Yuto arrived early, spare racket in hand, but the familiar weight of his usual one missing left him feeling like he'd forgotten a limb at home. He kept checking the grip of the spare, as if it might magically become the one he actually trusted. It didn't. Life never worked that nicely for him.
He headed toward the waiting area for the singles players, quietly rehearsing footwork patterns in his mind, when something jabbed his ribs.
He froze.
A girl's voice said, "Kimura-kun."
His soul almost launched into orbit.
He turned and saw Tsukiko Takahashi, standing there with an annoyingly calm expression, holding out… his racket.
He blinked. Then blinked again. He didn't move.
She pushed it forward. "Good game yesterday," she said, and extended her other hand for a handshake.
Yuto snatched the racket like a starving animal grabbing food, eyes lighting up with pure, unfiltered joy. His brain shut off everything else, including the very obvious hand Tsukiko was holding out to him.
Tsukiko waited.
And waited.
And then realised he wasn't going to shake it.
Her fingers curled back awkwardly. Her face tightened with a tiny twitch of embarrassment before she punched him in the arm.
It hurt. He yelped, clutching the spot, confused and betrayed. She made a grumpy face, cheeks pink with irritation, and marched off.
Unfortunately for her, Sakura saw that entire scene from a distance. The grin forming on Sakura's face promised merciless teasing later. A first year making the queen lose composure wasn't something their group would ever let her forget.
Tsukiko tried to ignore Sakura's knowing smirk and went up to the spectator stands. She told herself it wasn't a big deal. She wasn't here for him. She was just looking around. Observing. Warming up mentally. Whatever excuse sounded the most logical.
But the truth was simple: she wanted to see how that weird boy would play today.
Yuto stepped onto the court for his singles match, adjusting the grip of his recovered racket like he was reconnecting with an old friend. His opponent was a third-year from a less competitive school, but older players usually compensated with experience, not brute strength.
The match began and it became painfully clear Yuto hadn't adjusted yet. He was late to the corners, awkward on his recoveries, misreading feints. He got points only through explosive smashes, raw power that forced errors even though he wasn't in good position most of the time.
Tsukiko sighed through her nose. The first set slipped away 21–18.
A part of her itched to say something. A tip. A small correction. Anything. No matter how irritating he was, he was still from her school. Still her temporary partner. Still someone with potential.
But she stayed silent.
If he was truly serious about this sport, he'd find his own answer.
When the second set began, something in the air shifted. Tsukiko leaned forward slightly, sensing it even before the score reflected it. Yuto's movements no longer looked lost. He wasn't scrambling anymore. His footwork was cleaner. His spacing was better.
He had observed the patterns.
He'd figured out the third-year's habits.
His positioning snapped into place at the right times, his recoveries sharpened, and his smashes became timed instead of panicked. He played aggressively, but now with intention. Control. Purpose.
Tsukiko narrowed her eyes.
That wasn't normal.
Not for someone with so little formal training.
He took the second set 21–14, the momentum flipping brutally.
The third set had the entire small crowd watching. Rallies stretched longer, smashes cracked louder, and every point exchanged felt like a tug-of-war over pure willpower. Yuto used his power selectively, waiting until the older player was slightly off-balance before striking.
The final rally dragged through deuce, then another, the tension coiling like a tightly pulled string.
At 22–21, Yuto forced a lift.
He leapt.
The smash landed clean.
23–21.
Match over.
Instead of celebrating loudly, Yuto simply bowed to the opponent, then walked toward the exit, rubbing the back of his neck, exhausted. He didn't look toward the stands once.
Tsukiko watched him, her arms folded, breath caught somewhere between irritation and reluctant respect.
That boy…
He was far from polished.
Far from disciplined.
Far from understanding how much work this sport demanded.
But he wasn't mocking it.
Not even close.
He adapted too quickly.
He pushed too hard.
He fought too seriously.
And despite every reason she had to dislike him…
She couldn't deny it:
He was interesting.