Lesson on Punishment Games

She was so frustrated with herself.

She hurriedly jogged back toward the school, the golden glow from the street lamps illuminating her exasperated expression as she passed under them.

God, she was so stupid! After all, leaving the folder with all the crucial plays against the Teikoku Alexanders had definitely not been the smartest thing she’d ever done. Oh, it’d been just a simple mishap, of course . . .

But it was a small mishap that she hoped the team captain hadn’t discovered yet.

With the Christmas Bowl only a few days away, the man had become nearly intolerable. He’d turned into a complete beast during practices, even though everyone was being trained by the aces of previous opponents. With his transfigured oxygen capsule, he’d made it a frightening habit of chasing down and nearly running over anyone he caught taking even a ten-second breather without his permission.

And even though she was just the manager, she felt just as rundown as the rest of them, having been forced to write out every play imaginable and placing them in every scenario possible. Then there was writing up every possible counterattack the Teikoku Alexanders might form against them, researching everything on every single player on the team, and then having to discuss them with him. That lattermost bit alone was strength-draining.

Even Hiruma’s obnoxious personality had grown impossibly worse. He didn’t just tease and taunt her about her mothering habits, or her tendency to oppose him, or her sugar addiction now. No, he now picked on her about the silliest of things, like her hair, her clothes, her handwriting, how she walked, and even how she ate.

It was horrible.

And it never helped when he was particularly nasty on the days that she didn’t get a good night’s sleep.

At one point, Musashi and Doburoku-sensei had both reassured her that it was just his restlessness from being confined to his oxygen capsule nearly twenty-four hours every day, and that it wouldn’t be too unreasonable if he was still feeling a bit of pain and discomfort in his arm. They also confided in her of their suspicion that he was actually excited about the upcoming game, and that Hiruma being, well, Hiruma . . . he was just expressing it in the most violent, negative ways he possibly could.

Still . . . if he found that folder . . .

She groaned.

He would make her so miserable.

He would most likely see it as laziness; extreme, unforgivable neglectfulness. He would probably be so mean about it that, depending on her state of mind, she feared she might actually hit him the next chance she caught him outside the capsule.

And that would only make things worse, she knew immediately. She could see him now, taking out that dreadful extortion book and jotting down something along the lines of “Disciplinary Committee Officer assaults injured and defenseless student in a random act of violence.”

When she finally crossed the school grounds, she made a bee-line for the short building that was tucked in the overcastting shadow of the school’s main building.

She halted her brisk walk when she finally reached to the gray door, but she fought the urge to immediately throw open the door.

Trying to catch her breath and gather her panic-crazed wits, she realized she had to go about this sensibly. After all, she wasn’t entirely sure if Hiruma was still there, as he was always the last to leave. But if he was, she knew she would have to act cool and pretend that she had left something else. Depending where he was in the room, she could try sneaking the folder on her way out.

Assuming that he hadn’t noticed it already, and she prayed silently that he hadn’t.

Inhaling deeply, steadying herself and falling into cool and collected roll, she grabbed the door’s handle and slid the door open.

The clubroom was quiet and dark, save for a soft, golden light that filtered in from the adjacent locker room. The light and the sound of a shower running were damning evidence that the clubhouse wasn’t vacant.

And that ‘someone’ was clearly the insufferable quarterback, proof being that his oxygen capsule was resting, silent and empty, on the dark floor near the entrance to the locker room.

But she wasn’t paying attention to that.

Her gaze was riveted to the worn, black folder peeking out from under the binder, both sitting on the middle shelf of the bookshelf huddled in the corner She smiled, immensely relieved to find that it was where she had left it.

Warily, watching the open threshold of the locker room, as if she expected Hiruma to show up any second – or maybe even be waiting for her – she crept over to the bookshelf and quickly snatched the overstuffed folder out from under the binder.

Just as quickly, she started back toward the door, wanting to get out of there as fast as possible before she was caught.

Until she heard a noise.

Her hand froze on the door handle. Blinking, she turned toward the locker room, unsure that she heard right.

“Fuck . . .”

Her eyes widened slightly. That time, she heard it crystal clear.

But . . .

Brows furrowing faintly, she moved away from the door and slowly, uncertainly, toward the locker room, feeling the first inklings of worry. Was he all right? He sounded as if he was . . . in pain?

She heard his muffled groan again, louder this time.

Before she even realized what she was doing, she had dropped the folder down on the table and hurried into the steamy locker room.

Oh, God, what was wrong? Did he slip and fall? Did he land on his injured arm?

It was only when she had stepped onto the white tile floor of the shower room, the steam thick and the hiss of the water as it sprayed and the dull smacking as it hit the floor having grown louder, that she was dragged back to her senses.

Eyes exploding wide, she covered her mouth with her hands, a blush burning her face right up to her hairline. Oh, God, what was she doing?!

No, no, no, no! She started backing away. She was not going to get caught being in the boy’s shower room! Especially by the master of blackmail himself . . . who was only three stalls away . . . naked . . .

And moaning as if he was dying slowly.

“Ugghn . . .”

God, what if he had fallen? What if he was trying to get up and couldn’t?

She bit her lip, wringing her hands anxiously, torn between wanting to go to him, to make sure he was all right . . . and wanting to hightail it right out of there before her life was ruined right on the spot. She knew, knew that if he discovered her there, he would never let it go. It would be the ultimate blackmail against her; something that she knew she wouldn’t be able to just brush off like she had with the pictures of her in a cheerleader’s outfit or when she had been in the middle of devouring a box of creampuffs in an unladylike manner.

No, this would be on a whole different level. This would be real blackmail; something that could ruin her if she ever crossed him in the future.

But . . . he sounded in so much pain. How would she ever forgive herself if she just walked way, selfish for her own well-being, only to maybe learn later from Musashi or Sena that he truly had collapsed and that she could have helped him when she’d had the opportunity?

“Ughn! . . . Shit . . . !”

His harsh curse startled her natural, motherly instincts into action, and before she knew it her feet were propelling her toward the shower stall he was in. When she was close enough to peer around the corner into the rectangular space, his name, sitting on the tip of her tongue, suddenly choked her.

. . . If someone had asked if she’d ever seen an X-rated film, she would have blushed and perhaps even got offended by such a private question. If someone had asked if she’d ever accidentally walked in on one of the Devilbats’ players as they were dressing or undressing, she would have promptly said no.

. . . If someone had asked if she’d ever walked in on Hiruma Yoichi while he was showering, his back braced against the tile wall, his head bowed and eyes squeezed shut . . . a clenched fist sliding over his . . .

Her face was burning with a mortified blush, her voice frozen in her throat. She wanted desperately to turn away; to run straight out of the clubroom; the folder be damned!

But she couldn’t . . . no matter how horrified she was or how many times she mentally screamed at her body to move. She was frozen on the spot, unable to look away. Something had taken control of her muscles and her eyes, forcing her to remain where she was; forcing her to watch . . .

Water, hot and soaking, weighed down the thick, blond spikes of hair; streaked down high, flushed cheekbones and dripped off the tip of a sharp, bold nose. The hot spray bounced off broad shoulders and chest. Thin streams curled around a strong, uninjured arm like bulging veins while the other arm was strapped tightly in a cast, the white plaster wrapped in a blue, waterproof sleeve as it rested in its sling. Thick ribbons of water ran fluidly through the muscled ridges of a hard, clenching abdomen, over a narrow waist, and down the length of his legs as his hips rocked in slow, deep grinds . . .

. . . Oh . . .

It was a breathless, feminine sound that echoed in her mind.

She was trembling slightly, her widened eyes riveted to the thick, swollen length of his . . . cock.

She gasped faintly, her face growing hotter. The strength started to drain from her knees as the crude term flitted about her mind, teasing her and sending tingling goosebumps along her skin; she distinctly felt her nipples harden.

Liquid heat curled hotly in her belly as she watched, fascinated, as he pumped a tight fist over the thickened length of his erection, occasionally releasing it to cup his balls, so heavy and full looking as he squeezed and rolled them.

“Oh, fuuuck,” he hissed, baring his teeth. He squeezed a cruel, tight fist around the violently flushed head of his cock, jerking it viciously in fast, hard motions. His voice was harsh and strained; his breathing loud and labored; the thoroughly male, throaty sounds rising in volume.

It was as if he couldn’t help himself . . . As if he was losing control . . . of . . . something . . .

And then . . . he did.

Her heart skipped a beat and her mouth formed an ‘o’.

His whole body suddenly tensed, muscles visibly clenching hard and tight; his back arched off the wall and he tossed his head back; his teeth ground together as his brows creased tightly, looking as if he was in pure agony. Suddenly, a growling, guttural shout tore from his throat as a thick, white substance exploded from the swollen head of his erection, it landing stickily on the opposite wall, his hand slowing its frantic pace to pump in deep, tight strokes. His chest worked as he labored in breath, like he had just finished running two miles, and his body fell back against the wall in abrupt exhaustion.

Her mouth had gone completely dry, having been slightly ajar as she’d watched the whole scene. She became faintly aware of how achingly stiff her nipples were and that the area between her thighs was throbbing with heat, her panties feeling uncomfortably damp.

It was only when he pulled his hand from the curiously softening flesh and sighed a light curse that she fully comprehended what had happened; what he did, what she did, what she saw, who she sawing doing it . . .

She was standing in the middle of the boy’s shower room, her clothes heavy from the steam of the hot water. The Devilbat’s notorious quarterback was naked and soaking right in front of her, and she had just witnessed him . . .

Devilbat’s notorious quarterback . . . Devilbats . . . quarterback. . .

Hiruma.

The realization of the terrible danger she was in, the danger of humiliation and blackmail, had her snapping a hand to her mouth in silent horror. Heart pounding, crystal-blue eyes wide, she slowly started backing out of sight, her senses straining, listening for any sound that would indicate that he’d noticed he wasn’t alone.

All the while, she repeated a mantra of reassurance in her mind, telling herself that it would be fine; he wouldn’t catch her. He would not know that she had just watched him in a very private, vulnerable moment; a moment that had affected her more than she wished it had.

She was guilty of voyeurism . . . but he would not know. He would never ever know.

Snatching up the folder as she snuck out, she quickly and quietly slid the door shut again, and when she made sure everything was in place, she turned and bolted.

No matter how many times she tried to reassure herself, she knew deep down that she was just telling herself lies.

He would know. Oh, God, he would know.

He made it his business to know; made it his business to know everything that went on around him. He was a master at gathering serious and sometimes even devastating blackmail on anyone and everyone.

Except her. Before, she used to take pride in knowing that he couldn’t get any dirt on her because she was a good girl. She took satisfaction in knowing that the best blackmail he could get of her was simple, slightly embarrassing things; things that wouldn’t actually haunt her for the rest of her life had the information fall into the wrong hands.

Or more specifically . . . Hiruma’s.

But that was all over now.

Somehow, somewhere, there was going to be the smallest detail that would tell him everything and he would know. He would know and he would distribute the information immediately around the school.

Part of her was confident that it would take more than just words from the mouth of the Devil himself to convince others of what she had done . . . but her heart sank, remembering that she was dealing with Hiruma. He always had evidence to back up his words . . . He never bluffed about his blackmail . . .

She felt hot tears sting the corner of her eyes as she ran. The folder she had clutched to her chest felt heavy. His proof that she’d been there was the folder he would find missing . . .

The wind felt like cool, caressing fingers, brushing over her cheeks and neck as her lungs labored to keep up with her pounding heart.

She had only wanted to help . . . she had thought he was hurt . . . she didn’t know . . .

He would never believe her . . .