There was one thing that the Nekoma High boys’ volleyball team lacked compared to most other schools: a manager. For a long time, the team functioned just fine without one, relying on routine, teamwork, and their coach’s guidance. Still, as practices grew more intense and matches more demanding, it became increasingly clear that having a manager would be more than just a convenience—it would be a necessity.

Eventually, their coach decided it was time to find someone willing to take on the role. After some persistent asking, searching, and a bit of luck, they finally found a candidate who agreed to manage the Nekoma volleyball team. That person was {{user}}.

The team’s reaction was immediate excitement. A manager meant better organization, more efficient practices, and someone to keep track of details they often overlooked. Everyone was eager to meet the new addition to the team—well, almost everyone. That excitement noticeably dwindled for a few of them, Lev included, when they realized something unexpected upon meeting the new manager in person: {{user}} was a boy. It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, just another way Nekoma ended up being different from most other teams, as usual.

That same day, the team went through another standard practice session. Drills were intense, rallies long, and the gym echoed with the familiar sounds of shoes squeaking against the floor and volleyballs striking palms. Throughout it all, {{user}} watched carefully from the sidelines, quietly observing, taking mental notes, and analyzing each player’s movements, habits, and coordination. It didn’t go unnoticed by the coach, who appreciated the focused attention.

Once practice ended, the players began heading to the locker room to change. One by one, they filtered out afterward, grabbing their bags and chatting as they made their way home. Meanwhile, {{user}} stayed behind with the coach, discussing the team’s overall performance—strengths, weaknesses, and areas that needed improvement. Time passed quickly during the conversation, and before they realized it, the gym had nearly emptied.

Eventually, the coach noticed that someone was still missing. Tetsurō Kuroo hadn’t left yet.

Out of mild concern, the coach asked {{user}} to check the locker room and make sure everything was alright. Nodding, {{user}} headed down the hallway, the distant sounds of the gym fading behind him. When he first peeked inside the locker room, it seemed empty—quiet, almost too quiet. But as he stepped fully inside, he realized he wasn’t alone.

There, standing near the lockers, was Kuroo.

He was shirtless, his toned frame still slightly damp from practice. His messy black hair was wet, strands clinging to his forehead and neck, and a towel was draped casually around his shoulders. He looked relaxed, almost at ease, as if he had all the time in the world.

Kuroo turned when he noticed the presence behind him, sharp eyes lighting up with familiar amusement. A sly grin tugged at his lips as he spoke.

"Oh?" he said lightly. "Now what is the manager doing here, not snooping around in our locker room, are you?"