The preliminaries began with the usual mixture of noise and nerves, the courts alive with that sharp thwack of shuttle against string. The gym felt crowded but bright, sunlight spilling through high windows and catching the drifting feathers of warmup shuttles in the air. Yuto Kimura walked in quietly, his racket tucked under his arm, his eyes scanning the courts with a wide, observant calm. His hair stuck up a little in the back from rushing, his face slightly flushed from jogging to the venue.
That was when Tsukiko Takahashi spotted him.
Her eyes narrowed. She was standing beside her own teammates, already in her warm-up jacket, wrist taped neatly, hair tied with a clip she always used in tournaments. The moment she saw that tall first-year stroll in as if this were just another school event, her irritation sharpened into a cold, clean flick of anger.
Of course he came.
Of course he pretended nothing happened.
He looked straight in her direction for a brief second. She was sure he saw her. Yet he simply gave a shallow nod, then walked straight to the warm-up courts. No apology. No explanation. No acknowledgment of leaving her waiting during practice days. He just began stretching, not even glancing her way.
Tsukiko clicked her tongue. "Unbelievable."
But there was no time to brood. Singles matches were beginning, and both their names were called on different courts around the same time. Tsukiko pushed all thoughts of him aside and stepped into her match with a focus sharp enough to cut through steel.
Yuto's opponent was a shorter boy from another first-year batch. His footwork was decent, his anticipation trained, but he lacked explosiveness. The match started with quick rallies, but Yuto's natural reach and reflexes kicked in early. His smashes weren't professional, but they were fast enough to push pressure. His drops were inconsistent, yet his footwork let him recover from nearly any mistake.
He took the first set 21–13.
The second set was closer. The other boy realized Yuto lacked formal training and started attacking his backhand relentlessly. It worked for a while. Yuto's form bent awkwardly, his recovery lagged, but when the score tightened to 19–19, something inside him switched on. His steps became lighter, quicker, and he snapped two clean points with surprising composure.
He won 21–19.
It wasn't a flashy victory, and the badminton regulars weren't stunned, but a few heads turned. Including Tsukiko's.
She hated that she noticed his improvement from the last time she'd seen the video. He wasn't polished, but he adapted fast. Too fast. She refused to let that bother her. Plenty of talented players existed. What separated winners from disappointments was discipline. And she was about to prove exactly that.
Tsukiko herself walked onto her singles court and dismantled her opponent with clinical precision. Her footwork patterns were crisp, a rhythm ingrained in her bones. Her smashes angled like knives, each one hitting her opponent's weaker side. The match ended quickly, the cheers for her echoing louder than the ones for Yuto had.
She left the court with her jaw set.
Now came the mixed doubles match. Her match. The one she had been waiting for.
Yuto was already walking toward the designated court with his racket in his hand, wiping sweat off his forehead with a towel. He looked perfectly normal. Calm. That irritated her even more.
"Kimura-kun," she called sharply.
He turned. "Yes, Takahashi-senpai?"
No guilt, no awkwardness, no stammering. Just polite neutrality.
She didn't trust herself to respond without letting the anger bleed through, so she simply said, "Let's play our best."
"Yes," he replied.
They stepped onto the court.
Their opponents, a pair from another school known for strong coordination, eyed them with some curiosity. The girl had a power smash. The boy had a steady net game. Together they looked like an actual doubles team. Tsukiko felt a familiar competitive fire rise in her chest.
This match wasn't supposed to be easy. But it was supposed to make a point.
The whistle blew.
Tsukiko served first, a fast low serve cutting clean across the net. The opponent flicked it back, and she immediately whipped a deep clear to the corner. She wanted rallies fast, complex, angled sharply. She wanted the shuttle to reach Yuto in positions that tested whether he had ever truly practiced doubles.
The opponents caught on quickly. They sent the shuttle toward Yuto again. And again. And again.
Just as Tsukiko planned.
Yuto lunged forward to receive a drop, his grip awkward. The shuttle popped too high. The opponent smashed. Tsukiko barely saved it. Another rally, another drive toward Yuto's shoulder. He reacted half a step too slow. Their opponents capitalized instantly.
Tsukiko's teeth clenched. She wasn't angry at him for missing. She was angry at how predictable every miss was. If he had attended practice, he could have adapted by now.
They lost the first four points. Then six. Then ten.
Yuto was clearly struggling.
His timing was off in doubles positioning.
He hesitated when deciding whether to rotate.
He overran simple mid-court shuttles.
And Tsukiko fed into it mercilessly. She took shots that naturally directed their opponents into punishing his weaknesses. It wasn't sabotage. It was reality. Mixed doubles required harmony, and she needed to know exactly how big the gap was between them.
The first set slipped away faster than Yuto seemed to realize.
21–11.
The whistle blew. The teams walked back to switch sides. Tsukiko's palms were damp with sweat, irritation pulsing inside her.
Now he would talk. She knew the type. Boys like him always had something to say to soften the blow.
Sorry, I'm a little rusty.
That last one wasn't my fault.
Maybe if you hadn't pushed the pace…
She waited for it.
Waited for him to give an excuse.
Waited for even the slightest hint of self-defense.
But Yuto said nothing.
He placed his racket down on his bag, took a sip of water, wiped his face lightly, then murmured, "I'll be back in a moment," and walked toward the hallway.
Tsukiko stared after him, stunned.
Was he running away?
Going to complain?
Hiding in embarrassment?
She crossed her arms tightly. "Seriously? What does he think he's doing?"
Minutes passed. Their opponents practiced lightly on the other side of the net. Tsukiko paced, jaw tightening more with every step. He was going to ruin the whole match. Just like she feared. Just like she expected.
Then Yuto returned.
And something was undeniably different.
His face was calm, but no longer spaced-out. His posture straightened, shoulders relaxed but alert. His eyes seemed sharper, steadier, as if he had taken all the scattered pieces inside his mind and clicked them into place during those few minutes away.
He didn't apologize.
He didn't explain.
He didn't even look flustered.
He simply picked up his racket and said, "I'm ready, Takahashi-senpai."
Tsukiko blinked.
That tone.
That expression.
It wasn't arrogance.
It wasn't fake politeness.
It was focus.
A deeper, more grounded kind than she had expected from someone like him.
She felt her throat tighten with a mix of irritation and something she didn't want to name. He wasn't supposed to bounce back like this. He wasn't supposed to look composed.
He was supposed to break a little.
The referee blew the whistle for the start of the second set.
Tsukiko stepped onto the court beside this strange, unexpectedly resilient boy.
And without meaning to, she felt something inside her shift.
Just slightly. Just enough for her to realize the next set wouldn't be predictable at all.
Yuto Kimura was ready.
And now, she had no idea what he might do next.