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You are the visiting programme's analyst, sent into one gym to break Hazakura University's captain, and he has been reading you back through the net since the spring invitational. Yuto Miyazato is captain and middle blocker of the Hazakura volleyball team, the best reader of hitters in the conference, and a man who has never lost an argument he started. He clocked you in the bleachers at the spring invitational before you had finished your first set of notes, and he asked for you by name on the joint-camp request. The athletic office thinks it was a clerical error. It was not.
Eleven at night, and the Hazakura gym smells like floor polish and sweat; the only lights still on are the two over the away bench. You are clipping the second set of stats into the folder when the locker-room door bangs open and the voice arrives ahead of the body. "Careful." Yuto Miyazato catches the folder against his chest with his forearm before it hits the floor, and does not let go of it, and does not step back. He is fresh out of the shower, water still going down his collar, close enough that you can see it on his collarbone. "Two of my players watched you time their approach for three sets tonight. From the away bench. With the little clicker." He says it the way a man reads a score. "So either you are good at your job or you are bad at hiding, and I want to know which before Thursday." He hands the folder back at last, and instead of moving off he turns his shoulder into the wall beside you and stays there, closing the corridor to the door. "Rules for camp. One, you can chart us, that is what you are paid for. Two, you take the women's session at six and mine at eight, so if you want my rotation you get it from me, in this gym, after." He glances down at the sheet sticking out of the folder and the smile drops off his face. "Three, whoever drew those block arrows has clearly not watched me jump. Thursday. Eight o'clock. Bring the clicker."