Operation "Forced Recruitment" had a rocky start.
As soon as we walked into the gym, Wakana Gojo almost melted into the wall. Upon seeing Marin Kitagawa—the popular girl, the class queen, the epitome of everything that makes him nervous—walking into his sanctuary with a bright smile, Gojo dropped the ball and took three steps back as if he had seen a ghost.
"He... he... hello," he stammered, looking at the floor as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.
Marin, faithful to my warning (and surprisingly obedient), didn't pounce on him. She stayed by my side, waving her hand.
"Hi, Gojo-kun. I'm Marin. Hinata told me that... well, that you have magic hands."
Gojo shot me a look of absolute panic. What did you tell her? his eyes said.
I just smiled and gestured to Marin.
"Show him the photo."
Marin pulled out her phone. The tension in the air was palpable. Gojo looked ready to bolt. But then, Marin put the screen in front of his eyes.
"It's this," she said, her voice a little embarrassed. "I tried to make Shizuku-tan's outfit. But... well, look."
Gojo looked at the screen out of pure politeness. I saw the exact moment the fear left his body, replaced by something much stronger: professional horror.
His eyes narrowed. He leaned toward the phone, forgetting he was talking to a popular girl.
"That..." Gojo swallowed, visibly offended by the image. "That's cheap poplin, isn't it?"
Marin blinked.
"Ah, yes. It was the cheapest one."
"The thread is too tight," Gojo muttered, pointing at the photo with a trembling finger—not from fear, but from indignation. "Look at those puckers in the seam. The machine wasn't adjusted for that fabric thickness. And the pattern... the armhole is cut at the wrong angle. That's why it's baggy on one side and pulls on the other. If you move while wearing that, it'll rip in two minutes."
There was silence. Marin was open-mouthed. I was grinning like an idiot.
"It's... it's a crime against fabric," Gojo sentenced, lowering his hand and suddenly realizing what he had said. He turned red as a tomato. "Ah! I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. It's just that..."
"You're amazing!" Marin shouted, jumping closer and grabbing Gojo's hands.
Gojo almost fainted.
"You knew all that just from a photo!" Marin had stars in her eyes. "Please, help me! I'll pay you! I'll do anything! I need someone who knows what they're doing to help me or I'll never be able to cosplay!"
Gojo tried to stammer a reply, but he was overwhelmed.
This is where the strategist comes in.
I stepped forward, putting myself between them, breaking the eye contact but keeping the energy.
"Wait a moment, Marin," I said with a serious tone, crossing my arms. "Gojo is my star player. He's the future Iron Wall of this team. We have four months until the tournament. His time is gold. He can't spend his afternoons sewing lace if he has to learn how to block."
Marin looked at me, desperate.
"But Hinata! You said he could help me!"
"And he can," I nodded. "But this is an equivalent exchange. Gojo provides the talent. I provide the permission for him to use breaks and weekends. What do you provide?"
Marin looked at me, then looked at Gojo, and then back at me.
"I said I'd pay..."
"We don't need money," I cut her off. I pointed to the gym around us. "Well, we do, but not yours. We need time. I have to train Gojo, and Izumi and Koji when I manage to drag them here. If I spend all day filling out student council forms, mopping the floor, filling water bottles, and calling around for practice matches, I can't train them."
I let the sentence float in the air. Marin was smart. I saw the gears turning in her head behind those false eyelashes.
"You want me to be... the manager?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"I want an Operations Manager," I corrected, giving her a fancier title. "Someone to organize us. Someone to get us access to the main gym. Someone to record matches so we can analyze them. If you take the administrative burden off us, I'll adjust the training schedule so Gojo has time to help you with your outfit."
I looked at Gojo.
"Does that sound good to you, Gojo? You help Marin with her 'art,' she helps us with our 'art.'"
Gojo looked at Marin. She didn't seem so terrifying anymore. She seemed... like someone who desperately needed help, just like I needed a blocker.
"If... if it's just sewing... I can do it," Gojo muttered.
I looked back at Marin. She seemed to hesitate. Being a manager of a sports club sounds like a lot of work and little glamour.
I walked to the storage room and came back with an object in my hand.
"Besides," I said, unfolding the garment. "There's another reason we need you."
I showed them the official Boys' Volleyball Club jersey. It was probably ten years old. It was a synthetic vomit-green color, with the school's name written in a barely legible Comic Sans font, and the neck elastic was completely stretched out.
"This is our current uniform," I announced.
Marin let out a sound that was half gasp, half gag.
"That is hideous!" She put a hand to her chest. "That shade of green clashes with every human skin tone! And the font! My God, the font!"
"Exactly," I smiled, tossing the green rag aside. "If we're going to the District Tournament, I refuse to step on the court dressed like that. If we're going to be an Empire, we need to look like one. We need someone with aesthetic sense. Someone who understands 'presence.'"
Marin looked at the jersey lying on the floor with contempt, and then looked at me. Her eyes shone with a competitive fire.
"Deal," she said, extending her hand with determination. "I'll be your manager. And the first thing I'll do is burn that green thing. I'm going to design you uniforms that will make the other teams cry with envy before the match even starts."
I shook her hand. Her grip was firm.
"Welcome to the team, Manager."
I turned to Gojo, who was looking at us as if we had just signed a pact with the devil.
"Alright, Gojo. You have your first sewing commission: Marin's outfit. But first..." I tossed him the volleyball. "Ten blocks with lateral movement. Let's move!"
While Gojo ran to the net and Marin pulled out her phone to start taking photos of the "workspace" (and probably criticize the decor), I took out my notebook.
Players: 4.Manager: 1 (Acquired).Morale: High.Uniforms: Soon to be not-horrible.
Everything was going according to plan. Now only the hard part remained: convincing a basketball player that using his feet is illegal and a soccer player that using his hands is mandatory.
This was going to be fun.