Back on the Ground

The dormitory. Tennessee's room.

Back from the outing, Tennessee stared blankly at a wall that had nothing on it. The wallpaper still held every ghost of the posters that had hung there. He opened the wardrobe. Paper, crushed out of shape from being jammed in by force. Afraid someone might see, he had ruined the lot in the very act of hiding it.

Could he ever hang them again? Force them up, and they still wouldn't be as fine as before. Tennessee felt a foolish ache at the thought that his own life was exactly the same: a life buckled hard to fit the frame of the house, a poster creased past any hope of being smoothed back into what it was.

He was quietly looking down at Dragon Planet printed across the paper when the words escaped him.

"That was fun."

He hadn't meant to say it. Even he found it absurd.

"...?"

A great question mark seemed to float over Tennessee's head.

Fun? What was fun?

He didn't bother answering himself, but he knew. Today, if he was honest, had been rather enjoyable. Not that it had been purely good.

Do you have some business with my friends?

Why, of all things, had he blurted that out? Friends. He had wagged his tongue so easily with a word he could never stand behind. His face burned, but only for a moment. Then Tennessee slowly felt his way back over the day, and a smile rose in spite of him.

Park Jihoon.

An intriguing character, in more ways than one. Stand beside the boy, and it felt as if he had come down a step or two from the staircase called nobility. Tennessee shook his head hard all the same, as if refusing to admit it. It couldn't have been only because of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Park Jihoon. Not the ease he had felt, and not the fact that it had been rather fun, either. He had lived seventeen years as a noble and simply slipped, for a little while. Nothing guaranteed that Park Jihoon was the cause.

Right. Of course not.

To shake the thought off, Tennessee picked up a poster, climbed onto the bed, and tried sticking it back where it had been. The paper was lumpy and ridged, warped with creases, and yet—

"..."

Maybe it was because Super Orlando was smiling so wide. Crumpled or not, it had a handsomeness of its own. For a long while after that, Tennessee could not bring himself to leave the poster.

Had they been waiting for nothing but PE? The bell had barely rung before my classmates poured onto the field in a rush, and for one reason only. The Queensman ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠crew had pitched camp on the pitch, and among them was a familiar face.

Lukashi came too?

The feeling seemed mutual.

"Boooooss!"

He waved with absolutely no sense of the room, so I had to snap my head the other way. My classmates, though, read the wave as something else entirely. They seemed to take it as a signal—we're shooting, so look this way—and started warming up painfully aware of the cameras.

The only ones who weren't were Jack and me. Oh, and one more: Tennessee, the only boy sitting on the bench. Just the three of us moved as if the cameras did not exist.

Anyway, we split into reasonable sides and started the match. Same as last time, the first string against the second, and I was still on the second string. Maybe it was the row of cameras, but my classmates were more serious than they had ever been. Seriousness, of course, does not conjure skill that was never there.

Every time I took off, feet hammering the turf, the other side had no choice but to give up points. All that daily rolling under Devon (!) must have counted for something. The burst was definitely sharper. On top of that I didn't shy from contact. I drove straight ahead, sold a collision I had no intention of making, and slipped back out around them. Add that little move, and the opposition could only groan. Not once did they manage anything that deserved to be called defense.

So what came next was obvious.

"You were supposed to stop him!"

"Why are you looking at me? Be honest. Isn't it your fault you couldn't cover?"

A run of politicking, and then a hunt for someone to blame. I was thinking this was never going to be training when Mr. Devon roared.

"Have you all lost your minds!"

Like a tap frozen in winter, not a drop of blame leaked out of anyone.

"Who told you to live like little saints?"

"..."

"All I'm asking is that you keep the curses out of my mouth. You can't even do that?"

"..."

"Want me to handle this the way my temper's telling me to?"

Even that wasn't enough. Devon, unable to stand it any longer, strode off somewhere, and the boys went pale, certain he was heading for the equipment room to fetch a club. Where he actually went was—

Huh?

The bench where Tennessee sat.

Strictly speaking, the whole mess had started because they couldn't stop me alone. He was the only one who had ever been selected. Maybe Devon meant to tell him to come and sort it out. But this was the boy who broke out in a rash at the mere word rugby. Even a teacher wasn't going to have an easy time of it.

"...!"

And yet look at this. He hadn't used force at all, and still Tennessee was getting to his feet, making a show of having no choice but to yield.

Meanwhile, in the second-year student council room, Ralph had come up empty in plain sight. He had been sure he would be torn apart for it.

"What?"

Carl had caught on something no one had expected.

"Tennessee called Park Jihoon a friend?"

"...Yeah."

Ralph had no way of knowing it, but Carl's head had never been more tangled. Why buy clothes someone else had made and shove them in a trash can. Why run for student council president out of nowhere, and why bring up selection matches by year on top of that. Scenes he had never been able to understand were clicking into place, one after another.

"Don't tell me the two of them are in on it, trying to screw me?"

"Th-that far, I wouldn't..."

"Those sons of bitches!"

Carl was the sort who leapt to conclusions and worked himself up however he pleased. A fire with no reason behind it always burns the hottest.

"There's a limit to not knowing who you're dealing with."

He was shaking.

"What? If the two of them join forces, did they think I'd be scared?"

"Carl... you're too loud. If Tennessee happens to hear—"

"So what if he hears!"

On the weight of a house alone, no one anywhere could match the Grosvenor Estate. That was why he had willingly given up several moves. And now, of all things, they wanted to settle it with rugby?

"They really don't know what there is to be afraid of in this world!"

Carl snatched up a chair and hurled it at the wall. Ralph, startled, threw the door open to see if anyone had heard. The corridor was empty, thankfully. He had just sighed in relief and was hurrying the chair back into place when Carl shouted again.

"Fine! Let's play! Strip off every house crest! We'll settle it with rugby and nothing else!"

The chair crashed into the wall a second time, and Ralph had to scurry after the mess once more. Yelling and throwing chairs didn't seem to be cooling him off.

"What's that bastard's record?"

It was the first time he had called Tennessee that bastard, and Ralph flinched. Even so, one did not poke at Carl's mood. Ralph held out a document. The long sheet was packed with Tennessee's official-match numbers.

"And this is supposed to be top three?"

It was true enough. Look only at the defensive figures, and they were hardly good. Reading that look, Ralph added, carefully, "There's a scouting report at the bottom. The evaluation ought to be there."

A scouting report? Carl's eyes dropped at once to the lower half of the page.

Carl's eyes stopped at the very last line.

"Now they're harping on nobility even on the ground?"

"Ah, that. Turns out there's a bit of a special reason."

Tennessee stepped onto the field with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠care. Perhaps it was simply that so much time had passed since he had left the ground. The tutor's words, which used to cling to him like a voice in his head—Young master, go and prove how special you are—no longer followed him.

How long has it been?

The sentiment lasted only a moment. Park Jihoon shot straight into Tennessee's side of the field. He had already confirmed it from outside the pitch: stop Park Jihoon alone, and that would be enough. They still couldn't handle that one boy, and they kept getting dragged around in a panic. It was the same now.

Cut off the lane. Why are you chasing him?

The answer drew itself plainly in Tennessee's eyes. Even so, he did not raise his voice at his teammates. Giving an order would mean shouting, and lifting his voice for nothing, he thought, was never becoming of a noble. So what else was there to do? Keep giving up scores, as the price of failing to stop a single Park Jihoon.

How many times did the same scene repeat? Anger began, slowly, to climb Tennessee's face. Giving up a score, he could more or less endure. (He could not, in fact, endure it.) What he could not tolerate was the absence of even a glimmer of remorse after they had been scored on.

The gap in skill made it inevitable? Then you grab his pant leg and hang on, if that is what it takes! If they were plastered head to toe in grass, he might not have said a word. Standing there perfectly intact, talking that pathetic nonsense—

"..."

Calm down. Calm down.

The tutor was not the only reason he had hated rugby. This damned competitive streak. Let in a score or two and the rage shot straight to the top of his head; it was this filthy need to win that had made him hate the game. The way he could not rest until he had won was too exact a copy of his father. The fact that he had inherited the Grosvenor blood whole seemed to show itself too starkly, and he had wanted, as far as he could, never to step onto the ground at all.

He forced a long breath out, settled himself, and called Jack over. Maybe it was only that they had gone outside and spent time together. Facing Jack, he felt a little steadier. Tennessee opened his mouth as calmly as a noble could manage.

"The defense is a mess."

Jack nodded along.

"Everyone's moving however they please. The spacing's different, and the timing when they jump out is wrong. So, what I mean is—"

"...?"

"Stay beside me, and you give the orders."

"You're telling me to give the orders?"

"It isn't hard. I speak, and you shout at the top of your lungs."

In short, become a human loudspeaker. A question presented itself all the same.

"Couldn't you just do it yourself?"

How was a noble supposed to shout? Say it honestly, and it would sound far too much like showing off.

"I've ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠got a sore throat."

He had been talking perfectly well until this moment, and now a sore throat. Tennessee doubted it would pass. And then—

"Right. Filling in for a man when he's hurt. That's what brothers-in-arms do."

Jack produced an answer no one had seen coming.