After giving Voldemort a little treatment and indulging his own nasty little hobby, Klein returned to England Quidditch Headquarters, completely satisfied.
By the time he got back, the post-match interviews were nearly over. Gasol, Coach Moor, and the others had been mobbed by fans.
But the most popular member of the England Quidditch Representative Team was undoubtedly Klein himself.
"Boss, you have no idea how crazy those reporters were! Good thing I'm built like a tank, or they'd have pulled me apart!"
Gasol no longer felt awkward calling Klein, who was two heads shorter than him, "Boss."
When he had led the team himself, they'd been on the verge of relegation and looked set to miss the World Cup. Then Klein had shown up, and suddenly they were heading straight for the title.
He called him "Boss" with all his heart!
"Oh~"
That was Competitive Sports for you. If you could win, you could earn everyone's praise. Klein was used to it.
To be honest, he'd never even imagined what it would be like to lose.
Even setting aside his own abilities, if he ever got really unlucky and the opposing team caught the Golden Snitch right at the start—
He could just cheat, couldn't he?
A guilty conscience?
Fairness and justice?
What were those? Could you eat them?
"Boss, you're no fun."
Gasol's expression fell. He felt as if someone had poured a bucket of cold water over him.
But then he thought about it. The team owed everything it had achieved to Klein. What right did he, a mere second-in-command, have to complain?
Once he'd thought it through, the burly Gasol put on a smile and started kneading Klein's shoulders.
"Get some rest, Boss. We'll need you against Norway next."
"Mm."
Gasol's massage technique had grown more and