Ranko sat on the topmost row of the bleachers alone, hanging her head, Belinda Carlisle blasting in her headphones for company. She’d expected some pushback from the girls after they had walked out of the last practice, but for none of them to show up was an absolute dagger in her heart. Had she run them all off in her zeal to get them into fighting form?
All she’d done was train the girls the way her father had trained her. Less the feral cats and the arranged marriages. Ranko managed a dark chuckle, wondering for a moment what Genma Saotome could have bargained for himself with the dowries of fourteen cheerleaders. Certainly more than a bowl of rice and two pickles, eh, Pop? That said, present situation notwithstanding, Ranko took pride in the fact that she was a lot more of a catch now than she was then. Of course, she was a girl, which was still somewhat problematic, but she was a cheerleader, a budding pop star, and she was a popular girl on the right track academically and socially. If only the person she loved more than life itself could actually marry her.
Of course, Shiori had been right. The cheerleaders didn’t sign up to be run through a martial arts training gauntlet. Neither had Ranko, but that was different. Those girls weren’t trying to be indestructible paragons of mastery over self, they just wanted to do some cartwheels and wave some pom-poms and maybe get a scholarship to college or a top-tier boyfriend. Ranko wondered how hard the teams who actually won the Invitational trained, and how it compared to what she’d put her squadmates through. It didn’t really matter though, because the girls on those elite programs knew what they were getting into as well, she figured.
She still hadn’t quite nailed that quadruple twist trick the Suto girl made famous, but she was getting closer. The hardest part was keeping her orientation in the air while she was both flipping and twisting. The twisting and flipping she could pull off pretty consistently; it was the whole not landing on her face afterward thing she still struggled with somewhat.
Of course, it wouldn’t even matter if she could nail a quintuple twist, because even if she could, she was still thirteen cheerleaders short of a squad.
Or, so she thought.
She perked up, hearing a familiar bassline break through the ballad in her headphones from behind her, and turned to find all thirteen of her squadmates standing behind her, and the dance remix of Rise playing on Shiori’s boom box. She smiled broadly, taking her headphones off. “Hi, everybody!” Ranko waved excitedly.
Shiori gave Ranko a warm smile. True, she had been hours from kicking Ranko off the squad, but when Shiori saw the dedication that she was putting in on her own to being truly great, for the benefit of the squad, her opinion had changed entirely. It had taken her two days to convince the rest of the girls, but what she’d seen couldn’t be denied.
“Ranko,” Shiori asked, looking over her team. “I need to ask you something, and I need you to be completely honest with us. No matter what.”
The redhead nodded. “Of course.” She was so grateful that the girls had come back, she might have even honored that request had the question been were you born a boy?
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
The captain squinted up at Ranko in the bleachers, the afternoon sun lingering in the sky just over her shoulder. “Do you really think we can win the Invitational?”
Ranko hurdled the handrail protecting the side of the bleachers, dropping the five meters or so to the ground and landing in a crouch. Standing, she gave her squadmates a confident grin.
“No, Shiori. I know we can. I believe in every single one of us.” Even myself, strangely enough.
The captain clapped her hands sharply. “Ladies! You heard her! Line up for drills! We’ve got a trophy to win!” A chorus of enthusiastic whoops the likes of which only a squad of cheerleaders could produce rose from the group and they jogged off to form their lines. But unlike in the previous practice, where Ranko had spotted the girls, Shiori and Tamiko took the front of each line and started working with their less-athletically gifted squadmates directly.
Rather than taking point, Ranko assumed a place in the back of Shiori’s line, and when it was her turn, she let the squad captain guide her through a double front flip she could have done in her sleep. But the point wasn’t the practice itself, it was to be part of the team.
“Great job, Ranko! That’s how we win a meet, right there!” Shiori whooped loudly, clapping her hands as Ranko rolled off the mat in her sweat pants and long-sleeved tee shirt, running to the back of the line with an energy she hadn’t felt in practice since she’d joined the squad. For the first time, she actually felt like one of them.
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After two hours of drills and choreography practice for next week’s soccer double-header, practice began to break up. The girls were just as energetic as they gathered their belongings as they had been when they arrived. It had been a great practice, and there was a positivity in the air that had been sorely lacking of late. Ranko couldn’t have been happier about it, especially given how glum she’d felt when she thought she’d run off all of her squadmates.
As the thirteen other cheerleaders began the trek back toward the school building, Ranko jogged over to the largest girl in the group. “Hey, Kou? I know you’re beat, but would you mind hanging back a few minutes?”
Kou hung her head. “Sure, I guess.”
“Hey,” Ranko continued. “I appreciate it. And I promise, it’ll be worth the extra work. If we can pull this stunt off, we’ve got the Invitational in the bag.”
Ranko straddled the aluminum bench of the first row of bleachers. She realized it wasn’t the most ladylike thing, but she didn’t think anyone would mind, especially given that she was wearing sweats. She patted the bleacher in front of her, coaxing Kou to do the same opposite her.
“Okay. Here’s what I’m gonna do,” Ranko began. “I’m going to push my arms forward, like this.” She cocked both of her elbows back to her sides, placing her hands with her palms out toward Kou roughly level with her breasts. Making sure she had enough space, she rocketed both of her elbows forward until her arms were extended to their full length.
“Now, here’s what I need you to do. I’m going to come at you fast. I want you to do the same thing I just did, but I want you to hit my hands when our arms are only about half extended, and push me back as hard and as fast as you can. This is all about timing. Don’t grab my hands. Flat palms only. Ready?”
“Uh, I guess. Why are we doing it this way exactly?”
Ranko smirked nervously, looking up at the top row of the bleachers from which she’d thrown herself a good hundred and fifty times over the course of the last two weeks. “Because I’m gonna need a shitload of air.”
Ranko gripped the bleacher with her legs, cocking her arms back. “Okay. Here we go. One... Two…” She launched her arms forward and Kou did the same, slapping Ranko’s palms far too late. “Nope, let’s try again.”
Kou fired her arms forward, instinctively grabbing Ranko’s wrists.
“Don’t grab. Whatever you do, don’t grab me. Again.”