a/n: I received such lovely and encouraging reviews for the original version of this fic, but...I felt it still needed a lot of work. (You may notice that this version is significantly less dramatic/emotional/tense. But, in retrospect, I think it works better.) (And I'll totally understand if you're tired of this recurring one-shot and just wanna leave.) :-) Enjoy!

Spoiler Warning: Ch. 258 and up

Disclaimer: Eyeshield 21 © Riichiro Inagaki and Yusuke Murata.

Her Job

Mamori sat quietly next to the bed-ridden Hiruma, the taped up letter laying innocently on her lap. They were both listening to the progression of the game outside, and even though his face was turned away from her, Mamori suspected Hiruma was grinning like mad - suspected it since they heard the loud clash between the monstrous Gaou and the revived Kurita. Mamori was also smiling, and she thought she could even distinguish Suzuna's unique cheers among the rest. But her smile was half-hearted; the fact remained that Hiruma lay broken in front in her. She had been watching him closely since the emergency-response team had left them to themselves. A hand sign, an order, a passing insult – she didn't know exactly what she was expecting to see or hear, but his silence had begun to unnerve her. He hadn't even told her to leave yet. And her hands were itching to reapply a fresh cloth on his face, to check his temperature, to make him as comfortable as possible, to do everything she would typically do if it were Sena or any other person in his situation. But this was Hiruma, and even though she had never hesitated to attend to his injuries in the past, the weight of his silence kept her still.

Was he thinking about the Christmas Bowl? Was he angry? No, that didn't seem right.

Though far in the back of her mind, she had a growing suspicion that -

"TOUCHDOWN!" Mamori stood up excitedly, the chair scraping noisily behind her. "Deimon, that Hiruma left because of a fracture! They've showed us their reserve of willpower to get at an 18 points difference! And it's now the end of the first half!"

"Hiruma-kun, they did it! A touchdown!" Mamori felt an overwhelming pride not only for Sena, but for Kurita and every single Deimon Devil Bats player who was working his hardest in the absence of their captain. Did Hiruma know just how much he meant to his team? Sometimes Mamori couldn't understand what made him so reserved, so unwilling to recognize the respect and admiration from the 'fucking brats,' as he so uncouthly referred to them.

"Kekeke, it's time!" Mamori jumped as the cloth covering Hiruma's eyes flew past her. Hiruma had just tossed it aside and was pushing himself up into a sitting position.

"Hiruma-kun!" she cried as she leaned down to help him. "What are-!"

The trademark look of fanged mischief that promised trouble stopped the words in her mouth. Hiruma was about to do something reckless. She could almost feel her hair stick out at odd angles from the stress he was surely about to cause her. "Hiruma-kun?" Honestly, she didn't want to know. And if it was what she was thinking...

Hiruma was now making his way out of bed.

"Are you thirsty? If you need something I'll get it for you. Or do you want me to call someone?" She had walked over to stand directly in front of him, preventing him from getting up.

"Bring me my gear and some tape, fucking manager," he said, infuriating grin still in place.

Mamori became very stiff. She knew this was coming. But she was not having any of his nonsense. "No," she said firmly, her arms crossing over her chest. "As manager, my job is not to patch you up so you can go back out there and get hurt again!"

This fucking manager is being difficult again. His grin disappeared in an instant and he stood up so fast that Mamori stumbled back in surprise, not noticing how Hiruma swayed slightly in place as his vision swam with the pain the movement caused. Both having regained their composure, they stared off in an old battle of wills, minus brooms and guns. His face was finally serious and Mamori saw the stubborn determination in the angling of his jaw, the furrow of his brow. "I'm going back in," he declared, ignoring the challenge in her eyes.

"You'reinjured!" Mamori cried exasperatedly, thinking that sometimes she just couldn't handle him. She leaned back slightly and brought her hand to the side of Hiruma's face, his forehead. He almost flinched from her cool touch. "And you're feverish! Hiruma-kun, for once, be reasonable. Your arm is broken." She hated to say it so harshly to his face, but he was really giving her no choice.

"This fucking arm doesn't need to be a problem." Indeed, he said it like it was the least of his worries.

Mamori knew that Hiruma was a valuable player on the field with our without his arm. His quick thinking and the ability he had to keep the opponent guessing never failed to give Sena and the others the opportunity to execute amazing plays. Hiruma was also the ultimate bluffer; even in this state, he could convince an entire American football stadium that he had the upper hand, and that all he suffered from was an annoying, Gaou-fist-sized bruise.

Still, Mamori wasn't backing down. "Yes, because it's you, you can do it. You can fool them all. But, Hiruma-kun..."

Hiruma was getting impatient. He would never say it aloud or explicitly show it, but the more they talked and the less he moved, the more tired he became. The pain in his arm only seemed to intensify. His whole body ached from the impact with Gaou. He felt heavy. Hot. And he fleetingly remembered the feel of Mamori's cool hand against his face. She talks to much. He needed to get out there, and soon. Without the focus needed to keep up the act and the adrenaline to numb the pain and fatigue, Hiruma knew he might not be able to last much longer. He suspected Mamori knew this too. So why was she stalling?

"But," Mamori started again, "it's not necessary! You can hear it as well as I can." She allowed a small smile. "Sena and Kurita-kun are really pulling through! I know you will never admit to thinking it, but the team will never let you down. You're their captain, and they would play themselves to death before seeing your dream come to nothing!"

This again? Hiruma supressed a smile. "Good speech."

"You...!"

"But you're right." He looked intently at a spot somewhere near Mamori's hand and her shocked face went unnoticed. "I am their fucking captain. 'I believe in them,' 'Their spirit will take them to victory,' and 'I have nothing to fear.' Is that what you want me to say?" Mamori was quiet. "The second half's starting soon. Fucking eyelashes will up his game and the fucking shrimp will have taken it as far as he could go. The fucking pretty boy is probably also thinking of returning to the field. He'll stop their passes even when they manage to avoid everything else. If I don't go back, our chances of winning this match are 0.0 percent." He looks at her. "But you knew that already, fucking manager."

Mamori did know. She knew it the second Gaou took Hiruma down and she knew it then as she tried to hold him back. Really, this was no different than that day in the locker room, ripping his letter to pieces saying one thing, then taping it back together thinking another. But her desire to see him - see everyone - safe and unhurt had made her defensive and overprotective. This whole situation frustrated her and everything he wanted her to agree to went against all her instincts.

From outside, they heard the announcer boom out the return of Hiromi Kisaragi. Mamori sighed in resignation.

A new wave of fatigue washed over Hiruma. Mamori watched him take in a deep, shaky breath, and this time she didn't hesitate to fetch his things. She returned to see Hiruma moving his right arm, experimentally bending and lifting it, testing his limits. Mamori could see that he was also testing how much pain he could take without it showing on his face. It made her want to smack him with a broom for all his foolishness.

But at the same time, she knew she admired his twisted determination.

"Do both arms," Hiruma told her as she lowered the contents of her arms onto the bed.

"Both? Why?"

"It'll give fucking eyebrows something to think about."

Mamori nodded thoughtfully, momentarily forgetting to be affronted by his foul word choice. Setting the chair in front of his legs, she sat down and got to work.

"Right arm first," she warned him. As she delicately took his arm into her hands, she noticed the increased swelling around the upper area. Her lips thinned. He needed proper treatment, not her hasty (although quite skilled, if she did say so herself) first aid. Deftly, she wrapped his arm from shoulder to wrist. She glanced up at him, but he was looking elsewhere. Busy ignoring the pain.

Finishing up his right arm, Mamori started on his left and immediately spotted large bruises dotting the area above his elbow.

"How is this arm?"

"It's been better."

Mamori was about to question him about other injuries but she got the feeling he wouldn't be specific with her. Maybe it was better that way.

Finished with the taping, she stood to get his equipment. Next to her, Hiruma also stood and began running in place a little while simultaneously moving his arms around. Fuck this hurts.

Mamori called his attention, rib vest held in front of her. He walked to her, any sign of pain or effort hidden except for the fever-induced sweat on his skin. "Hold your right arm out from your side slightly," she commanded. Carefully, Mamori fitted the vest through his right arm and then let him get his left arm through on his own. She started securing the straps behind him and below his chest, noticing how rapidly it was rising and falling. "You're breathing is noticeably fast and shallow," she observed worriedly. What if Marco noticed? What if his bluff was called and-

"Can't help it," he admitted. "But it's fine. No one will buy I'm nopain." Mamori could think of a few people who would. "As long as I can control everything else, especially this fucking arm."

This was different from the Death March or from post-game muscle pain, and Mamori wanted to tell him that it was wrong to push himself to this extent. Instead she kept quiet and fetched his shoulder protector, because she knew it wasn't that simple. There were many things at stake, their worth different to different people.

Reaching up, she brought the protector down around his head and set it on his shoulders. Soon, the jersey too was fitted over the padding. She turned to grab his helmet, suddenly wondering if Hiruma was allowing himself to feel things like humiliation or pride because he was in such a vulnerable state.

Behind her, Hiruma loosened his belt with his left hand and attempted to tuck in his jersey single-handedly. Unsuccessfully. He looked at Mamori expectantly. So much for hurt pride. It wasn't his style anyway.

Sighing, she set the helmet down and bent around him. Oddly, her face began to warm. She became sharply aware of her hands - inside the hem of his pants. On his waist. His lower back. His lower abdomen. The blush - I'm blushing? - darkened, and she reprimanded herself for being so silly in this very serious situation. I've done this for Sena before. It's just Hiruma-kun. But she kept her head down when she smoothed out the jersey around his waist. And when she pulled his belt straps into place. The stress must be catching up to me.

"Fucking manager, that's too tight!"

She loosened the belt with fumbling fingers and quickly turned to retrieve his helmet, pushing away all stray thoughts and willing herself to composure. Yet, for a split second, Hiruma's quick eyes caught her flushed and flustered appearance.

When she turned to face him again, she was back to normal, that small furrow of concentration and worry between her brows again. And if it wasn't for his perfect memory, Hiruma could swear he imagined her colored face. He pushed the image aside for later consideration - because right then he could feel the faint flush on his own skin from the small fever, and his arm was hurting more after all the taping. Outside, an incomplete pass from Deimon was announced.

He gave Mamori an impatient look - which she pointedly ignored - as she placed the helmet on his head.

"Wrist bands," he said, pushing the helmet back so it hung around his neck. Mamori was a step ahead of him, wrist bands already in her hands.

"Hiruma-kun," she said as she fitted the bands on over his shaking hands, "you will be careful." It wasn't a question.

"It's a gamble, betting that no one will notice I can barely stand." It wasn't an answer.

Mamori's hands were still on his wrist as she looked up at his face. "Just don't-" She didn't want to think about it, much less say it. "I mean, if you push yourself too hard...if you overdo it, and your arm...if your arm...Doburoku-sensei's knee..." Her eyes were moist but Hiruma wasn't looking.

"Not gonna happen." Simple. "Because then those fucking brats, the fucking drunk. You. No one will forgive me. I'm definitely going to play in the Christmas Bowl, that's not gonna change." Very simple.

He began to walk away, and Mamori's fingers instinctively tightened around his wrist. Stay.

But she released it almost immediately, knowing without say that nothing - no one - had the right to hold him back.

Hiruma gave her a long, thoughtful look that left Mamori feeling strangely exposed. But then his face transformed into the familiar mask of fanged, evil glee and Mamori knew the act had begun. "Kekeke! Let's go, fucking manager." Mamori smiled reassuringly - trying to hide her worry as well as he was hiding his pain - and followed him.

That was her job, and she did it full-heartedly.

closing a/n: A reviewer for the original version asked if I had written it before chapter 265. The answer is yes. Also, I didn't alter anything in this revision in order to fit events in the manga after ch. 264. If you're curious, the original (aka bad) version can be found through a link in my profile. And thanks to all the wonderful people who reviewed and/or favorited the original! ♥ I hope you liked this version as well, and if you didn't, I'll be glad to hear what you didn't like about it. On that note(!), reviews/critiques are always (nervously) welcomed.