Machida Yuki has spent her whole life being the reliable one—the flawless manager who records every stat, the eldest daughter who runs the household while her parents work late. Giving up before hoping, staying quiet before confessing: that's how she's kept herself from getting hurt. But when the third-years retire and a cocky first-year named Naruse Sho looks her dead in the eye and says, "I like you, Yuki-san"—not once, but as many times as it takes—her carefully knotted defenses begin to fray
Cheeky Brat: The Knot of the Shoelace - Trembling Letters — The Scene of the Kiss and the Crumbling Poker Face
Evening light stretched long and thin across the gymnasium floor.
An orange band traced the seams of the wooden boards all the way to the stage. Machida Yuki walked softly, careful not to step on it.
The squeak of shoes against the floor was gone now. Practice had ended, and the empty gym held only cold air, the smell of sweat, and the faint waxy scent of floor polish.
Yuki hugged the scorebook to her chest and sank onto the bench against the wall. Her fingertips traced the black leather cover of the notebook on her knees, again and again.
(Today, Ichii ran the timer on her own for the first time.)
(Her scorebook notations don't hesitate anymore, either.)
(She's really making what I taught her her own.)
Yuki opened the notebook.
Today's practice menu, the members' physical condition, plays that had caught her eye, notes for tomorrow. Neat handwriting marched along the ruled lines.
At the edge of the page, she added a small note: "Ichii — improving."
Yuki's lips softened, just slightly.
Ichii Ayaka. Second-year manager of the Ryokuhoku High basketball team. Yuki's kouhai — bright, quick to notice things. She'd known Naruse Sho since middle school, and Yuki often saw the two of them chatting easily during practice.
It was only recently that Yuki had started thinking about handing over the manager's notebook. After the third-years' final game, once the team's atmosphere had turned over, Ichii had suddenly begun absorbing the work.
At first, she couldn't even manage the ball pressure checks reliably.
Now she moved before Yuki gave instructions — timing the members' water breaks, operating the timer.
(This girl will be fine, even after I'm gone.)
But alongside that thought, something unsettled lingered deep in Yuki's chest.
The way Ichii looked at Naruse.
Between tasks, during breaks, in the clubroom chatter — Ichii's gaze followed Naruse's back like a magnet pulling at it.
(That's not the look you give a classmate.)
Yuki closed the notebook.
(It's none of my business, anyway.)
She told herself so, silently.
(Whoever Ichii looks at, whoever Naruse talks to — that's nothing to do with me.)
Yuki stood.
Time to pack up. Once she got home, her triplet little brothers and twin little sisters would be waiting — another day of battlefield-level chaos.
Groceries for dinner. Bringing in the laundry. Prepping tomorrow's bento.
Mountains of things to do.
Yuki headed for the gym's back exit, toward the clubroom.
That was when it happened.
Outside the gym, from the shadow of the storage shed, she heard voices.
"...That's not what I'm saying."
It was Naruse's voice.
Yuki's feet stopped.
(Naruse? He's still here at this hour?)
"But I've been telling you all along."
This time, Ichii's voice.
Yuki held her breath.
Her heart sped up, just a little.
(I shouldn't listen.)
(I don't intend to listen.)
(And yet my feet won't move.)
She pressed her back against the storage wall and simply stood there.
"Ichii. Are you serious about this?"
"I'm serious. I've always—"
The voice cut off.
Yuki peeked just slightly around the wall.
Behind the storage shed. A narrow space where the sunset poured in.
Naruse stood with his back against the wall.
And directly in front of him stood Ichii.
Ichii's hand was clenched tight in the front of Naruse's jersey.
"I like you. I like you, Naruse."
Ichii's voice was trembling.
"...I know. I noticed a long time ago — the way you've been looking at me."
Naruse's voice was calm.
"Then why—"
"I can't see you that way, Ichii."
His words were clear.
"There's someone I like. You know that, don't you?"
Ichii's grip on his jersey tightened.
"I know. Machida-senpai, right? ...But she doesn't feel anything for you, does she?"
"That doesn't matter. I just like her on my own."
"Then I'll just like you on my own, too."
Ichii's voice grew wet with tears.
"...Ichii."
"Just once. Just once is enough. Look at me."
Ichii rose on her toes.
She wrapped her arms around Naruse's neck and brought her face close.
In Yuki's vision, Ichii's lips touched Naruse's.
—
Deep in Yuki's chest, something broke, quietly.
There was no sound.
There was no pain.
Something that had been there simply cracked, small and sharp.
Yuki walked away.
Without a footstep. Holding her breath.
From behind the gym, into the shadow of the school building.
Beneath the emergency stairs, where no one was.
Yuki braced a hand against the wall and let out a long breath.
(It's nothing.)
(It has nothing to do with me.)
(Whoever Naruse kisses, whoever Ichii confesses to—)
(It has nothing to do with me.)
Yuki repeated it in her heart, over and over.
The sunset sank beyond the school building.
The sky shifted from purple to indigo.
Yuki stared up at it, motionless.
Her eyes burned.
(Why.)
(Why am I like this—)
Yuki closed her eyes.
Behind her lids, the scene from moments ago seared itself and would not leave.
Ichii's straight, honest confession.
Naruse's troubled face.
And the two shadows, overlapping.
(Sickening.)
(My chest feels sick.)
Yuki pressed a hand hard against her heart.
(This is wrong.)
(This is just — seeing a kouhai doing something like that within the team, and being troubled by it as the manager.)
(That's right. That's all it is.)
Yuki told herself so, again and again.
That night.
Yuki sat at her desk in her room.
The only light was the small desk lamp.
Outside the window, the October night wind stirred the curtains.
Yuki opened the manager's notebook.
Black leather cover.
The notebook that generations of managers had used to record practice details and the members' condition.
Yuki wrote today's date.
The pen tip trembled.
"Practice menu — shooting practice — 30 min."
The characters came out crooked.
Yuki erased them with an eraser.
She wrote again.
"Practice menu — shooting practice — 30 min."
Crooked again.
(Why can't I write?)
Yuki gripped the pen again.
Her fingers wouldn't put forth any strength.
Her hand was shaking.
Yuki set the pen down.
Across the notebook page, trembling characters lined up — the traces of numbers written and erased, erased and written, in disarray.
(What's wrong with me?)
Yuki stared at her own hand.
(This isn't me.)
(I can do better than this.)
(No matter what happens, I can do this properly.)
Yuki picked up the pen once more.
She took a deep breath and wrote.
"Tomorrow's practice game — meeting time — 8:30."
The characters trembled.
"Prefectural General Gymnasium."
"Meeting time."
"8:30."
No matter how many times she wrote, the characters trembled.
Yuki closed the notebook.
(I'll stop.)
(I'll just go to sleep tonight.)
Yuki lay down on the bed.
She closed her eyes.
Behind her lids, the scene rose again.
Ichii's face, about to cry.
Naruse's troubled face.
Lips, overlapping.
Yuki pulled the blanket over her head.
(Stop.)
(Don't remember it.)
(It has nothing to do with me.)
The night deepened.
Yuki lay sleepless until morning came.
The next day's practice.
The gym was filled with the usual clamor.
Balls bouncing off the floor, shoes squeaking, the members' calls.
Yuki sat on the bench at courtside, operating the timer.
(It's fine.)
(I can do this the way I always do.)
Yuki told herself so, silently.
"All right, let's begin. First, passing drills."
As Yuki called out, the members scattered across the court.
Yuki reached for the timer.
(Passing drills are five minutes.)
(Set it to five—)
Her finger pressed the button.
—Beep.
The timer display started moving.
"Huh? It's already started?"
"The timer's running, right?"
"Wait, what? Was that the signal?"
The members looked at Yuki, confused.
Yuki caught herself.
(No.)
(I was supposed to delay the timer.)
(After giving the start signal.)
(But I pressed the timer first.)
Yuki hurriedly stopped the timer.
"...Sorry. Let's start again."
Her voice came out a little too high.
The members exchanged glances.
"Yuki-san, are you okay?"
It was Naruse who spoke.
From the center of the court, he was watching her closely.
His eyes held no trace of the usual hungry gleam — only concern.
"...I'm fine. You focus on your own practice."
Yuki looked away from him and worked the timer.
(It's fine.)
(It's fine, so—)
She set the timer again.
This time, she gave the signal properly before pressing start.
—Beep.
"All right, start!"
The members moved at once.
Yuki opened the scorebook.
(Good.)
(I did it properly.)
(That earlier thing was just a little mistake.)
Yuki gripped the pen again.
Her hand was still trembling, just slightly.
Practice ended.
The members began cleaning up.
Yuki stayed on the bench, checking the numbers in the scorebook.
(Today's practice is fine like this.)
(Tomorrow is the last practice game before the prefectural qualifiers.)
(The opponent is Misuzu.)
(That powerhouse school — where Hakamada-kun plays.)
Yuki tried to think about tomorrow's game.
But something else kept circling in her head.
(Naruse and Ichii.)
(That kiss.)
(Ichii's voice, about to cry.)
(Naruse's troubled face.)
"Yuki-senpai."
A voice came, and Yuki looked up.
Ichii Ayaka stood there.
Her face was slightly flushed from practice.
But her eyes were wet, on the verge of tears.
"...What is it?"
Yuki managed her usual voice.
Ichii lowered herself quietly onto the bench beside her.
"...I'm sorry."
Ichii's voice trembled.
"For what?"
Yuki played dumb.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Ichii kept her head down, fingers laced together on her knees.
"...Yesterday, behind the gym, I kissed Naruse-kun. You saw, didn't you, senpai?"
Yuki's heart jumped.
(She saw me.)
(That I was there.)
(Ichii noticed.)
"...I didn't see anything."
Yuki answered instantly.
"I don't care what you two do."
"Liar."
Ichii raised her head.
Her eyes were full of tears.
"Yuki-senpai, you were in the shadow of the storage shed. I saw you."
Yuki couldn't say anything.
Ichii's tears ran down her cheeks and fell.
"I knew, senpai. That you like Naruse-kun."
Ichii's voice shook.
"So I did something unfair. I knew how you felt, and I did that anyway. ...I'm sorry."
Ichii's shoulders trembled, and she began to cry.
Yuki watched her tears and couldn't say a word.
(No.)
(I don't like Naruse.)
(There's no way I do.)
(He's cheeky, he doesn't even use polite speech with his senpai — he's just a kouhai.)
(Just a kouhai—)
Something deep in Yuki's chest tightened.
(No.)
(No, no, no.)
Yuki denied it again and again in her heart.
But no words came out.
Watching Ichii cry, a similar ache inside her rose quietly to the surface.
(I can't answer Naruse's feelings either.)
(Even though I can't answer them, I'm expecting something from him.)
(Somewhere in my heart, I think it would be fine if Naruse looked only at me.)
(...I'm just as unfair.)
Yuki placed a hand gently on Ichii's shoulder.
"...Don't cry."
Her own voice was gentler than she expected.
"I can't blame you."
Ichii looked up.
"Because I'm the same."
Yuki said it and smiled, just a little.
"I can't answer Naruse's feelings either. Even though I can't, I'm expecting something from him. ...I'm just as unfair as you."
Hearing Yuki's words, Ichii began to cry again.
Yuki silently rubbed her back.
(What am I saying?)
(I never meant to say any of this.)
Yuki's eyes grew hot.
But the tears didn't come.
She couldn't let them.
That night.
Yuki sat at her desk in her room.
She opened the manager's notebook.
Black leather cover.
Yuki turned to the last page.
She picked up the pen.
Her hand trembled.
"I don't know what I should have said to Ichii."
She wrote it in trembling characters.
"I— when it comes to Naruse—"
Her hand stopped there.
(I— when it comes to Naruse—)
(Do I like him?)
(Do I hate him?)
(I don't know.)
(I don't know, but—)
Yuki erased what she'd written with the eraser.
She erased it, then tore it.
She ripped the page from the notebook with a sharp sound and crumpled it in her palm.
(No.
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