Author's Note: my beta-reader and I wrestled with this chapter for a while, and I would just like to express my gratitude for the time, patience and dedication expended toward helping me with this while she has important real-life things and other projects on the go. KittyLynne, you are fantastic; please accept my extremely belated anniversary wishes! Thank you again! I would also like to thank those who reviewed because feedback is the reason I write. Knowing what my readers think helps me to improve.

---

Morning came, and Mamori found herself wishing it hadn't. The dawn of the new day saw her with a pounding headache, a queasy stomach, shivering and feeling sore in places she couldn't refer to without blushing. Moaning pathetically, she sat up and wrapped her arms around her body as she took a look at herself and her surroundings.

She was wet from morning dew, and covered in semi-dry mud. Hiruma was lying beside her, curled around what she'd dubbed the firework-gun, clutching it like a toddler would a teddy bear. She found herself wondering what the model name really was, and then angrily decided that she didn't care. After what had happened, he should have been holding her when they woke up. Instead he was holding that, which went a long way towards showing where his priorities lay.

With that thought, Mamori staggered to her feet, wincing and rubbing her hands up and down her arms in an attempt to get her circulation going.

She felt so... dirty, in all sorts of ways. Not violated... it didn’t go that far. Whatever had happened last night, she'd wanted it all. But it still hurt. What had gotten into her, that she’d done something so reckless? Staying out all night... had they passed out together? She looked around again. The football field seemed deserted. They were alone out here. Alone under the bleachers, with only those flying rats people called pigeons present to call witness to their indiscretions...

She couldn't suppress a cough, which was followed by a loud sneeze. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. Not only would her mother kill her when she got home, she was likely coming down with something, and she had a part-time job starting this afternoon that was supposed to last her until she went abroad to start school! She had to get home and get changed, fast!

She looked for her panties, found them nearby, and picked them up off the ground.

After shaking them out and gingerly stepping into them one foot at a time, she almost wished she hadn't bothered. They were cold...and sticky... and the sensation was really unpleasant. This was followed by the unhappy realization that there was a lingering scent, and that it was all around her. Oh, ew! She thought, with a blush. Nobody ever told me about that.

She glanced over to the dozing ex-quarterback, and the sight gave her cause to reconsider her next course of action. Not wanting to take any chances, she picked up the smaller gun from where it had fallen the night before and put it back in her purse. After that, she slipped the firework-gun out of the sleeping devil's grip before nudging him impatiently with her foot. He didn't wake up.

After several nudges, Mamori found she had the power to curse. Maybe that was one of the aftereffects of losing one's virginity—swearing didn't seem like such a big deal anymore. Besides, she couldn't get over the sense that Hiruma was laughing at her, somehow. Was he faking being asleep this entire time? That would be so like him!

She wound up her leg and kicked him, hard—once and then twice. She pulled her foot back, getting ready to kick him a third time, and then paused as she caught an almost imperceptible twitch of his body. With a bitter smile, she let the pause drag out as Hiruma stirred..

He opened one eye, finally acknowledging her presence. “Hn. You're still here?”

“Yes I’m still here. Imagine that.”

Her sarcasm seemed to rouse Hiruma. He opened his other eye and surveyed her from head to foot.“Ya...ha. You weren’t half bad last night, fucking manager. But you're a fucking mess. You wanna use the clubhouse to shower up?”

“Do I want to shower? ” Mamori repeated, incredulous. She wasn't even going to ask how he still had the keys to that place when club activities were closed to third years and the football club was located on school property. Not because she wasn't curious, but because she couldn't help but hinge on the first part of that statement. “Not half bad, 'fucking manager'? Is that all you have to say to me after...after...”

She broke off as the former Deimon quarterback rolled onto his feet, barely missing hitting his head on the underside of the bleachers. He grinned at her worried grimace, and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Well, I guess it's my fault for picking such a crappy place to do it in. But at least you won't forget it any time soon.”

“Wh-what?” Mamori stammered. “Do you mean...did you...you planned it?” Suddenly it all started to make a twisted sort of sense. The untraceable alcohol in the punch (because by now she was more or less convinced she had been drunk), Hiruma's so-called “fit” that required her special attention... everything had been planned. “You’re unbelievable. Why didn't you...you could have just asked--”

“And how would you have expected me to do that, fucking manager?” Hiruma shook his head as he continued to grin. “After taking you out to a damn movie? After winning you a fucking stuffed animal at the festival? By writing a damn haiku for you? Kekekeke! What do you think, fucking manager? Does any of that sound like my style of doing things?”

At that moment, it occurred to Mamori that the clear-eyed, sharp tongued Hiruma wasn’t showing any signs of having consumed alcohol. Seeming to pick up on her dawning revelation, he used his foot to heft an empty beer can in her general direction, while speaking in a more intimate tone. “So you’re keeping that thing, eh? That’s good. Like I said last night- it suits you.”

He was referring to the gun in her purse of course; nothing escaped his notice. Not knowing what to say, Mamori averted her eyes to her sodden, mud caked clothes.

She should go and shower in the clubhouse, but then what would happen next? Nude pictures to keep him warm at night, or to be used to blackmail her later wherever she ended up? That is, if he hadn’t already gotten some!

Chagrined by that thought of a concealed video camera possibly being set up in the spot where they’d... done it, Mamori warily looked around. She was relieved to see there was nothing in the immediate vicinity that was big enough to hide a camera, unless there were tiny ones concealed in the beer cans. Not very likely... but then again, with Hiruma anything was possible. Oh, what had she been thinking?

You were thinking, damn he's hot, I can't believe this is happening to me. She reminded herself. And then you pretty much stopped thinking altogether.

“I'll go home now,” she concluded weakly. “I'm going home.”

“Heeh? Looking like that?” As she jerked her head in confirmation, Hiruma shrugged. “Well well. Do whatever you want, then.” He half turned, his face hidden. ”So long, Anezaki. And good luck in America, by the way."

It was far from the tender parting of lovers that she had read about in supermarket romance novels, or any that she'd seen on TV. But then, that kind of analogy was doomed to be false from the start, Mamori reminded herself, because this wasn't just a simple case of fantasy versus reality.

Well, at least I got him to call me Anezaki.

“Thank you,” she replied with forced politeness. Unshed tears roughened her voice as she added softly, “Goodbye, Hiruma-kun. There's... something terribly wrong with you, but I couldn't help liking you anyway.”

She dropped his firework gun in the mud with a satisfying squelch, turned around, and didn't look back as she walked away. He mumbled something as she left that she didn’t hear, but she didn’t stop walking, thinking that if he really cared, he'd come after her.

He didn't.

---

Mamori jammed her portable disk drive into the laptop provided by the school, and offered up a prayer to the gods of multimedia that her presentation wouldn't end up badly formatted, corrupted, blurry, or some other unthinkable thing.

In the past few years she had made an honest effort to become computer literate, but she couldn't exactly say she would ever be a genius when it came to using electronic technology. As good luck would have it, the little file transfer icon popped right up on the screen. After that, it was just a matter of selecting the slide-show option, and then she was off.

The best thing about an image-heavy presentation was that she didn't have to do a lot of speaking in general or much preparation beforehand. All she really had to do was explain what everyone was looking at, which was a fairly straightforward process as long as you had a good memory.

The line “Now, I hope that nobody minds that a great deal of these pictures are from the American football games,” was spoken casually, but she'd been floored by the enthusiastic applause it produced. The din was amazing. She'd spoken to stadiums filled with ten times as many corporate employees as there were graduates in this room, but the ambition fueled ovations she’d gotten were far less satisfying than the genuine noise being made for her now. With that incentive, Mamori launched into the heart of her presentation.

She had taken special care to ensure that she had at least one action shot of everyone that had been on the team. Among her favourites were Yukimitsu's improbable touchdown against Shinryuuji, Monta's “Devil Back Fire” move that he'd used in several games after they had played the decisive game with Oujou, and one of Juumonji, Kuroki and Toganou using their patented “hip explosion” during the game against Amino (side-by-side with an explanatory picture of them learning it from Doburoku during that point in the Death March).

Then came Taki's flexible interceptions, Doburoku pouring what appeared to be sake on poor Sena's knees, and Hiruma managing to score in the Naga game with the fearsome Agon hanging off him like a crazed Medusa with a sex change. The photo of Komusubi using his strength to lift Mizumachi during the match against Poseidon seemed to go over well with his children. Mamori’s commentary spilled out naturally and automatically with each slide, with pauses to allow for the occasional bouts of laughter, righteous yells or whistling catcalls from the crowd before moving on to the next.

Through careful cropping and selection, she'd managed to keep images of herself down to a minimum, although she had no choice but to include pictures of herself in costume in the group shots from certain special events. Her eyes lingered upon the images from Sports Day and the Christmas Bowl as she spoke, in part because she had to carefully craft her commentary to each picture, and partly because she wanted to keep herself from glancing around to see what reaction those memories elicited from a certain former quarterback. She purposely kept her gaze far from that corner of the room, knowing that if she looked at him, she wouldn't be able to continue.

Though she was successful, she knew his eyes were on her. Well, he has nothing to complain about, she thought peevishly. She hadn't put in any pictures of him being sacked or missing tackles, even though she had plenty of those. I included lots of pictures of your triumphs at all those games, and your brilliant victory at the end. Never mind that I helped!

When the show concluded and she was done thanking everyone for watching (and that took about ten minutes because whenever she opened her mouth people started clapping, and it was impossible to talk over that) Mamori returned to her seat. The lights came on, and people started milling about. Old synthetic pop tunes from their high school years filtered in through the speakers, but nobody danced.

Like a ninja, Ishimaru had appeared from out of nowhere, and was currently-unless Mamori was very mistaken- putting the moves on Suzuna.

“Oh, me? A bit of everything... voice acting, some secretarial work- you know, answering phones, filing... and you?”

“Believe it or not, I'm a corporate spy.”

“No way!” Suzuna squealed, then looked embarrassed at her outburst.

“It's all right, most people react that way.” Ishimaru shrugged, smiling diffidently. “I wear a suit and walk into a building... and I blend in. When I'm discovered, I can usually outrun security, so I've never been caught. I guess you could call it a gift.”

“But that's so dangerous! Are you thinking of retiring soon?”

“Oh, some day. I keep on telling myself, 'one more job...' but it never is my last job. I'll probably just keep on going until something...or someone makes me want to give it up.”

Oh, this is rich, Mamori found herself thinking sourly. The track star she'd known had been a kind and courteous person who had gotten along with everyone, and responsibly paid for his own school fees through a paper-route. For him to have a job like this and just go around blabbing about it was very unlike the Ishimaru she had known...and it didn't make any sense.

Yes, now that she thought about it, it seemed like the kind of story someone would tell in order to trick someone into going to bed with them! The idea of that happening to Suzuna filled her with an avenging fire that dissolved her earlier nervousness at being back in this place. If a certain someone thought a few well-placed lies were all that was needed to get this person into her friend's pants, they were sorely mistaken!

After glaring at the oblivious Ishimaru for awhile, Mamori turned her attention to Kurita.

He was being entreated to participate in an arm-wrestling tourney with Komusubi, Juumonji and Toganou. Kurita was reluctant, and Mamori eventually tired of watching his shy attempts to shoo his friends away.

“Don't let your new weight take away your confidence, Kurita-kun!” She encouraged , as his challengers turned to stare at her. “You can take all three of them, no problem! In fact, let's go right now, I'd like to watch you!”

“Hah?”

“Haaah?”

There was a resounding silence.

“Um, yes.” Mamori said, after a few awkward moments had gone by. “Let's clear a space over there.” She nodded to an empty table that just happened to be closer to Hiruma than they were now. And sensing that Suzuna was getting a little too much face-time with a certain old track star, she added, “Ishimaru-kun, you come along too.”

“I...what?”

“You're going to be officiating, because you're an impartial party.” Mamori told him wryly. “That includes taking bets.”

“Hah?”

“Haah?”

There was another gap of silence, in which Mamori wondered if this was how it had been for the two remaining Hah-Hah brothers all night. She certainly hoped not. It was really starting to get quite depressing.

---

No sooner had the betting started than a certain presence could be felt, coming closer. Mamori refused to turn around, telling herself that this was simply payback for his sikking the poor, impressionable Ishimaru on a besotted Suzuna. Honestly, if the two of them liked one another they should just be themselves! Preying on the man's insecurities was every bit as horrible as say, shaming Kurita into a number of arm-wrestling matches and then encouraging others to wager cash on the results.

She tried to hide it, but it was hard not to look the slightest bit smug when the demonic man arrived and coughed into his hand meaningfully. You bait me and I'll bait you, she reasoned peevishly. You're not the only one who knows how to manipulate others.

But before she could say anything, a certain bald-headed professor appeared in front of her, horsing from foot to foot nervously and eyeing her with purpose.

“Smith-san,” he said quietly.

Mamori flinched. She didn't know how he knew her married name, but she corrected the use of it. “I'll be going back to the old one soon enough,” she admitted carefully.

There was a flicker of eye movement towards the ring on her finger, and then back to her face. Always observant, always decorous, number sixteen. “I understand you have been living in New York with your... family,” he amended quickly, somehow aware of a pair of malevolent eyes on him, but standing his ground regardless. “Just out of interest, have you been paying attention to the new women's teams in the NFL? I understand it has been more popular these past few years...”

“I... can't say I have.” Mamori grimaced- she hated to admit that in the end, women were the 'weaker sex,' but some biological facts couldn't be contested. “And how are you?” She said, by way of altering the topic and perhaps, excusing him, because the glare boring into the back of his head was getting more ferocious by the second.

“Oh, well. I can't complain. It's just, there is a young lady, who...” For the first time, he seemed to notice the demon breathing down his neck. “Well, please excuse me. I assume you two have a lot to talk about... in fact, I'm quite sure of it.”

Both the ex-quarterback and the manager frowned as the mostly-bald scientist made his awkward escape.

“Fucking manager.” He said by way of greeting. “The hell was the fucking baldy asking you about?”

“Womens' football, I think?”

“Heeeh? Aren't you a bit old for that?”

Mamori ignored the implied insult. “I'm not really sure... maybe he thought I cared because I live in New York.” She replied. “To be honest, I don't even follow the women's leagues. Call me old fashioned, but it just feels a bit backwards to me.”

But something in Yukimitsu's manner just now- and his tone of voice, too, made her wonder. Was her friend just trying to make conversation, or was there something more...? No, it didn't make any sense. Best to just forget it.

Hiruma narrowed his eyes at Yukimitsu's retreating back. He seemed to be thinking, too. “So. I hear you're still a fucking manager. And I can see you're still eating too many of those fucking sweets. I shoulda figured, since they say 76 percent of Americans are overweight.”

Now that she could not ignore. Perhaps by Asian standards she was big, but she was a quarter caucasian after all and... ooh, she couldn't believe she'd been so nervous and anxious before! She'd forgotten the effect Hiruma had on her... nobody in this world could make her more mad.

“Well,” she said, reaching for the most insulting thing she could say and then landing on it in an instant- but did she dare? (Yes, she did.) “For my part, I'm surprised you still look like a contender for Japan's Most Metrosexual small-time crook.”

There was the tinkling of broken glass as someone dropped their cup. Mamori had a distant sense of all conversations close to them coming to an abrupt halt. An expectant hush filled the atmosphere.

Hiruma's ears twitched, and he favoured her with an open grin that was as much a warning as it was a challenge. “I'll have you know,” he offered in clipped tones, “that this ‘look’ is considered 'punk', and it's intimidating as hell to a lot of people.”

Mamori felt a chill run through her, and did her best to ignore it. “Oh, I'm sure it has,” she said. She gave him an open and very deliberate elevator stare, starting at his face and trailing her gaze down to his feet and back up again, as if he were a piece of choice meat on display. It was a move that American guys usually pulled on girls in clubs, and one that she hated, but found it useful to abuse now. “You know, you really are a very pretty man, Hiruma-kun. Which is why I hate to tell you that in New York, that look of yours would be considered totally ga-”

“It's fucking hardcore!”

Hiruma’s voice cracked as he interrupted, and Mamori felt triumphant at having rattled his cage. “Sorry, but no. Two years ago I went to Canada to be the matron of honour in Shin and Sena's wedding. And I'd have to say that compared to them or any of their friends--"

There was a flare of anger in the demon's eyes, and Mamori instantly knew that she'd pushed him too far. The next moment the gun was out, and everyone was ducking for cover. With an instinct born of past experience, she grabbed an empty serving platter from the table and held it up just in time to deflect the random sprays of bullets.

She'd expected the sound and the rage, but she hadn't been counting on the pressure that came with actual ammunition, or the way her wrist snapped back with the recoil. When the barrage ended, she dropped the platter to inspect her hand and wrist for injuries, then picked it back up to stare at the real bullets that were now firmly embedded in the sterling silver. Of course, it made sense that Hiruma would be using live rounds now, and not the realistic-looking rubber bullets with powder caps that he'd used most of the time during practice. I take it back, she thought sadly, while gazing at the damaged serving tray. You have changed.

She managed to find her voice, and forced herself to scowl as she said, “You're going to be paying for that, Hiruma.”

“What’s the matter?” He scoffed. “Can't afford it yourself?

“Of course I can, but I'm not the one who wrecked it!”

“Funny, I don't remember holding the tray.”

"HIRUMA! If I hadn't done that, you would have shot Ishimaru!"

"He would've ducked."

"I... don't know if I could have, in time..."

"Nobody asked you, fucking track star! And as for you, fucking manager, don’t you think you need a bigger size shirt?"

Now it was Mamori's turn to splutter. "I beg your pardon?"

Hiruma gestured at her cleavage. "You’re practically bursting out of that thing. You don't dress like that all the time, do you? It makes you look like some kinda prost-"

"I will have you know that I am the Vice President of one of the largest corporations in North America!"

"That sells what, pornography?"

"We manufacture a number of feminine hygiene products-"

"You mean you sell fucking tampons?"

"That... is just one example-"

"YA-HA! You sell fucking objects that cause toxic shock syndrome! Good JOB, fucking manager!"

A cheer drowned out Mamori’s retort. Now that Hiruma had put down his gun, the arm-wrestling tournament had resumed. Kurita was currently winning, proving in the process that his healthier, still-slightly-chubby-but-by-all-means-no-longer-mountainous frame had retained most of the muscle although the girth was lost. Another cheer went up as he slammed Juumonji's arm down against the table and kept it there. Ishimaru counted blandly while Toganou stood behind muttering and massaging his own bicep. It looked like the matches were done, until the very person Kurita had been avoiding all evening, Omosadake, approached the table and demanded one for the honor of someone who had not betrayed the lifestyle of the sumo.

Mamori had recovered enough from Hiruma's insults to turn away from him as she urged her old friend to take the challenge. As Kurita accepted with reluctance and they began the match, Mamori positioned herself to cheer him on to what looked to be certain victory.

It was a move that proved useless. The kind-hearted Kurita, after reading the desperation in the losing Omosadake's features, relented about five minutes into the contest and let the shorter, fatter man win. This kindness did not please Omosadake, who rose to his feet and ranted at his former friend, saying what a shame and a cheat he was, and how his wife made him take the line of weight-loss products Kurita was selling on television, and that they didn’t work...

It was right in the midst of all this sputtering and recrimination that Omosadake clutched at his heart. A moment later, he had keeled over.

Kurita was the first to react. “Hooee! Someone call an ambulance!”

Hiruma whipped out a cell phone. “Nice work, fucking manager. You just killed the fucking sumo.”