The Duchess' Hope- Chapter 3: A Price too High (I'm not talking about Marijuana prices)
"Guys, treat her well," Genda's deep, silky yet rugged voice followed. He winked at me again, causing my face to scrunch up like it had before, lifting one side of my lip into a sneer. At Genda's words, the rest of the team responded in unison, "Hai~."
I had initially believed these guys to be the epitome of discipline, reflecting the school's image of sternness and perfection. But behind closed doors, they couldn't care less about the state of their club room. Just the other day, they were eating snacks while discussing new strategies and doing homework at the same time. When they left, the room was a disaster—bags of chips scattered everywhere and chairs in positions so random I couldn't even make sense of them.
The worst part? Ants crawling all over the walls. It didn't take long to discover the source of the infestation—a sloppy joe and some powdered donuts carelessly abandoned. I could only stare at the chaos in a mix of disgust and horror, especially as sticky cheddar residue clung stubbornly to the floor.
Staring at the chaotic state of the clubroom, I took a deep breath and tied my hair into a tight ponytail, mentally preparing myself for the battle ahead. The mess was overwhelming, but it wasn't anything I couldn't handle—at least, that's what I told myself as I grabbed a broom from the corner and got to work.
I started with the floor, sweeping away the cheddar dust and crumbs scattered everywhere. The broom's bristles caught on sticky spots, likely from spilled soda or juice. I frowned but kept sweeping methodically, making sure no corner was overlooked. Once the visible debris was gone, I grabbed a dustpan and carefully collected every last crumb.
Next, I fetched a bucket and filled it with warm water mixed with a generous amount of disinfectant. Kneeling on the floor, I scrubbed the sticky patches by hand (With gloves of course, I'm no crazy person that escaped asylum.), using a sponge and plenty of elbow grease to ensure no residue remained. The faint citrusy scent of the disinfectant filled the air as I worked. After scrubbing, I wrung out the sponge and went over the same spots with clean water to rinse away any lingering soap.
Satisfied with my progress, I moved on to the walls, where ants were still marching in determined lines. Using a damp cloth soaked in soapy water, I wiped down the walls thoroughly, making sure to remove every trace of the powdered sugar and sauce that had attracted the insects in the first place. I sprayed an insect repellent around the room's edges to ensure the ants didn't return, then wiped the area down again to remove any harsh chemical residue.
Once the walls were clean, I tackled the tables and chairs. First, I returned the chairs to their proper positions, straightening them neatly. The tables were sticky as well, so I wiped them down with a microfiber cloth dipped in warm soapy water. I followed up with a second cloth to dry them and remove streaks. The room slowly started to look less like a disaster zone and more like a place where people could actually work and focus.
Finally, I turned my attention back to the floor. Sweeping and scrubbing alone wasn't enough for me; the floor needed a proper mopping. I emptied the bucket of dirty water, refilled it with clean water and a fresh dose of disinfectant, and began mopping systematically, making sure I covered every inch. When the floor dried, I applied a thin coat of wax, buffing it until it gleamed. It wasn't perfect, but it was as close to spotless as it could get under the circumstances.
I stood back, surveyed my work, and allowed myself a small moment of satisfaction. The air was fresher, the surfaces were spotless, and the floor practically shone. While I hated the mess and the effort it took to clean it, I couldn't deny the sense of accomplishment I felt when it was done. For better or worse, this was my responsibility now—and I wasn't going to let the state of this room reflect poorly on me.
It turns out, the room took me two full days of cleaning. Between my studies, classes, and going home, it became quite the challenge to get it all done in just a day.
After putting everything away, it hit me that today would be the first day I could finally watch them practice on the indoor field. It might sound like an overstatement that they can't clean up their mess, but if you weren't their manager, you'd probably expect their club room to be neat and tidy—especially since they all come from well-educated families. But what can you really expect from a room where the boys feel free to do whatever they want?
I sat on the floor at the side, watching them stretch before practice as I gently wiped down a slightly scuffed soccer ball with a cleaning cloth. Now that I was the manager, I had changed into a dark green tracksuit that almost looked black, with white stripes that accentuated my strontium flame-colored eyes. They had always been my least favorite feature, a reminder of something from long ago. I pursed my lips, feeling a wave of sadness wash over me, but I quickly shook it off. 'Forget about the past. You are Inoue Mihori now,' I scolded myself silently.
A TV set being wheeled in by Genda and Jimon caught my attention. 'What's that for?' Before I could ask, Genda shouted across the field to their captain with dreadlocks, "Why did you tell us to get this?"
"Just watch," Kidou replied, his voice carrying that I-know-something-you-don't tone. Then, with a subtle motion, Kidou slid a tape—one he'd been hiding—into the slot.
As the TV flickered to life, the screen displayed the logo of Seiryu Academy, a renowned school known for its elite soccer team. The players all gathered around, eyeing the screen with a mix of curiosity and tension. Kidou, ever the strategist, stood at the front, his gaze locked on the footage. On the screen, the Seiryu team was in the midst of a fast-paced game, their players moving with precision and coordination that was almost flawless.
"They're good," Jimon muttered, his arms crossed as he watched the clip, a look of admiration in his eyes.
"Good doesn't cut it anymore," Kidou said, his voice sharp. "We need to be better. Pay attention to their formations. Every move, every pass—they don't just play to win, they play to dominate."
The clip continued, showing a brilliant display of skill—quick passes, perfect positioning, and tactical awareness that was clearly superior. Genda, ever the competitive one, leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the screen, already mentally analyzing their next move. "We can take them down," he muttered, a grin spreading across his face.
A mix of surprise and awe washed over me as I watched Genda. There were times when I almost forgot he was actually the captain of Teikoku Academy's soccer team, not Kidou. Kidou always seemed to overshadow him with his intellect, making it feel like he was the leader instead. But right now, Genda exuded a quiet confidence, his superiority and competitiveness shining through—qualities that made him captain in the first place. It might not be immediately obvious, but from what I could tell, Genda was the one who truly brought the team together. Most of the players were too intimidated by Kidou to approach him, and while Kidou was an excellent strategist, his way of working could have created problems with the team's unity if he had been the captain instead of Genda.
Genda spoke up once again, his voice steady as he pulled out a few sketches of his new ideas for their next game. The pages were filled with diagrams of various hissatsu techniques, each one more detailed than the last. He looked around at the team, his eyes briefly locking with Kidou's, as if silently challenging him.
"We need to step up our game," Genda said, his tone assertive yet focused. "These new techniques will give us an edge. We can't just rely on what's worked before. We need innovation if we want to beat the best."
He spread the sketches out on the table, pointing to one of the formations. "I'm thinking of combining two hissatsu moves into one play. It's risky, but if we pull it off, it'll catch the other team completely off guard."
Genda's eyes swept across the room, catching the attention of each team member. "Kidou, you're the strategist, but I want everyone's input here. If we're going to make this work, we need full commitment. What do you think?"
He paused for a moment, allowing the question to hang in the air, then continued, "We need to push our limits if we want to show Seiryu Academy what we're made of. So, are we all in?"
The others immediately seemed energized, all of them agreeing enthusiastically with Genda's plan. But then Narukami, ever the one to bring up the unexpected, suddenly asked, "Don't we still have Koutei Penguin 1gou?"
At that moment, the atmosphere in the room shifted. Kidou's entire demeanor changed. His usual calm and calculated presence darkened, and he growled, his voice low and dangerous, "Don't you ever mention that hissatsu again."
The abruptness of his reaction caught me off guard. Instinctively, I asked, "What's that?" The room fell silent, all eyes turning toward me. It was the first time I'd spoken up, and I could feel their gaze on me, heavy and questioning.
Kidou's eyes flickered with a mixture of frustration and something else—something I couldn't quite place. He opened his mouth to speak, but then seemed to reconsider. The tension hung in the air, thick and awkward.
"Er..." Kidou began, but the words seemed to stall in his throat.
The silence stretched on until Kidou turned to Sakuma, who gave a subtle nod in return. He then glanced at Genda, who also nodded, though there was a certain heaviness to his expression. Finally, Kidou fixed his gaze on me, his eyes locking with mine, piercing and unreadable.
For a moment, I couldn't tell if he was angry, disappointed, or just lost in thought. Whatever it was, it felt like a warning—a hint that this was a topic better left untouched. The tension in the room was palpable as everyone waited for Kidou to speak.
Sakuma, sensing the rising tension, hesitated for a moment before speaking up. He placed a hand gently on Kidou's arm, giving it a reassuring squeeze, as if to ground him. "It's... a forbidden hissatsu technique," he began, his voice calm but measured. "Koutei Penguin 1gou is a move I can use, but it's far more dangerous than Koutei Penguin 2gou. It's stronger, sure, but the cost is high—it causes significant damage to the user, which is why we sealed it away."
Kidou's expression softened just a little, though there was still an edge to his presence. Sakuma turned slightly, making sure everyone understood. "It's not just that one," he continued. "Beast Fang, the hissatsu goalie technique Genda uses, is in the same category. Both moves have immense power, but they come with a heavy price—the user's health. That's why we locked them away, to keep them from being used recklessly."
Genda, who had been quiet up until now, nodded solemnly, his usual grin absent. "We're not saying they can't be useful," he added, his voice steady. "But if we push too hard, it could hurt us more than it helps. That's why they're off-limits for now."
The weight of their words hung in the air, and I could tell the team was divided over the decision. Kidou's eyes softened, though there was still an underlying sense of resolve. "These techniques are meant for the right time," he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else, "when we can control the consequences."
The room fell silent again, each player reflecting on the decision. The techniques were undeniably powerful, but the risks involved were not something to be taken lightly. It was a delicate balance, one that they had clearly thought long and hard about.
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The Duchess' Hope- Chapter 2: Electra Complex- kid-tested, father-approved
"I'm just protecting you from other clubs from trying to sweep you away. Can't let that happen, now can we?"
I gazed at the man with light cyan hair as he boldly flirted with me, his lips brushing against the back of my hand while our eyes locked. Though his words felt playful, the intensity behind them suggested there was more to his intentions.
"Oh, afraid other clubs might steal me away? How flattering. I never realized one man could be so protective... Worried about losing your manager already?" I teased, and he responded with a soft chuckle.
"Of course, I'd be scared, m'lady—it would be a real shame to finally get a manager after 40 years, only for her to not last long..." he replied, his words carrying a double meaning despite the soft, polished tone he used.
"Oh, how silly, you think that I wouldn't last- are you calling me incompetent?" I challenged with a soft one.
"Your words dear, not mine," Sakuma replied. Tension builds up as we both remain passive-aggressive, both of us smiling despite silently trying to get on each other's nerves.
We locked eyes for a while before he playfully released my hand and flashed a cheeky grin. "We should get going, Inoue-san; we wouldn't want to be late for class again, would we?" he murmured, still holding my hand as we walked together.
"How considerate of you; I appreciate the reminder," I replied, slightly annoyed that I had allowed myself to get caught up in petty banter. I tried to sound friendlier in hopes of easing the tension while anxiously reflecting on my earlier words, feeling awful for being so childish.
Sakuma grinned, seeming completely unbothered now. "No problem. We're in the same afternoon classes, after all. What kind of classmate would I be if I left you behind when we're heading in the same direction?"
He then added, "I also want to apologize for Genda's flirting earlier and Kidou's petty revenge. They're not great with women since they're both so focused on soccer. Kidou tends to ignore girls and is used to being above everyone else, so bumping into him might've bruised his ego. Genda, on the other hand, only has brothers, so he's clueless about how to handle women. All the attention from admirers might've gone to his head a bit." I listened closely, a little surprised that he was acknowledging his friends' behavior and even holding them accountable for it.
"I'll keep that in mind." I paused for a moment, studying his expression as I try to grasp if it's the right time to even bring it up, "I didn't expect you to take responsibility for them," I said, my voice softening. "It's... kind of surprising. I thought you'd just brush it off like everyone else."
Sakuma gave a small shrug, his expression thoughtful. "Someone has to call them out when they're out of line."
I let out a small laugh, shaking my head. "Well, I guess that explains a lot about them."
"Glad to be of service," Sakuma said, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Now, about that last 'incompetent' comment..."
I rolled my eyes. "You're not letting that go, are you?"
My previous view of Sakuma-san began to change slightly; my tense shoulders relaxed as I attempted to trust his grip. While I still held some reservations about him, I found myself feeling neutral toward the boy who was now holding my hand.
"And here's our clubroom," Sakuma said, opening the door and holding it for me. "After you." I stepped inside and gasped, taking in the room. Sakuma followed, closing the door behind him. "Is something wrong?" he asked, sounding concerned.
"No," I replied softly. "I just can't believe I'm actually in here."
Rumor had it that no one—not even the Commander—had ever been inside the Teikoku Soccer clubroom unless they were a member. It was like a sacred space, reserved exclusively for the soccer players of Teikoku Gakuen, each of whom was personally handpicked by the Commander for their athletic scholarship.
Truthfully, the room wasn't all that impressive. It lacked the lavish features you might expect from an underground base or, in this case, the clubroom of the school's elite. A blank, slightly stained blackboard hung on one wall, with clean yet scattered pieces of chalk left on the holder. The room wasn't covered in graffiti or peeling paint, but the walls still had a slightly grimy appearance, though it was hard to pinpoint why. In one corner near the exit stood a slightly dented metal cart filled with new soccer balls, looking as if they'd only been used once or twice. The floor wasn't as polished and pristine as you'd find in a wealthy home, and an old, somewhat dirty cubby shelf sat against one wall, littered with soccer bags dropped by the players who had already gone out to practice on the indoor field. But the worst part was the furniture. Fold-up chairs with red velvet cushions were scattered haphazardly, and the table was tilted at an angle, likely from someone standing up too quickly and bumping into it.
"Everyone always thinks this room is like a palace, but... well, this is what it actually looks like," Sakuma said sheepishly. "I know, don't say anything. Believe it or not, this is one of its neater days." Then he asked, "Do you want me to call them in?"
"No, that's fine," I squeaked, still a bit stunned at how different Sakuma felt compared to his captain. Kidou exuded an intense, ruthless energy, but when you actually talked to Sakuma, you'd be surprised by how friendly he was and how easy it felt to relax around him. I used to think of the Teikoku Three—Kidou, Sakuma, and Genda—as rude, arrogant, and intimidating. Maybe it was just because I'd never really taken the time to get to know them or opened my heart enough to give them a chance.
"Sorry, I wish I could help, but I need to get to practice or the Commander will be mad. So, uh, I guess you can start by lining up the chairs? You don't need to worry about the tables, they're pretty heavy, so me and the others can handle that after practice. And if you're done, you can start on the cabinet," the cyan-haired boy said, tossing his bag into one of the empty cubbies. Then he stood there, staring at me oddly.
"What?" I asked, "Aren't you supposed to be going to practice?"
"Uh, could you turn around or something?" he asked awkwardly. "I need to, uh, change first."
"Gomensai," I quickly apologized, embarrassed as I realized he was still in his uniform, and turned around. A blush crept up my face.
About forty seconds later or so- I can't really count, Sakuma called out, "You can turn around now." I slowly turned my head first, then followed with my body. I couldn't tear my eyes away from his amber left eye, which seemed even more intense against the dark green of his uniform. I found myself lost in his gaze, floating in the moment, until he interrupted me.
"Later, um..." He stares at me for a moment as he tries to remember or know my name.
"Inoue. My name's Inoue Mihori," I said, correcting him.
"Thanks. Later, Inoue-san!" he called out, then hurried out of the room.
I turned to face the room and took in the sight of the scattered chairs, knocked over in every direction. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly—time to get to work. Just looking at the mess was enough to make my head start to fume.
I shoved the chairs aside, too frustrated to care about being gentle. With an annoyed huff, I slammed the closet door open and began rummaging through it for a broom and dustpan, refusing to use the vacuum. After sweeping the floor, I mopped it quickly, then waxed it as soon as it dried. Once the floor was done, I moved on to dust off the chalkboard and searched for a box to collect the broken chalk.
I spent what felt like hours cleaning, tackling the cabinets after I'd lined up the chairs, which were surprisingly light and easy to move. I lost track of time until I suddenly heard a voice shout, "Hey! Someone's in our clubroom?"
From the corner of my eye, I saw a boy with spiky purple hair and headphones—Narukami Kenya.
"Who is she?" asked a gruff voice, belonging to Jimon Daiki, one of Teikoku's strikers. By now, most of the other members had gathered at the door.
Then I heard his voice as he strolled toward the group gathered at the door. "Ah, I forgot to tell you," Kidou said, clearly enjoying himself, "I got us a manager."
"From now on, Inoue Mihori will be our manager," Sakuma added.
"Guys, treat her well," Genda's deep, silky yet rugged voice followed. He winked at me again, causing my face to scrunch up like it had before, lifting one side of my lip into a sneer. At Genda's words, the rest of the team responded in unison, "Hai~."
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Imagine re-watching and rereading a soccer anime series along with it's manga where everything has a power power thingy and began over analyzing how they are shaded, colored, or just simple placements- crazy right? Couldn't been me.
Tips for writing those gala scenes, from someone who goes to them occasionally:
Generally you unbutton and re-button a suit coat when you sit down and stand up.
You’re supposed to hold wine or champagne glasses by the stem to avoid warming up the liquid inside. A character out of their depth might hold the glass around the sides instead.
When rich/important people forget your name and they’re drunk, they usually just tell you that they don’t remember or completely skip over any opportunity to use your name so they don’t look silly.
A good way to indicate you don’t want to shake someone’s hand at an event is to hold a drink in your right hand (and if you’re a woman, a purse in the other so you definitely can’t shift the glass to another hand and then shake)
Americans who still kiss cheeks as a welcome generally don’t press lips to cheeks, it’s more of a touch of cheek to cheek or even a hover (these days, mostly to avoid smudging a woman’s makeup)
The distinctions between dress codes (black tie, cocktail, etc) are very intricate but obvious to those who know how to look. If you wear a short skirt to a black tie event for example, people would clock that instantly even if the dress itself was very formal. Same thing goes for certain articles of men’s clothing.
Open bars / cash bars at events usually carry limited options. They’re meant to serve lots of people very quickly, so nobody is getting a cosmo or a Manhattan etc.
Members of the press generally aren’t allowed to freely circulate at nicer galas/events without a very good reason. When they do, they need to identify themselves before talking with someone.
I think some people forget that some literature and some media is meant to be deeply uncomfortable and unsettling. It's meant to make you have a very visceral reaction to it. If you genuinely can't handle these stories then you are under no obligation to consume them but acting as if they have no purpose or as if people don't have a right to tell these stories, stories that often relate to the darkest or most disturbing parts of life, then you should do some introspection.
I’ve read some things that deal in sad/dark/actually depressing and disturbing subject matter. I’ve loved them and the points they make without endorsing the events portrayed.
It’s always disappointing to get online and see that the conversation is “X thing shouldn’t exist” on the grounds that it made somebody feel badly. It was meant to make you feel that way and it’s normal that it did - it’s okay that you stop reading it or don’t finish it but I am BEGGING you to consider why it made you uncomfortable and why the author felt the need (if the answer isn’t immediately obvious, as it can be). There isn’t shame in something putting you off so badly that you shelve it.
The sterilization of reality is a detriment to all who exist within it. To censor stories with painful themes is to erase the reality that such stories are based in some horrific truth and works to erase the reality that many people have endured.
This trend or whatever we want to call it has gotten so bad that I listened to an entire lecture from somebody about how awful a book was and how it shouldn’t exist at all, how the author was a terrible person for concocting it and how it hurt people. When I asked what the book was, this person not only could barely recall the name but HAD NEVER READ IT. I bought the book. I read the book. It accomplished its task beautifully and I found it to be a cathartic experience. I also understood how it could make people so uncomfortable and would never judge anybody for setting it down.
It’s okay not to like something and distance yourself from it. Remember that those rules apply only to you, though, because they speak only to your own psyche.
Periodic reminder that one of the many roles of fiction is microdosing on big scary feelings so you build resilience, empathy, understanding, and defense against the real thing.
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