Predator [UNDER EDITING]

Chapter Seventeen

~Point of View: 1st~
~Character: Kiyoshi Teppei~
~Location: Interhigh gymnasium~

I observe the passing people. Each one hurrying to and fro. Looking at the matchup schedule. Grouping up with friends or family. Waiting impatiently for someone to arrive. Some even hurry to the consession stand, wanting to grab something before the games start.

I, on the other hand, am waiting for one person in particular. Wanting to hold my end of a promise. I agreed a week ago to meet up with (F. Name), just to watch the first couple of rounds of the Interhigh tournament.

"Kiyoshi-san, please! I have to support my team. I promised them I'd be there watching from the crowd," she says. Her (Eye C.) eyes staring up at me with a somewhat pleading look. "This is . . . this is the very least I can do. Due to my injury and all," she says gesturing to her legs. A hint of bitterness in her voice. Clearly still not over that night.

I stare at her. Not entirely liking the idea of her even attending the tournament. Ever since the doctors moved her from the wheelchair over to crutches, she's been growing more stubborn about resting. Constantly on the move. Always with me in tow.

"(L. Name)-chan," I say with a sigh. "I know you want to be there to support them, but you also need to take care of yourself." I watch as her face shifts. Her eyes hardening as the walls go up. She begins grumbling as she absently swings a crutch out.

"But, Kiyoshi-san, I can't break a promise." She stares at me, also as if daring me to refute her. "Besides, if I'm just watching the game, then there's no need for me to move much," says the small girl. She puts more pressure on her wrists as she lifts herself with the crutches. Trying to look taller.

I gently push her back to her feet as she hisses. "Your wrists still aren't fully healed, (L. Name)-chan," I say gently, but sternly. "Stop hurting yourself." I narrow my eyes slightly. Fully prepared to argue with her. After all, (F. Name) is easy to read. A stubborn headed teen, with extrmely narrow tunnel vision, who doesn't really care about her own well being.

All that's needed to win this argument is a little bit of guilt tripping.

"My wrists are fine," (F. Name) snaps. "If they weren't, the doctors wouldn't have let me move to crutches." Her hair is whipping back and forth as she furiously shakes her head. Only to grimace as her constant headache strengthens. "Damn . . ." she hisses.

"See, you're just hurting yourself," I say. I lean closer to her, bending forward to stare her down at eye level. Staring down will only infuriate her further. "What would your teammates say if they find out that you're not fully healed?" I ask, beginning my snare. "Surely they'd want you to stay home to heal, instead of attending a game they're bound to win?"

Her eyes waver. Flicking away from me, only to return moments later. She fidgets, trying to come up with a good refute. "They don't have to know," she says eventually. Her voice noticeably dropping. "All they have to know is that I'm there."

"Will they even be looking at the crowd?" I ask. I refuse to look away from her as I keep talking. "Have you ever looked at the crowd when you're playing a game?"