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The gym buzzed with tension as the second set kicked off, the scoreboard reset to 0-0, though the air was far from neutral.
Team B had stolen the first set, and now Team A burned with the need to reclaim lost ground. Shoes squeaked, hands clapped, the ball spun—volleyball in its purest form.
Daichi stepped up to serve first, his stance calm, grounded like an anchor. The ball sailed in a clean arc toward the back row.
Swish
Hinata moved like lightning, knees bending, arms out.
Thwaak
The receive was textbook—low, controlled, popping straight up to Kageyama at the setter's spot.
"Quick!" Hinata shouted, already breaking into a sprint.
Kageyama's eyes tracked him instantly, muscles tightening as he leapt into action.
The toss came, a snap of the wrist sending the ball forward fast—but the timing was off, barely a fraction of a second late.
Not to a normal player. But Hinata was anything but normal.
Mid-air, Hinata twisted, body compressing like a spring before his hand flicked out at the last possible moment.
The ball clipped Tsukishima's fingers and dropped out of bounds.
"Point, Team B!"
"Nice save!" Tanaka whooped, slapping Hinata on the shoulder. Kageyama grimaced, eyes narrowing as he muttered, "Timing's off."
Hinata grinned without missing a beat. "we'll get it."
The next rally came, and again the duo launched a quick attack.
Again, the toss was just shy of perfect. Hinata adjusted mid-air, this time tapping the ball over Tsukishima's fingertips like a feather floating down. It landed untouched.
The pattern repeated. One quick went too high—Hinata jumped, swung his leg mid-air, and kicked it over, somehow legal.
Another veered off-course—he dove, slapped it back with his left hand, and Kageyama caught the rebound, setting it to Tanaka.
It was chaos—but it was working.
Even the errors weren't failures—they became feints, confusion tactics that left Team A scrambling to recover.
Kageyama started adapting, setting Hinata intentionally wide at times, only to redirect a last-minute toss to Tanaka, who crashed through a startled Daichi-Yamaguchi double block.
5-3.
7-4.
10-6.
Team B surged ahead.
On the sidelines, Sugawara leaned toward Kiyoko. "Kageyama's adjusting faster than I expected. And Hinata…" He trailed off, watching the orange blur streak across the court. "He's playing like someone ten years ahead of us."
The rallies picked up speed. Team A tried to regroup, Tsukishima stepping up with a sharp block attempt that forced Hinata to change trajectory.
But Hinata adapted—mid-air, back turned to the net, he sent a backward shot that rolled off the top of the tape and dropped in.
Tsukishima stared, lips twitching. "You've gotta be kidding me."
Daichi called for a formation shift, trying to funnel Hinata into tighter coverage.
They succeeded once—Yamaguchi touched a Hinata spike, Daichi saved it, and Tsukishima blocked the follow-up.
But that small win only fired up Team B more.
Kageyama's next serve blasted toward Yamaguchi, who hesitated half a second too long.
The ball bounced off his arms and into the bleachers.
"16-9!" the scorekeeper called.
Tanaka roared on the next point, pounding the ball through Tsukishima's hands and into the hardwood. The gym echoed with the slam.
"24-12!"
Kageyama met Hinata's eyes. No words. Just a slight nod.
Hinata nodded back.
The toss was perfect this time—clean, fast, and right in the pocket.
Hinata soared.
Tsukishima jumped to meet him, hands high.
Boom
Hinata's spike cut through clean, blasting past the block and hammering into the floor.
"Set! 25-13!"
Cheers erupted. Even the walls seemed to vibrate from the roar. Tanaka pumped his fist, shouting, "That's how we do it!" while Hinata dropped to the floor, breath heaving, sweat dripping down his forehead—but smiling.
Team A regrouped slowly. Daichi ran a towel over his face, shaking his head with a quiet grin. "Well. Damn."
Tsukishima adjusted his glasses, lips pressed into a line that wasn't quite a frown but far from pleased. Yamaguchi fidgeted, then spoke.
"Hinata… how do you do that?" His voice was soft, uncertain. "The quicks… they're so fast. You don't even look, but you're there. Every time."
Hinata tilted his head. "I just knew the ball was coming to me."
That made them pause.
Kageyama blinked. His voice cracked the silence. "What?" His expression was unreadable, caught between confusion and challenge. "You just… trust I'd set it right?"
"Yeah." Hinata's tone was casual, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Isn't it normal to trust your teammates?"
It landed with the weight of a spike. Soft words, but undeniable. Unshakable.
Everyone froze. Even Sugawara looked surprised. Tanaka's jaw went slack.
Daichi stared for a long second, something flickering behind his eyes.
Tsukishima scoffed, but it lacked its usual bite. Yamaguchi just gaped.
Kageyama's mouth opened, then closed again. His shoulders were stiff, like he wanted to argue—but couldn't.
The silence between them wasn't awkward. It was reverent.
Kiyoko, who'd been jotting notes, stopped. Her pen hung in the air. She looked at Hinata, eyes softening.
She'd seen a lot on this court—but never trust that shined so brightly it lit up the whole game.
Finally, Daichi broke the moment, voice steady. "Alright. Good match. First years—Hinata, Kageyama, Tsukishima, Yamaguchi—you're officially in the club."
He glanced toward Kiyoko. She stepped forward with a bundle of crisp black jackets folded neatly in her arms—Karasuno's gym uniforms.
"I believe these sizes will fit" Kiyoko added
One by one, she handed them out. Her touch was precise, almost ceremonial.
Sugawara nudged Daichi. "We might really be back this year."
Daichi looked at the first years—at Hinata and Kageyama standing side by side, opposites in every way but somehow fitting together. He nodded.
"Yeah," he said. "We might be."
--
Hinata took his jacket, bowing slightly.
"Thanks, Shimizu-senpai."
"Th-thank you!" Yamaguchi stammered.
Kageyama gave a quiet grunt. "Thanks."
Tsukishima took his with a curt nod, barely glancing up.
The third-years beamed—Daichi's calm, dependable smile, Sugawara's warm approval, and Tanaka's booming:
"You're one of us now!"
And Everyone turned their back to them did the iconic pose and welcomed them to club
"Welcome to Karasuno Volleyball Team"
"Thank you for having us"
Laughter echoed. The mops swished over the polished floor, sweeping away sweat, tension, and everything left behind by the match.
The gym dimmed into a gentle hum, but the adrenaline still flickered beneath the surface like aftershocks.
Benches clattered softly as they stacked them.
"Hinata's got something," Daichi murmured, nodding his way. "Confidence like that—it's rare."
Sugawara chuckled, leaning on his mop. "Kageyama's a genius, no doubt. But Hinata… he's the heart. He pulls everything together, without even realizing it."
Tsukishima's name came up too, begrudging but genuine.
Hinata heard pieces of it—caught them like stray tosses—grinning to himself as he lined up the water bottles.
The gym lights flickered once. The future waited, wide open.
---
Kiyoko's POV
From the sidelines, I watched a storm take shape.
The match wasn't perfect, not by a long shot—but that's what made it powerful. Raw. Real. Alive.
Hinata's movements were sharp, every jump like a challenge thrown at the sky.
Kageyama's sets were wild—erratic, untamed. But Hinata matched them anyway. Sometimes twisting in the air. Sometimes kicking the ball mid-fall. Sometimes just trusting it would be there—and it was.
Thwack. Boom. Thud.
Each sound seared into me. Not just noise—emotion. Rhythm. Connection.
Tanaka's power flared beside them, tearing through blocks.
Daichi held firm on the other side. Tsukishima's reads were smart, biting.
Yamaguchi did his best to keep up. But Hinata and Kageyama—when they clicked—it was like lightning chasing lightning.
Then it changed.
Kageyama's voice cut through the court.
His rejection from Shiratorizawa. The "King of the Court" name. His pride… and his loneliness.
I'd heard stories. Whispers. But to see it unravel—his expression when Tsukishima baited him with it—I saw more than a nickname. I saw a boy who once ruled alone and didn't know how not to.
But then—Hinata.
Not angry. Not scared.
Just there.
Steady.
"Isn't it normal to trust your teammates?"
Simple. Unshakable.
Like a serve straight to the chest. It knocked the wind out of all of us.
Even Tsukishima blinked.
Tanaka stopped mid-laugh.
Sugawara stared.
Daichi's jaw clenched, then relaxed.
But Kageyama—he froze. That scowl cracked for a split second, and underneath it—hope?
That quick attack. The one that made the gym stop breathing.
Kageyama tossed it—too fast, too soon.
But Hinata was already in the air.
One step. Two. Three—.
His hand came down—BOOM.
The ball pierced Tsukishima's block and exploded against the floor.
A play not born from timing or skill alone.
But from trust.
And it hit me.
Hinata wasn't just a rookie with hops.
He wasn't just fast. Or brave.
He believed—so fiercely it pulled everyone in.
He changed the rhythm. Not just of the match, but of the team.
When I handed out their blazers, I saw it up close.
Hinata's thank-you, full of light.
Kageyama's quiet, but there—accepting this team, maybe for the first time.
Tsukishima still distant, but… listening.
This team is shifting.
And at the center—Hinata, burning like a sun no one saw coming.
I'm still quiet. I won't shout like Tanaka, or rally like Daichi.
But I see them.
And I can't wait to see where they'll take us next.
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To be continued…
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