𝐂𝐇. 𝟏

⋅. ˚₊ ‧  𐙚  ‧ ₊ ˚  ⋅

Sadayuki's POV

The team's been looking for a manager for weeks. No success.

This is probably because of Oikawa's fangirls, mostly.I sigh. Damn famous brat.

Having one of his fangirls as manager would just be a distraction—for him, for the whole team. And truthfully, I've already seen the way those girls look at him. I need someone responsible, someone organized. Someone who doesn't care if Oikawa Tooru has nice hair or long lashes or whatever the hell those girls are obsessed with.

But the search has gone nowhere. Everyone's either too busy, already doing another club, or just flat-out says no. Can't blame them. Managing high school boys isn't exactly a glamorous gig.

What we need is someone who can keep the team in line. Handle schedules. Deal with chaos. Maybe even put Oikawa in his place every now and then.

Someone like...

No.No, she'd say no.

But...

It wouldn't hurt if I asked.Maybeeee pushed her a little.

⸻

After practice – Gym

Coach Nobuteru stands in front of the sweaty boys, clipboard in hand. The guys are all spread out—sitting, standing, some bent over trying to catch their breath. He gives his usual rundown: "Nice job today, but you need to tighten up your defense. Watch those blocks, especially on the left side. Oikawa, stop trying to do everything yourself—set clean, communicate. Got it?"

"Got it," Oikawa says, sounding way too smug for someone who got blocked twice by a first-year.

"Anyway," Coach Nobuteru continues, flipping a page, "have any of you had any luck finding a manager?"

The entire team suddenly finds the floor, ceiling, or the walls very interesting."No, coach..." a few voices mumble.

Coach Nobuteru sighs. "Figured."

I clear my throat. "Well, actually... I might have someone in mind."

The entire team—and Nobuteru—snaps their heads toward me. Wide eyes. Curious, borderline desperate.

"Who?" Nobuteru asks.

I rub the back of my neck and do a small laugh. "My daughter. I think she's a perfect fit for the spot. You'll see why."

Oikawa's smirk appears so fast, it's like it was waiting backstage. "Ouuuuhhh, coach's daughter, ehh?—"

"Don't even think about it, Oikawa."

"Didn't say anything," he says with fake innocence.

I roll my eyes. "It'll be hard convincing her, but I'll try."

⸻

Y/N's POV

I'm in my room, knee-deep in chemistry notes and a textbook I definitely regret paying full price for, when I hear the telltale stomp of Dad's heavy coach shoes up the stairs.

My door swings open without a single knock.

Typical.

I don't even look up. "What do you want, Father."

He's standing in my doorway, grinning like he just won the lottery or found a second sock. Dangerous smile. The kind that means he's about to say something absolutely unhinged.

I sigh, mark my place, and close my textbook with a thud."No," I say, already preemptively annoyed.

"I haven't even said anything yet," he says.

"You're smiling like a lunatic. It's never good."

He chuckles, stepping further into my room. "I have something to ask... a favor."

"If you want me to set you up with another woman, no thanks. You'll be alone forever."

His jaw drops. "OKAY. First of all, NO, it's NOT about that! And second of all—I'll find someone before you know it!"

"Yeah right," I say, raising an eyebrow. "You say that every year."

He clears his throat dramatically, like that's going to make this conversation better. "Anyway. I wanted to ask if you'd be willing to be my team's mana—"

"Hell no."

He freezes mid-sentence, mouth still open.

"I didn't even get to FINISH," he whines.

"You didn't have to," I say, already turning back to my notes. "I knew what you were going to ask. And the answer is no. I'm not about to babysit immature, gross, loud, sweaty teenage boys."

"You don't even know the team!"

"I don't want to."

"But you'd be so good at it! You're organized, responsible—"

"I'd rather set myself on fire."

He pouts. The actual grown man pouts.

"Come on. Just give it a week. If you hate it, you can quit. But I really think—"

"No."

He lets out a dramatic groan and flops onto my bed like a defeated sitcom dad.

I toss a pillow at him.

He stays there anyway.

I know he's not giving up. I know he's going to keep bothering me about this until I give in. And maybe part of me—just a small, stupid part—is curious about why he thinks I'd be perfect for it.

But I'm not about to tell him that.

Not yet.

Need to watch him suffer a bit.