Shoving the offending phone back in his pocket, Iwa stares dead on at Miya Atsumu, a voice in the back of his head – the one that that now sounds like his mate – reminding him that the idiot in front of him isn't the source of his frustration.

"If you make it quick. Five minutes 'til you're back on the court."

A smart man would take it for the warning it is. Atsumu plunges on, unfazed. "You've got a beta for a mate, right?"

Iwa goes preternaturally still, hackles raised.

"… I do," he grits out, more teeth than anything else. Alpha or not, national setter or not, if he says one fucking word about her, he'll drag him outside without a second thought. Most people either don't care or know better; if there's one thing that'll push him over the edge, it's disrespect to his mate.

There's something oddly serious in his expression as he hesitates for a split second and then leans in close, lowering his voice. "So there's four of you, an' one of her, how do you not bre–"

"Laps," Iwa growls. "Fifty. Start running."

Atsumu rears back, jaw dropping in sheer disbelief. "But I jus–"

"Now."

He waits until the muttering alpha's hauling ass around the court before he fishes his phone back out and starts typing.