Lavender | Wakatoshi Ushijima

60 | Milan

Three Years Later

"And yet another marvelous spike from Wakatoshi Ushijima! Unstoppable, unblockable, unbreakable!" The commentator screams at the top of his lungs. I have a clear view of him, sitting in the media box.

I sit in my chair comfortably, watching Wakatoshi play with a passion I find prideful and so attractive. Broad shoulders, veiny arms, a slim waist. His cheeks are flushed, beads of sweat running down his face, hair pushed backwards messily. Since he's started playing for Orzeł Warszawa, I hadn't realized how striking he looks in yellow. His yellow jersey has 'Warszawa' running down his right ribs in navy-purple, paired with black knee compression sleeves underneath the matching yellow shorts. They make him look quite professional.

"Oh, Sertse Podillia's coach has called for a time out. Well, you can't blame them. The Ukrainian team is exhausted. Their number five is sweating bullets! With two more points left for Orzeł Warszawa, it seems we've almost reached the end. Could this time out be a way to kill the Eagles' momentum? There's only one way to find out!"

His microphone is turned off for a moment as the time out commences.

"What an honor, ladies and gentlemen, to see Japan's finest, Ms. Hana Takahashi! The renowned author is present today in support of Warsaw's Eagles. Ushijima must be on top of the world to have his fiancé cheering him on tonight!"

I hear the uproar of applause. I smile at the camera that's pointed at my face, waving lightly. The Jumbotron's screen says 'Ms. Hana Takahashi, Japanese best-selling author.'

My first book, that I published at twenty four, went worldwide. I'm a best-selling author, now known for my book 'Rise, Phoenix' about my personal struggles. Dealing with illness, the pressure of my clan, and finding love amidst all of it. All in the form of a story, with poems along the pages. 'Passion, perseverance, and a fresh symbol of blossoming love,' the New York Times says, the italic words on the cover that I designed to have a lavender. Can you believe it?

My success skyrocketed and my career is taking off. And within the first year, I began to live the life I'd dreamt of. Flying all around for Q&A's, book signings with hundreds of fans, and meetings with publishers. New York, Washington D.C., London, and so many other destinations.

As of tonight, I'm in Wakatoshi's jersey, wearing his name proudly on my back. It's tucked into my long jeans, and I wear it with a pair of sneakers. My hair is down, some strands pulled back with a clip, and my makeup is simple.

We're both living the busy lives we've planned out together, up on the international stage. But, we make time for each other. We can't be apart for too long, that's not how our relationship works. I travel constantly, but I always try to make it to his matches. He does the same for me, no matter what I have. If our games or events are in other cities, we like to take a weekend or two alone there to refresh. It was his idea, and I couldn't be more content.

Our weekend in Milan is still my favorite. It was last month, in June. They were playing against Ali Roma, an Italian team. His team went back to Poland to continue training, but he insisted on spending the weekend together.

He took me out for a night of sightseeing, delicious pasta, and light drinks. Or, so we thought. I swept around in my yellow dress and sandals in the hollow, dimly lit streets. The lamp posts were my favorite part, when I was hooking my hand around them and twirling around.

"Hana, my love," he says exaggeratively, bowing forward.

"Yes, Wakatoshi." I walk over to him, placing my hand on his chest. His white blouse is cute, it matches his pants.

He gets down on his knees, right there on the sidewalk. He's hilariously holding my purse. My hair begins to sag down as the French pin loosens.

"Will you marry me?" He holds my hand and looks up at me, red tint flooding his face. His eyes are lazy.

"No, I can't!" I turn away from him, pushing my nose up in the air and my left hand to his face. I flaunt my ring since my attempts at teasing him prior hadn't worked.

"You're a married woman?" He pulls me close again by the hips.

"No, I'm engaged," I correct.

"Oh?" He stands up, holding my face and kissing my flaming cheek. I nod and hum in response, my ears growing hot.

The waves of drunk thoughts take a tranquil turn, and I find my head resting against his chest as he holds me close. His scent is strong, even though all of my senses aren't fully functioning.

And, suddenly, the wind pushes against my head. I'm up in the air. Wakatoshi's hands are locked around my waist as he lifts me up. The street is in a wider view. My hands are on his shoulders, I look down at his enchanted expression. His olive eyes are wide, pupils dilated. We're inches apart, heart to heart.

Is this what our wedding day will look like? Him holding me up tightly, the wind teasing the hem of my dress, the love in my heart too strong to control?

I press a kiss on his lips, bringing the moment into physical existence. He whispers into my ear, "I'll marry you soon enough, poet. Only when you're ready." There he is, the romantic I know.

Isn't Rome supposed to be the city of love? Or is that Paris? I don't know. For me, it's now Milan. I kiss him again, and my head spins as he twirls me around. I squeal oddly with fear and felicity, throwing my head back. He chuckles, but only for a moment, too occupied in holding me tight.

Moments later, both in a drunken haze, we dance to the songs some old Italian men are singing in an almost-closed bakery. Love songs, I hope. They wear little hats and summer blouses with vintage patterns. Tiny mustaches, too. Wakatoshi carries me in his arms all the way back to the hotel.

The coach speaks minimally when the team gathers. A sweet wave is sent my way when he catches my eye. When I wave back, pushing a fist into the air, he smiles.

He heads back over to his position on the court and squats down. The match takes off again, but this time his touches of the ball are even more powerful. His spikes are at lightning speed, his pace so much more motivated. He slams down the ball, stealing the last point of the match. The score is totaled to 25-11.

"And with that glorious last play, Orzeł Warszawa have taken the third set, snatching the match home with them! What a victory, ladies and gentlemen, another win for Poland!" The commentator yelps, then audibly takes a breath. My hands cover my mouth, and I clap so hard my hands turn red.

Wakatoshi's face is stern, facial muscles locking with pride. The first thing he does is bring the back of his left hand up to his face and kiss his ring finger, exactly where his ring would be. His expression softens.

Volleyball players aren't allowed to wear jewelry to their matches, so that gesture completely catches me off guard. He knows I'm watching him, knows that he means something, and that makes it more private and secretive. His eyebrows are furrowed as he turns to be in full view, but I soon lose his face as his teammates gather around him. When I see him again, he nods violently and pushes a fist towards the crowd of raging Polish fans screaming his name.

I see his jersey, fluttering under the lights that are hanging from the high ceiling. That's what my dreams felt like. They were out of reach. Obscure, remote. But now, I'm in it.

The best part is, we're both cheering each other on from the sidelines. Our hands are still clasped, our lavenders are still growing, and our fates seem to be bound.

Minutes later, he finds me. He subtly kisses the top of my head, wrapping me up in warmth, burying me in his embrace. I smile, looking up at him affectionately. "My jersey looks great on you," he whispers.

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Author: you know how to ball i know aristotle