POV: Ayumi – Mid-Match, Games 1–2
The ball bounced on her racquet once.
Then twice.
Then she immediately missed on the third toss, and the ball landed squarely in her shoe.
"Physics has betrayed me," Ayumi declared solemnly.
Kenji, beside her, didn't flinch. He was already in position—serious, focused, composed. He served like he was solving a math equation with his entire spine.
Ayumi, meanwhile, operated by an internal system known only as The Voice of Chaos Instinct™.
And today? That voice was loud.
Dive left. Scream internally. Counterspin with flair. Pretend you meant all of it.
Game 1: Spark of Disaster
The first play flew by. A deep return to their left side. Kenji dashed to meet it, textbook form.
Ayumi, on the other hand, zig-zagged behind him like she was avoiding imaginary lasers.
Then—her instincts screamed:
Now. Jump. No one expects the mid-court jump slice. Not even you.
She jumped.
She sliced.
The ball kissed the line. Point, them.
She stood there blinking.
Kenji blinked too. "Was that… on purpose?"
Ayumi grinned. "Define 'purpose.'"
Game 2: Kenji's Serve, Ayumi's… Artistic Choices
Kenji served clean again. Surgical. The kind of serve you could frame and hang on a wall.
Ayumi? Ayumi backpedaled on the next play, whispered "May the chaos be with me," and flicked a return behind her back just because it felt right.
It landed.
Point.
Across the net, Ryota narrowed his eyes.
Hana tilted her head slightly, the universal expression for "what the actual—"
Ayumi's inner voice buzzed:
Next one: fake trip, real shot, sprinkle confusion. Bonus style points if you spin after.
She followed exactly none of the proper rules.
She won the point anyway.
By the end of Game 2, Ayumi was grinning like a goblin high on serotonin.
"Boom! That's two games of beautiful nonsense!"
Kenji gave her a look—equal parts concern and admiration. Maybe a little fear. Probably all three.
"Please tell me you have an actual plan," he said.
"Oh, absolutely," she said. "It's just deeply improvisational. Like jazz. Or dodging falling coconuts."
He sighed. But he didn't tell her to stop.
And that? That did something weird to her chest.
Like a little click. A soft shift. A swoopy, stomach-flipping thing.
It was probably adrenaline. Definitely.
Maybe.
She glanced at him. Focused. Stoic. That same slight crease between his brows he always had when calculating angles or people.
You're learning me, she thought.
And I… kinda like it.
"Kenji," she whispered as they walked back to their baseline.
"What."
"If we win this set, I'm renaming our duo."
A pause.
"…To what?"
"Team Wild Card and Spreadsheet."
He gave her a sideways look. "Which one am I?"
"Don't ask questions you already know the answers to."
He exhaled through his nose—a laugh, she was certain of it. Quiet and reluctant, but real.
Note to self: that sound is nice. Like, really nice. Like maybe record-it-and-play-it-on-loop nice.
But before she could overthink it…
Her instincts snapped again.
Next point? Fake double-fault posture. Then surprise drop-shot like a ninja. Bonus if it looks accidental.
Perfect.
Love, apparently, could sneak in on the wings of absurdity.
And if she was falling—just a little—it would be exactly like her game: illogical, spontaneous, and somehow… exactly what worked.