Tsukiko placed Yuto's racket on her desk the moment she got home. She'd planned to shower, eat, sleep, anything except pay attention to that stupid thing. Yet it kept pulling her gaze back like an annoying magnet.
Her mind replayed the third set in pieces.
The shift at 13-11.
The absurd smash he stole out of nowhere.
The momentum flip.
The weird throw of his racket.
The way he trusted her to handle the rally alone.
The sheer insanity of it.
She tightened her jaw.
She hated that her heartbeat sped up remembering it.
She trained years for the instincts he used today. Years. Tens of thousands of repetitions. Footwork ladders. Precision drills. Training until her fingers shook and her knees ached. She'd worked too hard to respect anyone who treated badminton lightly. People like that always irritated her.
That boy…
She tried to tell herself he was exactly that type.
But the scenes from today didn't match that theory at all.
He wasn't disrespecting the game.
He wasn't mocking it.
He wasn't acting like some prodigy who thought he could win everything.
He looked more like someone desperately trying to keep up. Someone putting in actual effort because he refused to be a burden. Someone who moved with purpose, not ego.
And that made it worse, because now she couldn't even be angry at him properly.
She exhaled sharply and picked up the racket.
The grip.
Those ridiculous doodles.
Pikachu, grinning like it was part of some conspiracy.
"Discipline."
"Kimmich Mentality."
"Don't involve with girls."
"Sigma."
She covered her mouth before she accidentally laughed.
What kind of mixed doubles partner writes this?
Seriously.
This was the kid she screamed internally about for days?
Her irritation slipped into something else. Something confusing. Something she didn't want to name.
She'd call Masaru later. Return the racket tomorrow. Move on.
But the match refused to leave her head, even when she lay down to sleep.
Yuto's Side
Yuto sat on his bed, staring at his hands, trying to understand how the day spiraled so far beyond anything he prepared for.
He had registered for singles.
He had expected nothing from mixed doubles.
He had assumed Takahashi-senpai needed a partner and picked him at random.
He didn't know why she chose him.
He didn't know what she thought of him.
He didn't know that she had been angry with him before the match.
He didn't know anything.
But he knew one thing very clearly:
She was incredible.
He replayed her footwork in his mind, the way she pivoted cleanly on her toes, the sharp timing of her drops, the subtle control of her tempo. He admired her court presence. How she read opponents faster than he did. How she never wasted movement.
He could see patterns on a soccer field with ease.
He could manipulate tempo.
He could direct players.
But Tsukiko didn't just read the game.
She commanded it.
He felt a tightness in his chest remembering how she handled the backcourt alone during his risky plan. She should have cracked under that pressure. Most players would. But she held firm, carried the rally, and kept the rhythm until he returned.
And then… that moment after the match.
She stood there with his racket in her hands.
Waiting for him to say something normal.
Something like "thank you" or "you played great" or "good work, senpai."
And he just… froze.
Now she had his racket.
With the doodles.
The doodles.
He groaned and flopped back on his pillow, covering his face.
He didn't regret the drawings.
He regretted that she was the one who saw them.
Especially when he admired her so much.
But he wasn't embarrassed because it was childish.
He was embarrassed because she was the kind of person whose respect he didn't want to lose. She had a presence he recognized instantly: someone who worked harder than anyone else in the room.
Someone like that…
He wanted them to think well of him.
He wanted to improve.
He wanted to play properly.
He wanted to—
He cut his own thoughts off and groaned again.
He just wished he hadn't looked like a complete idiot after the game.
He closed his eyes, thinking of her backcourt control, the smooth rhythm of her shots, the way her expression never wavered even when rallies stretched long.
Maybe tomorrow he'd return to normal.
Maybe she'd forget about the doodles.
He doubted both.
And somewhere deep inside, a small stubborn part of him wanted to get strong enough to stand next to her on a court without needing to be carried.
He didn't know why.
He didn't question it.
It just felt right.