Fu–fu–fu. The laugh slipped out before she could help herself. She caught the reflection in her phone screen: her own sharp smile, hair perfectly straight, her navy Onitsuka blazer crisp against the morning sun. It wasn't an act. Well, not entirely.
Arisa Takamine had been called a lot of things since middle school – ojou-sama, villainess, the Amazon. At 5'8'' she towered over most of the boys at Onitsuka Athletic High and every other school she went to, even some of the older ones. Beautiful? Everyone said so. Glossy black hair always shining like lacquer, skin like porcelain, and the kind of aristocratic profile painters tried to capture but always failed. She had been blessed – no, engineered – for success. Her family's money was just an additional bonus for being an excellent person in her past life.
But beautiful and tall was a curse, not a blessing. Boys liked the idea of a tall girl until they had to stand next to her in photos. Then suddenly they "liked petite girls." She'd stopped counting how many dates ended with: "You're intimidating."
So she had a plan. A tall, athletic boyfriend. Someone who wouldn't flinch at her height, her laugh, or her personality. And when she'd learned through the grapevine that Onitsuka was starting its boys' basketball program with a roster of foreign players – actual giants – Arisa knew this was her chance.
Fu–fu–fu.
She adjusted her ribbon tie, eyes scanning the bulletin board outside the gym. A new sheet of paper fluttered: Basketball Club (Boys) – Manager Applications Open Soon. The club was technically on hold, waiting for the new arrivals, but the slots for managers were open.
Her fingers itched to take a pen.
In her head she was already imagining it: towel over her arm, clipboard in hand, standing at courtside like a heroine in a shōjo manga – but the villainess heroine, the one who steals the prince. She'd make the gym her stage.
She thought of her classmates. The taller boys? Soft, round shoulders. Bad posture. Skinny wrists. Some were polite but shy, some were cocky but paper-thin. No one she could stand next to without looking like a bodyguard. No – she deserved something better. But the rumors about the transfers were insane: Americans, Africans, Europeans, each over six feet tall, some over seven feet. A whole lineup of potential giants.
Fu–fu–fu.
She'd been in school long enough to know the politics of club managers too. Managers weren't just towel girls. They controlled schedules, handled gear, managed the team's face to the school. Done right, you weren't just a helper – you were an insider.
Her mind raced with delicious possibilities: Bringing water to a boy with broad shoulders and foreign charm. Tying bandages around a tall center's wrist while he looked down at her, grateful. Hearing whispers in the hall: "Watanabe-san, she's dating one of the foreign athletes!"
It was too perfect.
Her friends didn't get it. They whispered about her "stalking the basketball club" or "acting like an anime character." But Arisa Takamine wasn't playing at anything. She knew exactly what she wanted: a front row seat to the new giants of Onitsuka, and maybe, just maybe, the kind of tall, broad-shouldered boyfriend who would make her look elegant when she stood beside him. Not… tragic.
She touched her cheek, blushing faintly at her own fantasy, before straightening her back again. Of course, she'd need to compete with other girls who'd have the same idea. Basketball managers were always in demand. But Arisa had advantages: money, looks, and a laugh that could cut like glass.
"Fu–fu–fu… oh, poor girls," she murmured, twirling her hair. "They don't even know the game has already been won."
She pictured them arriving: foreigners stepping off buses like a live-action movie. She imagined the stares, the whispers, the shock. For once, she wouldn't be the tall one. She straightened her skirt and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Fu–fu–fu," she whispered again, and this time the sound felt like a promise. She will finally find her tall, athletic prince.
~~~~~
She came to the front doors of the basketball gym, half-expecting a small crowd of enthusiasts waiting for the club's opening. But she hadn't expected this many. The line stretched across the courtyard – students, parents, curious teachers, and, surprisingly, quite a few girls. Everyone wanted a glimpse of the famous "foreign transfers."
When she finally stepped inside, the gym was already buzzing. And right there, sitting behind a folding table stacked with forms, was an extremely tall Black man, clearly overwhelmed. He was trying to process applications, speaking in English only – which instantly turned the whole situation into chaos.
The poor guy was surrounded by hopeful Japanese students, each one butchering English in a different creative way.
The first boy walked up, grinning proudly. "You black! Tall! Strong! Basketball! I want be black too! Strong basketball!"
He rolled up his sleeve and flexed, as if demonstrating eligibility.
The next one marched up with equal confidence. "Teikō basketball! Very good! Very better! Very swag!"
Arisa pressed her hand to her mouth, fighting the urge to laugh.
But the third applicant nearly finished her off. He slammed his paper on the table, shouted: "Michael Jordan! Kobe Bryant! Barack Obama!" then strutted away like he'd just delivered a TED Talk.
The man behind the table froze, staring into the middle distance as if rethinking every life choice that brought him here.
Arisa almost felt bad for him. Almost.
But she knew one thing: today was not the right time to apply as a manager.
"Fu–fu–fu…" she whispered under her breath, stepping back toward the exit. "Tomorrow, perhaps. When the battlefield is less… crowded."