Tsukiko spent the rest of the afternoon replaying the moment in the clubroom, each memory sharpening the heat under her ribs. She hated that polite smile of his, that soft-spoken tone, the way he bowed slightly to the senpai at the registration table like he was the model student from a school pamphlet. People like Yuto Kimura always fooled everyone. Teachers adored them. Juniors looked up to them. Seniors found them "refreshing" or "sincere." But Tsukiko had been in competitive badminton too long to be impressed by pretty manners and modest posture.
She had watched that match video enough times to understand he wasn't average. Not even close. He had a natural spring in his body, the kind that came from instinct more than training. Talent like that was dangerous because people wrapped it in praise instead of discipline. And that was exactly the kind of player she couldn't stand. Those who coasted on what they had instead of forging something with effort.
Years of drills had carved her own game into her muscles. Thousands of swings until her shoulders burned. Endless shuffles across court lines until her feet blistered. Matches won and lost, tears shed in locker rooms, sweat soaking through practice shirts until they clung to her skin. She had built her way into the girls team, built her spot in mixed doubles with Masaru, built her reputation. Nothing had been gifted. Nothing had been easy.
So when someone like him wandered in as if badminton were just another weekend hobby, as if he could float into the preliminaries without stepping foot in the club once, it felt like disrespect. Not just to her, but to everyone grinding every day on the courts. To the first years who stayed after practice to redo their smashes. To the second years who pushed through injuries. To Masaru, who was lying on his bed with his knee swollen twice its size because he had kept playing until it snapped.
She had wanted to teach Yuto a lesson. Not a cruel one. Just reality. She had expected him to show up the next day, because boys like him always came when a girl asked. Especially someone with a pretty face and a reputation like hers. She had worn a mild smile when she asked him to be her partner, but underneath, she had meant every word like a blade: Come to practice. Let's see how far your talent takes you. Let's see if you can keep up with a real athlete.
But he didn't show up.
Not in the first hour.
Not in the second.
Not at all.
By the time practice ended, Tsukiko's irritation had calcified. She sat on the wooden bench beside the court, tying her shoelaces with more force than necessary. Who did he think he was? A first-year soccer kid with decent reflexes. That was all. Masaru would have dragged himself to practice even on one working leg if he could. And yet this boy, this outsider who had the nerve to enter the tournament without even belonging to their sport, didn't bother to appear.
She took a long breath, but it didn't cool her. Her chest still buzzed with a restless anger that felt dangerously close to anticipation.
Fine. If he wanted to skip practice, he could. If he wanted to stroll into the tournament with nothing but raw talent and misplaced confidence, he could. But he was going to be standing across the net from her soon enough. And she was going to make sure he understood what real training looked like. What real commitment felt like. What real badminton demanded.
Still, a small voice in her mind nagged at her. What if he wasn't actually arrogant? What if he truly didn't understand the weight of what she'd asked? She shook the thought away. Intentions didn't matter. Results did. And the result was that he hadn't bothered to show.
Meanwhile, far away from her storming thoughts, Yuto Kimura was obliviously going about his afternoon.
He was jogging up and down the narrow space on his rooftop, the warm air cooling on his skin as the sun dipped low. The sound of his shoes squeaked softly on the smooth concrete. He practiced fast-forward steps, then side-steps, then that sharp back-pivot motion he'd seen in a YouTube tutorial the night before. His turns were smooth. His center of gravity adjusted without him thinking, the discipline of soccer footwork naturally aligning itself with new patterns. He knew he wasn't practicing badminton the correct way, but he figured he'd at least try to prepare something.
He had no idea Tsukiko was expecting him.
He didn't even realize that saying yes to her invitation meant immediate practice, because frankly, he hadn't expected her to ask him at all. She was stunning, for one. The kind of girl whose presence intimidated him more than he'd ever admit. And she was also the ace of the badminton team, an actual top-tier competitor. Her approaching him had made zero sense. Yuto assumed she was just being kind, trying to help an inexperienced first-year have someone to practice with on the day of the tournament.
And since he was participating in singles and didn't think mixed doubles were serious, he chalked it up to a polite formality.
So he finished his rooftop practice, washed his face, helped his mom with groceries, talked briefly with his sister about dinner, and ended his night watching an old soccer highlight reel before falling asleep.
For him, the tournament wasn't a battlefield. It wasn't the culmination of years. It was a checkpoint. A way to see if he had gotten better after the humiliation he'd felt during his last attempt in that other prefecture. He wanted personal growth, not glory. Not victory. Not attention. And definitely not to offend some girl he barely knew.
But Tsukiko didn't know any of that.
She waited again the following day, arriving earlier than the rest of her teammates. Part of her wanted to see him walk in late, looking sheepish, trying to explain himself. But the court door opened, teammates walked in one by one, and Yuto Kimura was nowhere in sight.
By the time warm-ups began, she was glaring holes into her racket.
Shouta, who was passing by to return a borrowed shuttle tube, paused. "Uh... Tsukiko-san? Something wrong?"
Tsukiko forced a tight smile, the same one she had given Yuto the day before. "Nothing. Just looking forward to the tournament."
Shouta nodded, spooked, and hurried away.
Tsukiko exhaled sharply. She wasn't stupid. She could admit to herself when someone had gotten under her skin. And he had, more than she liked. Maybe it wasn't even about him. Maybe it was everything piling up: Masaru's injury, the pressure of the preliminaries, the expectations from her coaches, and her fear that without Masaru, her mixed doubles performance would crumble.
But that didn't change the truth.
Yuto Kimura wasn't taking this seriously.
And she wasn't going to let him walk into the tournament thinking badminton was some casual pastime he could breeze through. She was done expecting him to attend practice. Done trying to understand him. Done giving him the benefit of the doubt.
If he refused to show her respect on court, she would force him to learn it in the match.
On the evening before the preliminaries, she stood before the mirror in her room. Her racket leaned against her desk, her bag packed neatly beside her. She touched the grip lightly. Mixed doubles partners needed coordination, trust, timing. Yuto had none of those things with her. That meant they would lose. And losing because of someone else's lack of effort was something Tsukiko Takahashi refused to tolerate.
But a cold, sharper part of her whispered:
Losing with him isn't the point. Showing him the gap between you two is.
She swallowed. The thought tasted bitter.
She didn't want to crush someone. She wasn't cruel. But she did want him to realize something important:
Talent wasn't a ticket.
Dedication was.
The next morning, she walked to the tournament venue with a calm expression and a storm tucked neatly behind it.
And somewhere across town, Yuto Kimura jogged toward the same venue, clueless, humming casually, stretching his legs, completely unaware that he had accidentally created his first real enemy in the world of badminton.
Tsukiko didn't want revenge.
She wanted justice.
And the court was where she would deliver it.