Leeching Demon

Hiruma had his game-face on, and Mamori couldn't figure out why. He was slumped back in the now-glitzy club house, idly casting some dice back and forth. He'd spiked his hair extra high today, and his smirk was set at unsettling.

The Christmas bowl was in a week, true, but Hiruma was stitched up tight, and for once wasn't pouring over tactics or letting off some steam by shooting at the players. He didn't even have his laptop out, and that was how Mamori knew it was time to be truly worried.

The only sound in that little room was the vague thud of many feet outside, and the snap of Hiruma's gum. Even the dice had fallen silent, as Hiruma looked up and began studying Mamori.

"What?" She asked defensively.

"You should wear a uniform, fucking manager." He said suddenly, and his usual sadistic smile was back in place. "Everyone else does."

"I am wearing a uniform!" Mamori snapped.

"Not now, at the game. Even the cheerleaders have outfits. You just have-" he leant forward and snagged the collar of her school uniform "boring clothes. It brings down the morale of the team."

Mamori brushed his hand away, impatient. "The manager doesn't have to wear a special outfit!"

"All the others do." Hiruma leant back, and studied Mamori, eyes glittering disturbingly. "You should wear something that perks the boys up. Something black and red, with wings." His laptop made an appearance, and various photo shopped images of Mamori in increasingly skimpy outfits slid across the screen.

"What the – how on earth would I even put that one on?" Mamori spluttered, as he stopped at an outfit that seemed to consist of wings, and only wings, placed strategically around virtual Mamori's body.

"I'm sure we could arrange a way." Hiruma said far too smoothly, and Mamori suddenly understood why he had been so silent earlier. He had been carefully relaxing his muscles, preparing for the 98 percent inevitable impact. But as long as there was 2 percent, he would try.

Mamori hit him with a broom.