Yuto Kimura had never looked more out of place on a badminton court than he had during the first set. He wasn't clueless, but he was definitely lost. Everything moved at a speed he wasn't used to, the exchanges short and sharp, the angles tight. Mixed doubles felt nothing like that long duel he once had with Masaru Kyo. This wasn't about instinct. It wasn't about chasing the shuttle like a ball rolling into open space.
And Tsukiko Takahashi… she was something else entirely. He had watched her singles match. The girl moved like she had a second brain dedicated to court geometry. Every step precise. Every shot efficient. Yuto couldn't even pretend to understand how players like her saw the court.
He didn't realize what she'd been doing in the first set. He didn't know she was deliberately testing where he'd break. He only saw her sharp footwork and the opponents' relentless pressure and assumed this was just… mixed doubles.
But he knew one thing well: he was drowning in the pace.
So in the washroom, leaning over the sink, cool water dripping from his face, he thought back to soccer. Soccer made sense. Pressure, positioning, tempo, adaptation. These were languages he understood.
When pressure piles up… slow the game down.
Make the field feel a little bigger.
Give your mind room to breathe.
Buy a heartbeat of calm.
In soccer that meant holding the ball, controlling rhythm, reading your teammates' movements instead of charging blindly.
He raised his head, water still trailing down his jaw.
If I can't match the speed… then I won't play at their speed.
He wasn't skilled enough to trade fast drives.
Not experienced enough to rotate perfectly.
Not trained enough to handle mixed-doubles pace.
So he had to bend the match toward something he could manage.
High shots.
Slower tempo.
More space.
More time.
He knew they were risky. High clears could be smashed. But the other option was to keep drowning.
He dried his face, feeling his pulse settle into something steadier.
Then another realization clicked. In soccer, when you aren't the most technical player, you compensate with positioning and playing simple. Mixed doubles wasn't different. If he played more central, closer to the net but not too close, the burden of defense would shift toward Tsukiko, who was clearly far more skilled. She could rotate behind him, control the backcourt, and cover mistakes he couldn't recover from.
And him?
His shots lacked finesse, but his raw power was good enough that, if the shuttle reached him near the net, the opponents would have less reaction time. He could turn those moments into pressure points instead of liabilities.
It wasn't elegant.
It wasn't orthodox.
But it was a plan he understood.
He walked back toward the court, wiping the last of the water from his face. His heartbeat felt leveled. His mind wasn't scrambled. For the first time since the match started, he knew what he wanted to do.
He picked up his racket, stepped onto the wood floor, and raised his eyes toward Tsukiko.
She was waiting, arms crossed, expression tight. Probably expecting excuses, complaints, something she could use to reinforce the bad image she had formed of him.
But Yuto didn't say a word. He didn't apologize or grovel. He simply met her eyes.
"I'm ready, Takahashi-senpai."
It caught her off guard. He sounded calm. Steady. Focused.
She didn't know he'd just rearranged the entire strategy in his head using nothing but soccer logic. She only saw a boy who somehow looked sharper than before, not worn down by the first set but recalibrated.
The whistle blew.
Second set.
Yuto took a half-step back, repositioning himself a little more centrally, stance relaxed but alert. His eyes weren't glued to the shuttle like before. They flicked between the opponents… and Tsukiko.
He was reading her.
Finally.
The rally started, and instead of rushing forward or swinging too wide, he lifted the shuttle high. A clean, simple clear.
Tsukiko's eyes widened slightly. Not because it was impressive, but because it was intentional. Controlled. A change of pace.
The opponents prepared to smash… but Yuto had already moved back a half-grain, giving himself the split second he needed to respond. His return wasn't pretty, but it went high again.
Tsukiko instantly understood his aim. He was trying to slow the match.
Risky, but logical.
She shifted behind him, taking the backcourt like he wanted. Their rotations weren't perfect, but he wasn't scrambling anymore. He was absorbing the game rather than being eaten alive by it.
And when the shuttle came low toward him, something changed.
His footwork wasn't smooth, but his balance was solid.
He drove it hard.
Not accurate, but powerful.
The opponent girl barely returned it.
Tsukiko snapped a kill shot straight into open space.
Point.
Yuto let out a small breath.
It worked.
The tempo was slower. The court felt bigger. And he could finally see how Tsukiko moved. Her steps had a rhythm, a natural arc. Her body alignment before a shot gave clues to the next angle. He didn't understand badminton, but he understood motion.
He followed that motion.
Maybe he couldn't keep up with the sport's pace yet.
But he could play at his own pace while syncing to hers.
From the corner of her eye, Tsukiko saw him adjust again. Subtle things. Foot placement. Grip changes. Where he stood after his clear. Not perfect, but intentional.
Her irritation didn't vanish, not even close. But beneath it, disgustingly, annoyingly, something like reluctant acknowledgment flickered.
He's learning mid-match.
He's actually learning.
She wasn't ready to admit that out loud. Not to anyone. Especially not to him.
The opponents realized too late that the rhythm had changed, and the second set began stretching longer, turning into a different kind of battle.
And Yuto, finally breathing, finally steady, finally playing like himself, lifted his racket again.
He wasn't here to prove anything.
He just wanted to adapt.
And for the first time since the match began, Tsukiko felt a faint chill of unease.
The boy she wanted to teach a lesson to had just started playing on his own terms.
And that was far more dangerous than she expected.