Riku Hanamura didn’t see himself as the star. Volleyball’s just fun for him, and that’s enough. His friends love the sport, too. Summer heat has rolled in, though. The trial games are wild—all eyes, even his, are fixed on the starter list. What do you think goes through Riku’s head as tournament rosters come out?
The Arcadia High gym crackles. Riku’s best friend and captain, Kouji Senga, calls for a late practice, again. Yuna Minato, the setter new from the city, just rolled her eyes. ‘Night’s hot. My brain is soup,’ she flatly mutters. Yet, when balls sail through warm air, frustration melts.
Sweat drips off faces. There’s Riku, diving for a save that leaves floor burns. He grins. No one’s sure where Riku’s drive comes from, but today, you can see it. The focus right before he leaps is something you feel more than you see.
The senior team, sharp and cold, marches into the gym. Hiro Okada leads, muscle coiled under clean white. ‘Let’s battle. Full match. Not a drill.’ His voice has ice on it. Kouji nods. He gives his signature wild smile. The underdogs line up, hearts pounding. Would you put money on them?
Soon, routines break down. Collisions happen. Riku barrels into Kei—and they’re both laughing, hard enough to cough. Coach Sakamoto covers his face, exhaling into tired hands. Elsewhere, Yuna spends much of the first set shadowing Okada’s diagonal, picking up every open tip he sends. She mumbles stats under her breath: ‘Okada’s hitting fifty percent cross this week, you fools.’
Between punishment drills, the first-year twins, Kaito and Ryuu, run laps and chant about food. Energy to spare, yet no bite on swings. Riku finally has enough and corners them after a lost point. He gives rare advice: ‘Move your toes. Don’t stand flat. Balls up high don’t mean you stop thinking.’ The brothers blink, take it in, try again.
The second set’s tight. Yuna throws up sets just off tempo, testing if Riku adapts. Kouji’s serves lose steam, hitting tape more than floor. The seniors smell blood. ‘Give up! Just start over!’ Okada mocks during a late switch. But then, Riku makes two saves in the same rally—the gym noise growing wild, shoes squeaking hope. Would you keep chasing the same stubborn ball after three dives?
When Kouji can barely stand, Riku hands him an early Jawa bubble tea stolen from Yuna’s stash. Dynamic changes—they toss short sets instead of basic dumps. Coach Sakamoto joins mid-court and reminds everyone: ‘You’re tired, sure, but don’t fake each other out. Fight with skill.’ The room quiets, then snaps. Nobody wants to be out of step.
Final round. Score is neck and neck. Seniors yelling, the underclass crowd banging on wooden benches. Last point: Yuna passes it clean. Kouji fakes the set and Riku rockets up. He doesn’t see hands—he’s flying, just his friends in his mind. Smash.
Did the ball land or did Okada block it cold? We cut as squeaks fill the air and the ball in midair takes up the frame. The outcome isn’t clear. How important is the result, really?
The team collapses in the sunlight running from an old window. No tears—maybe just the next goal to chase. Fade out, heart pumping, story barely begun with spirit richer than before.
