Chapter 51: Training Camp 14

Keiji Akaashi thought to himself that the Shiratorizawa group was seriously hardcore—watching a match while casually teaching a tactical concept on the side.

One dared to teach, and one dared to learn. Watching Tsutomu Goshiki still grinning foolishly, Akaashi’s expression turned complicated. If they taught Bokuto-senpai like this, who knew whether he’d actually be able to learn it.

“What are you all doing?”

Coach Washijō heard the chatter of his team’s brats from below. When he came up to take a look, he found a bunch of heads clustered together, deep in discussion.

At his voice, everyone turned around at once. The synchronization was so perfect it almost made you want to turn back again—like a field of sunflowers.

Coach Aaron watched the group of kids with a warm smile.

Reon lifted the notebook and handed it to Coach Washijō.

“We’re teaching Tsutomu Goshiki how to understand the 5–1 formation. The setup on the court is something he hasn’t learned before.”

Ryosuke quietly glanced at the coach who looked foreign—blond hair, really pale skin…

Coach Aaron noticed the look and turned his head, catching Ryosuke before he could look away.

Ryosuke froze, then slowly turned his body aside.

Yamagata nudged Reon’s shoulder. “Coach, you still haven’t taught the underclassmen any volleyball theory yet.”

Coach Washijō waved the notebook in his hand. “Teach what? Aren’t you guys doing a great job already? During this training camp, make sure Tsutomu Goshiki learns all of this stuff properly!”

Tsutomu Goshiki scratched his head. “Why am I the only one? What about Yunohama and Ryosuke?”

Coach Washijō shot him an annoyed look. “Ryosuke’s been taught by me since he was a kid—he’s known this stuff for ages. And Yunohama had specialized theory classes back when he was with the junior national team at Kitagawa Daiichi.

Let the seniors teach you. Figure it out yourself. Don’t come looking for me.”

Ryosuke realized that ever since the training camp started, Coach Washijō had completely let himself go. Every day he just assigned training tasks, watched the practice matches, and then vanished for the rest of the time.

He suddenly remembered how, before leaving for camp, Mrs. Washijō had asked him to keep an eye on Coach Washijō and stop him from drinking. With the overwhelming training load, he’d completely forgotten about it.

Regret welled up in his chest.

Coach Washijō pointed at the coach standing nearby. “This is Coach Aaron from Kamomedai. Say hello.”

“Hello, Coach Aaron!”

Once again, the greetings rang out in perfect unison, disciplined enough to rival a military unit.

Coach Aaron sucked in a breath and lowered his head, whispering to Coach Washijō, “How did you raise this group? They’re so synchronized.”

Coach Washijō gave a mysterious smile. “Didn’t put in much effort at all. These kids are just naturally disciplined.”

His voice was filled with pride.

“Alright, you all keep chatting. We’re heading back down.”

Coach Washijō gestured for them to keep watching the match, then ambled back down with Coach Aaron.

Only then did everyone finally relax.

Kawanishi hooked an arm around Tsutomu Goshiki’s neck. “Good Goshiki, come on, let’s keep watching. We’ll explain the theory to you tonight.”

Tsutomu Goshiki nodded, and the two leaned in close, whispering back and forth about all kinds of nonsense.

Ryosuke squeezed the sweat in his palm and focused intently on the match.

It was the second set now. Inarizaki had already dropped the first set and took the court running a 5–1 formation.

At this point, it was all about technique. Kamomedai’s aerial battle was especially eye-catching thanks to Kōrai Hoshiumi.

Inarizaki wasn’t about to roll over either. Since they couldn’t break through with raw power or endurance, they showed off a skill every volleyball player knows how to use—high-level deception.

From the start of the second set, Sakusa’s attacks completely changed their style.

What had once been dangerous, spin-heavy hits turned into soft, floaty balls.

Kaoru Kishimoto set the ball extremely close to the net. Facing a triple block, Sakusa showed no fear at all.

With a light twist of his wrist, he stripped away the power, then gently flicked with his fingertips. A soft, powerless ball dropped cleanly to the floor.

“Huh?!” Gao Hakuba flared with anger. He’d braced himself for a massive spike, only for the ball to come down soft and weak—it felt like he’d been played.

After that, Sakusa really did seem to be messing with them. Every ball that reached his hands turned into something different. Light shots like these had no fixed form to begin with, and paired with Sakusa’s unusual wrist, they became visually deceptive and incredibly hard to read.

Another point.

Even the usually steady Sachirō Hirugami rubbed his temples in frustration.

After calling a timeout, Hirugami pulled Kōrai Hoshiumi and Aikichi Suwa aside to whisper.

“You two, keep your eyes on Sakusa from here on out, got it? All the points are coming from him. Shut him down.”

Aikichi Suwa grimaced. “I can’t keep track of him! His shots are like they have a mind of their own. Is that even something a human can block?!”

He was already getting agitated.

Kōrai Hoshiumi cursed under his breath. “What kind of grown man plays such disgusting balls? No masculinity at all. So annoying!”

Sakusa had single-handedly drawn a ton of hatred.

Up in the stands, Ryosuke suddenly burst out laughing.

Reon and Ushijima looked at him in confusion.

Ryosuke caught his breath and explained, “That super disgusting shot? I came up with it when I was a kid, just because I wanted to slack off. You relax your body, keep your center of gravity over both feet when you jump, and reduce the strain on your body.

I still remember when I first started using it—Sakusa was so grossed out he ignored me for three whole days. Hahaha!”

Ryosuke laughed until he was practically breathless.

Kawanishi, chewing on a banana, mumbled around it, “In that case, I think we should let Tendō learn it. He loves slacking off.”

Reon and Ushijima nodded emphatically in agreement.

Ryosuke waved his hand. “Nope. Tendō-senpai mainly focuses on blocking. At most, he could adjust his takeoff. That kind of sticky, floaty shot can only be learned by someone who spikes all the time.”

Tsutomu Goshiki’s eyes lit up as he suddenly appeared beside Ryosuke, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him. “Teach me! Teach me! It looks so useful!”

Ryosuke nodded helplessly. “Alright, I’ll teach you when I have time.”

Ushijima stared at his own hands, deep in thought. That kind of shot could reduce strain on the body… maybe he should learn it too.

Later, after the training camp ended, Coach Washijō suddenly realized his team’s play styles had become strangely… off. Ushijima, a 190-centimeter powerhouse, had started hitting balls with a bizarrely gentle touch.

Every opposing school unanimously concluded they’d been led astray by Inarizaki. Ryosuke, the true culprit, just smiled innocently as if he’d done nothing at all.

Of course, that was all in the future.

Reon asked Ryosuke curiously, “Why did you change your jump technique in the first place?”

That topic immediately got Ryosuke fired up. “It was also because of Sakusa. When we first started playing volleyball, we didn’t pay attention and just kept jumping recklessly. Sakusa used to put his center of gravity on his left knee when he jumped, and he’d land with his weight on that same knee.

After just one year, he ended up with a meniscus strain—all because of those high-impact jumps. That’s when he changed his takeoff.”

“No wonder his jump looks different from ours—and he jumps so high,” Kawanishi said with a sigh. Then, with a mischievous grin, he slung an arm around Ryosuke’s neck.

“Ryosuke, teach me that too, yeah? You know how to do it, right? You definitely know how, right?”

He kept whispering it over and over in Ryosuke’s ear.

Annoyed, Ryosuke shook him off. “Of course I know how! We’ll talk about it during evening self-training.”

Now even Reon wanted in. Sitting in his chair and rubbing just below his knee, he made a decision.

He was definitely going to crash that lesson.

Last year, Reon had strained his cruciate ligament because of powerful jumps. Even now, he didn’t dare jump freely. The feeling lingered like a fishbone stuck in his throat—neither up nor down.

At that moment, the usually silent Yunohama finally spoke up.

“Why don’t you just ask Team Doctor Saito?”