on skin. When he jumped for a block, his body seemed to hang in the air for a second longer than physics should allow, a dark silhouette against the bright lights before he came down with a thunderous slap that sent the ball rocketing back.
Every time he landed, my eyes went to the spot on his bare shoulder. The one I’d stared at on the rooftop. It was just skin, damp now with sweat, but looking at it felt like remembering a secret.
The game was a nail-biter. Point for point. Our side of the bleachers was a roaring, groaning animal. Mayu screamed herself hoarse beside me.
During a brutal rally, Yuki dove for a dig, his body skidding across the floor with a sound that made me wince. He got it up. The play continued. But when he stood, he was favoring his left leg, just slightly.
The whistle blew for a timeout. Our team huddled around the coach, a tight knot of urgency. Everyone except Yuki.
He shook his head at something the coach yelled, toweled the sweat from his face with a quick, impatient motion, and started walking. Not toward the water cooler. Toward the bleachers. A murmur rippled through the crowd around us. Mayu’s elbow found my ribs.
“See?”
He stopped at the base of the stands, right in front of our row. He had to look up slightly. Sweat gleamed on his collarbones, dripped from his jaw. His breathing was still heavy from the rally, the rise and fall of his chest rapid. His eyes found mine, blocking out everything else—the crowd, the noise, the thousand other people here.
“Hey,” he said. His voice was rougher than usual, stripped raw from yelling plays.
“Hey. Your knee okay?”
He glanced at it as if he’d forgotten. “It’s fine. Just a sting.” He wiped his palm on his shorts, a nervous gesture utterly at odds with the player who’d just been commanding the court. Then he reached for the thin, faded blue wristband he always wore. He worked it off, the elastic stretching. The material was worn soft, soaked with sweat.
He held it out. “Hold this for me?”
I just stared at it. The crowd’s murmur swelled. Whistles cut through the air, playful, knowing.
“Your lucky band?” I finally managed. He never took it off. Not for games.
“It’s slipping. Distracting me.” His gaze was unwavering. “Please?”
I reached down. My fingers closed around the warm, damp fabric. As I took it, his hand closed over mine, pressing the wristband firmly into my palm. His skin was hot, calloused from a thousand reps. The contact was electric, a jolt that went straight up my arm. On the rooftop, his touch had been cool and deliberate. This was hot, public, and felt like a claim.
He didn’t let go immediately. His thumb brushed over my knuckles, a fleeting, secret stroke. His eyes held a question, a intensity that had nothing to do with volleyball.
The coach’s scream was audible across the court. “ISHIKAWA! NOW!”
Yuki’s mouth quirked, a faint, almost-smile just for me. He released my hand, leaving the damp band nestled in my palm. He turned and jogged back to his team, not looking back.
The whistle blew. Play resumed.
I couldn’t move. The worn elastic was a live wire in my hand. I could feel the impression of his grip. The scent of his sweat, salt and effort, rose from the fabric. I carefully, slowly, closed my fingers around it. The foam finger lay forgotten in my lap.
Mayu leaned in, her voice a singsong whisper in my ear. “Distracting him, huh? Yeah. I bet it was.”
I couldn’t even form a response. On the court, Yuki received the serve with a perfect, controlled pass. He set up the ball for a teammate, a beautiful, arcing assist that led to a crushing kill. The crowd erupted. As his team gathered for a quick celebration, he glanced back at the bleachers. Just a flash of his eyes finding mine in the chaos.
He played like a man unleashed. Every move was sharper, more powerful. The slight favor in his step was gone. He was everywhere, a force of nature. The final point was his—a monstrous, straight-down spike that hit the floor with a sound like a gunshot before the opposing libero could even twitch.
The roar of the crowd was deafening. Confetti cannons exploded. The team swarmed the court, a jumping, shouting mass of relief and victory.
Mayu was hugging me, jumping up and down, screaming. I hugged her back, the wristband a tight, damp knot in my clenched fist.
By the time we fought our way down the bleachers and onto the edge of the court, the initial frenzy had settled into buzzing exhaustion. Players were mingling with friends and family. I saw Yuki. He had a towel around his neck, accepting backslaps, but his head was on a swivel, searching.
His eyes locked onto me. He excused himself from a group and walked over, cutting a path through the celebrating crowd. People reached out to congratulate him; he nodded, shook hands, but didn’t stop.
He stopped in front of me. Up close, the effort of the game was etched into him. The sweat, the rapid pulse in his throat, the sheer physical presence of him was overwhelming.
“Hey,” he said again, softer this time.
“You won.” It was a stupid thing to say. Of course he won.
“Yeah.” He looked at my still-clenched hand. “Thanks.”
I opened my palm. The blue band lay there, a little twisted. I offered it back. “It worked.”
He didn’t take it. Instead, he reached out and very gently, using just his fingertips, untwisted it on my palm. His touch was a whisper. “Keep it.”
“Yuki…”
“For now.” He met my eyes, the noise of the crowd fading to a distant hum. “Walk back with us? Mayu’s probably starving.”
Mayu materialized, slinging an arm around both of us. “I am starving. You’re buying, Captain. Burgers. Lots of them.”
As we walked out of the gym into the cool night air, the sounds of celebration fading behind us, I slipped the worn wristband onto my own wrist. It was too big. It slid nearly to my elbow. But it was warm, and it smelled like him, and with every step beside him, the memory of his hand over mine in the roaring bleachers felt less like a moment and more like a beginning.