The gym erupted when the ball hit the floor. Set taken. Against all logic, against all predictions, against the collective gasp of the crowd who had already written them off after the disaster of the first set.
Tsukiko's body moved before her brain caught up. Her hand shot out for a victorious dap, small grin twitching at the corner of her mouth. A simple gesture, the kind of thing she did with everyone. Victory meant connection. Unity. Respect.
But Yuto… the strange creature that he was… dodged it like it was a flying insect. He dipped his head in a stiff little bow instead.
She froze mid-dap, hand hanging awkwardly in the space between them. Heat crawled up her neck.
No one ignored her dap.
No. One.
She dropped her hand fast, pretending to adjust her sleeve, pretending the whole world hadn't just watched her get curved by her own doubles partner in front of several hundred spectators. But her mind wasn't stuck on embarrassment for very long.
It snagged on something far more unsettling.
He was calm. Too calm.
The opponents had targeted him mercilessly in the first set. The fans roasted him for "babysitting the queen" instead of showcasing the game of the so-called prodigy. Even now, she could still hear a few jeers echoing.
But he didn't flinch. Not once. Not when he got outplayed. Not when he got underestimated. Not when she had to drag them through rallies he should've handled.
What kind of rookie stayed that composed under that kind of fire?
Tsukiko didn't know the answer. She didn't see the part of him that only surfaced on the soccer field, where his mind turned sharp and predatory, where he moved people the way others move pieces on a board. A place where emotion was a liability and calculation ruled him. A place where, for once, he wasn't a nervous, awkward boy bowing instead of dapping — he was a puppeteer.
But she had no idea.
Meanwhile, Yuto was already in the third set.
He didn't celebrate the second. Not really. His mind was running through patterns, openings, risks, probabilities that would make any sane coach drag him off the court by the collar.
Masaru's words from that day chimed in the back of his skull.
"You'll never scare anyone by playing normal. If you're gonna break expectations, then break them so hard they think you're possessed."
Well… fine then.
He glanced at Tsukiko. She was wiping sweat from her forehead, still frowning from the botched dap, but her shoulders were loose. Balanced. Ready.
He'd watched her the whole game. Watched the quiet way she built rallies like a machine made from patience and grit. Watched her hold everything together while he steadied himself.
She didn't need him to play safe.
She needed space.
So he'd give her all of it.
The plan was idiotic. Truly. Idiotic enough to get him punched by every veteran in the stands. He would effectively drop out of high rallies. Just… vanish. Let Tsukiko handle all exchanges. Let her dominate.
And he would hover, silent and useless-looking, waiting for the tiniest fracture in the opponent's formation.
A shift in weight.
A delayed recovery step.
A shoulder pointing the wrong way.
The moment he saw it, he would cut in and steal a ball right out of Tsukiko's airspace, smashing it with everything he had. A strike meant to tear momentum open like ripping cloth.
It wouldn't work often. It might not work at all.
But the few times it did… they would hit like lightning.
He trusted her. Completely. Maybe recklessly. But trust wasn't something he decided. It just happened to him.
He exhaled once, steady.
The queen could handle it.
And he? He would play the villain. The idiot. The unpredictable wild card who bullied the game into giving them chances it never wanted to.
The whistle blew for the final set.
Yuto stepped beside Tsukiko, heart quiet.
Time to gamble everything.The final set opened sharp, every point slicing tension into thinner and thinner pieces. The crowd wasn't just watching. They were coiled. Waiting to see which version of this odd duo would show up: the first–set disaster or the second–set miracle.
Tsukiko's breathing was controlled. Yuto's was barely audible. Their opponents, fired up from embarrassment in the previous set, pushed hard. Every rally was a skirmish, every serve a declaration of intent.
8–8.
9–9.
10–10.
Neither side could pull ahead. The game tightened like a knot pulled by two hands that refused to let go.
Tsukiko glanced sideways. Yuto hadn't used his supposed "plan" yet. Good. She didn't trust surprises. Not in a final set where everything was balanced on a thread thinner than fishing line.
But Yuto… he looked like someone waiting for a very specific bell to ring.
That bell chimed at 10–10.
And it chimed for the wrong team.
The opponents struck first. A cross–court drive Tsukiko barely managed to dig up. They continued to press, pushing pace, accuracy, momentum. The gym rose with their rhythm.
11–10.
Another aggressive serve. A miscommunication between Tsukiko and Yuto. Ball dropped.
12–10.
Next rally, Tsukiko tried to reset the tempo with a soft, controlled shot. The opponent pounced, slamming it into the far corner.
13–10.
Momentum wasn't just swinging; it was sprinting away with the match in its arms.
Tsukiko wiped her forehead with her wristband, jaw tightening. She could almost taste frustration on her tongue.
Yuto, however, blinked slowly.
Time.
Finally.
The next rally started tense. The opponents initiated a high–speed exchange immediately, trying to bury them before they could breathe.
Tsukiko met it head-on, her footwork crisp, her arms steady. She could rally all day. It was her pride.
But mid–exchange, something went wrong in the most absurd way possible.
Yuto stepped back.
Not a step of fear. Not hesitation. He moved out of her path entirely, as if he was evacuating the court.
Gasps shot across the gym. People stood. Even the opponents stuttered in their rhythm.
What was he doing?
Why leave Tsukiko alone in a rally like this?
The return the opponents gave was weak, but not enough for Tsukiko to kill. She was slightly off-balance, already preparing to send it back safely, rebuild tempo, keep the point alive.
Her body executed the movement out of habit.
Then something blurred in front of her eyes.
A flash of navy jersey.
A hand cutting downwards like an executioner's blade.
Then a thud so sharp it cracked across the gym floor and ricocheted off the rafters.
Ball down.
Point taken.
13–11.
Tsukiko's breath stopped in her throat.
Everyone stared at Yuto, who had landed from the smash like nothing unusual had happened. As if he hadn't just broken every rule of proper doubles play. As if he hadn't just stolen a shot from Tsukiko's range with the confidence of someone who'd rehearsed it in a dream.
He didn't look at her.
He didn't look at the crowd.
He simply rolled his shoulder once, stepped back into ready position, and exhaled.
The queen could handle pressure.
He just needed to tear the door open.
And now the door had a crack.
Whether it became a path or a disaster… that depended on the next point.