In which Kenji tries to focus, Ayumi invents new ways to annoy him, and Coach Sora prays for early retirement.
Kenji arrived at the courts ten minutes early.
Of course he did. He was the type who believed in warmups, footwork drills, and the sanctity of silence before practice. His water bottle was pre-chilled. His shoes were double-knotted. His towel was folded in thirds—not halves—because halves were for cowards.
Today was about control.
No drama. No distractions. And definitely no Ayumi Takahashi.
He was halfway through shadow swings when the universe betrayed him.
A blur whizzed past the school gate.
Ayumi arrived.
On a skateboard. In tennis gear. With a bag slung across her shoulder like a war banner.
She hopped off, tossed her racket toward the bench with casual violence, and bowed to Coach Sora mid-spin like she was greeting a stage audience.
"Good morning, my beautiful disasters," she said to the team. "And hello, Forehead."
Kenji paused mid-serve toss.
The others looked at him.
He kept his face blank.
She grinned wider. She was enjoying this.
Coach Sora sighed like a man whose patience had been taxed since the Meiji era. "Takahashi. Stretch. Partner with Nakamura."
Kenji flinched. Internally, of course.
Ayumi gave him finger guns. "Oh good. We're back to our regularly scheduled emotional trauma."
They stood across from each other at the baseline.
"You still mad?" she asked, bouncing on her toes. "Your aura feels clenched."
"I don't believe in auras."
"Classic clenched aura response."
He said nothing. Just served.
Fast. Precise. Perfect.
She returned it with a flick—not hard, just annoyingly angled, skimming the net like a paper airplane with a grudge.
Kenji sprinted. Got there late. Fumbled it into the ground.
She twirled. Again. Midpoint.
"Why," he muttered, retrieving the ball, "do you keep twirling?"
"It distracts you," she said cheerfully. "Also, I like wind."
He wanted to argue that wind was not a valid strategy.
He did not. Because it had, in fact, worked.
They moved through drills. Warmups. Rotations.
Kenji focused on footwork. Ayumi focused on chaos. She talked during volleys. Named her serves. High-fived people at random. Whispered "watch this" before every weird slice.
And somehow—she kept winning points.
She didn't overpower. She outplayed. Or more precisely, out-messed-with.
Kenji hated it.
And—worse—he couldn't stop watching her play.
There was something unnerving about it. She was all improvisation and grin. But underneath the glitter, her instincts were lethal. Every smile covered a plan. Every joke masked intention.
And Kenji—annoyingly—respected it.
Practice ended with Coach Sora herding the team like a sheepdog with PTSD.
"Hydrate. Cool down. Try not to die on school property," he called. "Nakamura, Takahashi—sit. We need to talk."
They obeyed. Ayumi sat sideways, legs swinging. Kenji sat straight, posture locked like an elevator button.
Coach rubbed his eyes. "Okay. You two."
He pointed at Kenji. "You're a one-man spreadsheet. Play like a textbook. Reliable. Predictable. Very emotionally repressed."
Kenji opened his mouth. Closed it.
He pointed at Ayumi. "You are a cryptid in sneakers. Uncoachable. Lawless. You fake moonwalked during serve-receive drills."
"I was inspired by the wind," she said.
"Not helping."
Coach folded his arms. "Here's the deal. You're both singles aces. You don't like each other. That's fine. But next week's friendly? You're playing doubles. Together."
Kenji blinked. "Why?"
"Because I'm tired. Because I want to win. Because watching you suffer might bring me joy."
Ayumi looked delighted. "Oh my God, are we a romcom now? Opposites attract, mutual disdain, shared goals? Do we kiss by chapter ten?"
Kenji stood. "Absolutely not."
Coach gestured vaguely. "You have five days to figure it out. Don't implode. Don't infect the team. Don't twirl during service returns."
"Can't promise the third one," Ayumi said, already hopping off the bench.
She shot Kenji a wink.
"See you tomorrow morning, Forehead. Bright and early. I'll bring coffee. You bring that emotionally constipated vibe."
He stared at her as she left, sunlight bouncing off her ponytail like a romantic metaphor trying too hard.
This was not part of the plan.