Shun's POV
The regional tournament banners snap in the wind like sails. Central Courts smell the same as they did four years ago—sunscreen, rubber soles, and the metallic tang of chain-link fences baking in the June heat.
Aoi Minami stands across the net, bouncing on her toes in a way I haven't seen since we were twelve. Her ponytail swings with each movement, the yellow scrunchie glaringly bright against her dark hair. Mirai's scrunchie.
"You don't deserve to be here," I snarl during the coin toss.
Haru steps between us before Aoi can react. "Funny. Mirai said the same thing about you."
The words land like a backhand to the throat. She told him that? My grip on the racket tightens until the grip creaks. The umpire clears his throat, but I'm already walking to the baseline, my pulse roaring in my ears.
First Set - 3-1 (Kaimei leads)
Aoi's backhand hasn't lost its edge.
The ball rockets past me, kissing the sideline with surgical precision. Behind her, Haru grins like he's known this would happen all along. The Kaimei team erupts—Tanaka nearly vaults the fence while Natsuki records every point with terrifying focus.
"Nice shot, partner," Haru calls, emphasizing the word like a challenge.
I adjust my sweatband, the fabric damp with more than perspiration. The last time I stood on this court, Mirai was alive and laughing, her arm slung around a sullen Aoi after beating me in straight sets.
"Better luck next time, Kurosawa!"
There was no next time.
Flashback - Four Years Earlier
The tournament director's office smelled like coffee and stale paperwork.
"You're forfeiting?" The old man adjusted his glasses. "But you and Mizuno are seeded first!"
Mirai leaned against the desk, her fingers drumming an arrhythmic pattern. "I need to switch to the afternoon draw. Aoi's got—"
"An art show," I finished for her, stepping out of the shadows. "She told me."
Mirai's head snapped up. For a second, her mask slipped—I saw the dark circles under her eyes, the way her jersey hung looser than it had at last month's tournament.
"Shun." Her voice was all wrong. "Please."
I should have noticed. Should have asked.
Instead, I crossed my arms. "No favors for defending champs."
The look she gave me—part betrayal, part resignation—haunts every match I've played since.
Present Day - Second Set (4-4)
The scoreboard glows under the midday sun. Aoi wipes her brow with her wristband, leaving a streak of graphite across her forehead. She's been sketching between sets—I caught a glimpse of Haru's profile taking shape in her notebook.
My serve is a weapon today. The ball kicks up chalk on the ad court, but Aoi's there in two strides, returning with that impossible topspin Mirai could never master.
"Out!" the line judge calls.
Haru's at the net before the echo fades. "That was in by a mile!"
The umpire shrugs. I turn away before they see my smirk.
Aoi doesn't protest. Just walks to the baseline and stares at me with those storm-gray eyes. For the first time in years, I feel like she's actually seeing me—not as Mirai's rival, not as an obstacle, but as Shun.
It's unnerving.
Changeover - Third Set (5-6, Kaimei leads)
The ice in my water bottle cracks as I crush it. My team hovers nearby, unsure what to do with a captain who's unraveling in public.
Then Tanaka's voice carries from the Kaimei bench: "—still can't believe it was her."
Natsuki shushes him, but the damage is done.
"What was her?" I ask before I can stop myself.
Haru looks up from tying Aoi's shoe (since when does he—?). "The anonymous donor. The one who's been funding both our teams' equipment." He nods to the racket in my hand. "That's last year's model, right? Custom grip?"
My stomach drops. The racket—a limited edition with my initials engraved near the throat—had arrived mysteriously before regionals last year. No note. No return address.
Aoi won't meet my eyes, but her ears turn pink.
Mirai's voice whispers in my memory: "Shun's got the best footwork in the prefecture, but his grip's all wrong."
The realization hits like a gut punch. All these years, I've been playing with her charity.
Match Point - 40-30
The stadium holds its breath.
I serve wide, putting everything into it. Aoi stretches—her racket flashing in the sun—and somehow, impossibly, returns it.
The ball arcs high.
For a split second, time fractures:
Twelve-year-old Aoi, biting her lip during her first tournamentMirai, grinning as she taught me that serve last summerHaru, watching from the baseline with something like pride
I lunge.
My return clips the net tape, teetering for an eternity before dropping onto my side.
"Game, set, match—Kaimei."
The roar of the crowd is deafening. Aoi collapses to her knees, her shoulders shaking. Haru reaches her first, pulling her up into a crushing hug.
I'm still standing at the net when she approaches, hand extended.
"Good match," she says, and for the first time, it's not a platitude.
Up close, I see the graphite smudges on her fingers, the faded ink stains on her wrist from where she's been clutching her sketchbook between games. The yellow scrunchie is fraying at the edges.
Mirai would've loved this version of her.
I take her hand. "Next time, I won't go easy."
Aoi's smile is small but real. "Neither will I."
Behind her, Haru whoops, tossing his racket in the air. The Kaimei team swarms them, but my eyes are drawn to the stands—where a folded piece of paper sits on the bench.
A sketch. Of me, mid-serve.
Signed in the corner: "For next time. -A"