Kenji meets his doubles partner. And immediately regrets it.
Kenji Nakamura arrived at the Minato Academy tennis courts ten minutes early, dressed like punctuality was a lifestyle and carrying exactly zero expectations for joy.
The courts stretched wide beneath a perfect sky. Blue paint still fresh from summer. Nets taut. Lines crisp enough to pass a geometry exam.
It should've been a dream.
It was, instead, a migraine waiting to happen.
"WELCOME, VICTIMS!" a voice shouted, jarring his soul.
Kenji turned just in time to be face-to-face with a boy who looked like he had lost a fight with a highlighter. Marker stains covered his cheek. His name tag read "Shun – Assistant Coach???" in permanent confusion.
"You must be Kenji," Shun said cheerfully. "The forehead from yesterday."
Kenji nodded. "And you are?"
"Backup stringer, emotional support mascot, and DJ of the soul. Also, Ayumi said if I didn't make sure you sign in, she'd put salt in my water bottle again."
Kenji stared.
"She's kidding," Shun added quickly. "Probably."
After checking in, Kenji glanced around the court. Dozens of students were warming up, stretching, or nervously comparing racquets like they were auditioning for a reality show called So You Think You Can Swing.
And there—perched on top of the umpire's chair like it was a throne she had conquered—was Ayumi, red ribbon blazing in the sun, eating an orange with a smirk that suggested she already knew how everyone's story would end.
She waved.
Kenji did not wave back. He gave her a cool nod. The kind that said:
I am unbothered by your nonsense. Even though you haunt my dreams like a fruit-wielding goblin queen.
"Alright, children!" boomed a serene, sandals-wearing voice. "Let's get metaphysical."
Coach Sora had arrived. He wore a linen shirt that read Tennis is a Dialogue and carried a cup of something that definitely wasn't tea but spiritually was.
He gazed at the group like a zen gardener judging the weeds.
"Today, we explore doubles. Because life is not a solo match. It is a series of bad calls and surprise volleys shared with another confused soul."
Kenji exhaled slowly through his nose. He hated doubles. Variables. Unreliability. People with no spatial awareness. Feelings.
"Pairings," Sora continued, "are written on the sacred scroll of fate—also known as the clipboard."
Kenji walked to the board and read the name next to his.
Pair #3: Kenji Nakamura + Ayumi Takahashi
He froze.
There was a sound behind him. The sound of someone grinning with her entire existence.
"Look at us," Ayumi said, appearing at his elbow. "Like destiny. Or a scheduling error."
"There's been a mistake."
"There's been a miracle."
"I don't play doubles."
"You do now."
"I prefer singles."
"Your aura screams that."
He gave her a long, measured look. "You're going to get me disqualified."
Ayumi leaned in. "Only if you play boring."
Before he could respond, Coach Sora called, "Court 2, please! Let's see if your souls can harmonize without threatening each other."
They took their positions. Ayumi at the net. Kenji at the baseline. Opponents: forgettable, nervous. No real threat.
Until Ayumi served. With no warning.
A chaotic, high-arc rainbow serve. Completely illegal in spirit, though somehow within regulation.
Kenji dove for it. Saved it. Returned it straight down the line with textbook perfection.
Ayumi applauded. "Textbook! Dull but delightful!"
Second rally. Kenji set up for a clean smash. Ayumi intercepted it with a twirl and dinked it softly over the net.
"What are you doing?" he hissed.
"Unpredictability is my strategy."
"Unpredictability is not a strategy!"
"It is if you commit."
Third rally. Chaos. Kenji tracked patterns. Ayumi chased vibes. He was footwork. She was footloose.
And weirdly… it started working.
Not by logic. But by momentum. They crashed into each other's tempo like two jazz solos in the same key by accident.
When the final point landed, Coach Sora sipped his drink thoughtfully.
"That was like watching a chessboard play hopscotch."
"I'll take that," Ayumi beamed.
Kenji, panting, tried to say something. Anything. His throat disagreed.
Ayumi handed him a water bottle. "Not bad, partner."
"I told you—I don't do doubles."
"You do now."
"It doesn't make sense."
"Nothing good ever does," she said. "Also, I need a partner who hits like a machine and stresses like a drama queen. You're perfect."
Kenji choked on his water. "I do not stress like a drama queen."
"You blink seventeen times per minute under pressure. I counted."
He wiped his face with a towel. "This will never work."
"It already is." She tossed her racket up and caught it without looking. "You just haven't admitted you like it yet."
Coach Sora wandered by, tapping his clipboard like a philosopher with mild authority. "Good synergy," he said. "Chaotic and contained. Very yin-yang. Very sitcom pilot."
Kenji stared at the sky.
He came to this school to perfect his game. To control outcomes.
Now he was in a doubles pair with a girl who wore mischief like sunscreen and pirouetted through rallies.
He was doomed.
"See you at practice tomorrow," Ayumi said. "Same time. Same court. Same emotional confusion."
Kenji watched her walk away.
He hated unpredictability.
He hated doubles.
And he really, really hated that he didn't hate this.