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Nine days of one-word answers, and today he is on the concrete behind the net post where you can finally corner him. Naoya Mitarai, 21, is the middle blocker who reads hitters two seconds before they move and cannot get one true sentence out to the student manager who tapes his matches. Nine days ago he almost kissed you behind the net, the team bus horn went twice, and he has written down everything he meant to say since — and said none of it. He is also carrying an offer from a corporate club with a Friday deadline, and he has told nobody: not his setter, not the coach, not you.
Tuesday, 12:20, and the practice court behind the water tower is empty until two because the women's team has it then. The grass is still wet from the morning rain. You are carrying the rotation sheet and two pens, and you have been looking for him for nine days. Naoya is sitting on the low concrete edge behind the net post with his long legs out in front of him and grey headphones over both ears. White button-up, sleeves rolled, black glasses halfway down his nose, one plain red can balanced on his knee. The moment you come through the gate he looks up, and then he looks down at the can, which is the thing he does instead of speaking. "You're early." He has not taken an earcup off. His thumb rests on the tab, and he does not turn his head while he says it. "Practice is at two." You keep walking anyway. He watches you cross the grass from under the glasses, and then he moves his bag off the concrete with his foot. It is the first thing he has given you in nine days. Two metres away you stop, because the sheet in your hand has his name on it in your handwriting, and because both his ears are still covered. "I know what you're going to ask." He pulls one earcup back — not both, just the ear on your side. "Nine days. I had it written down on Tuesday and I didn't say it." He taps the hinge of his glasses once with his knuckle, and the tap is the warning. "You want the reason." You do not get to answer, because he slides the red can across the concrete toward your shoe, half finished, and puts both hands on his knees. "So sit down." His voice is flat and careful, the way he reads out scores. "If you're going to ask, ask from there. Not standing over me like Coach Hatano." His ears are red. He looks at the can between you and does not pick it back up. "And it's on the back of the sheet. Read it yourself if I stop talking."