"Five minutes early," Ayumi announced, swinging her bag onto the bench with theatrical flair. "That's basically twenty minutes early in Ayumi Standard Time."
Kenji, mid-stretch, didn't look up. "You're six minutes late."
She squinted at the court clock. "No way. That thing's lying."
"I go by atomic time."
Ayumi gave him a look. "Of course you do."
There was a quiet pause—filled only by the sound of sneakers squeaking on asphalt and the distant hum of Coach Sora's whistle.
The court felt tighter today. Like it had shrunk an inch on all sides. Not because of the weather. Because of them. The shadows Ryota and Hana left behind still lingered—sleek, smug, efficient.
Ayumi bounced on her toes. "Hey, question."
Kenji arched an eyebrow.
"If I promise not to pull any stunts today, will you still pretend to be surprised when I do?"
"No."
"Cool. That's what I figured."
Drill 1: Cross-Court Rhythm
The rally was fast. Ayumi's footwork was sharper than usual, though still full of zig-zags and last-minute saves that gave Coach mild heart palpitations.
"You're adapting," Kenji said between hits.
"To what?"
"Physics. Maybe logic."
She returned with a slice that clipped the net and dropped perfectly. "Gross."
Drill 2: Net Poaching
Kenji leapt and slammed a volley. Ayumi dodged out of his way like a matador avoiding a particularly punctual bull.
"Let's call that play 'Silent Rage,'" she said. "It's very you."
"Let's call your footwork 'Chaos Theory.'"
"Not bad, partner. I'll put it on a T-shirt."
Drill 3: Call-and-Response
Coach shouted, "No calling, no point!"
"Yours!"
"Mine!"
"Definitely yours!"
They collided. Ayumi fell. Kenji caught her by the elbow, barely, and hauled her upright with practiced annoyance.
"You call everything like it's a group project."
"That's what tennis is! Group trauma in cute shoes!"
Water Break
Ayumi flopped onto the bench like a dying Victorian heroine. Kenji sat next to her, drinking silently, like the ghost of discipline past.
She muttered, "I keep seeing Ryota's smug salute in my dreams. It's like being haunted by a preppy ghost."
Kenji didn't look up. "Then we exorcise him."
Ayumi blinked. "Did you just… make a supernatural burn?"
He shrugged. "Maybe."
She leaned back on her elbows. "Weirdly proud of you."
The silence that followed was surprisingly comfortable. Not awkward. Not empty. Just quiet enough to notice that the tension had shifted.
Ayumi sat up straighter. "Okay. Real question. You ever wonder what it would feel like to actually beat them?"
Kenji gave her a look. Measured. Focused. "Yes."
"Because I do. All the time. And not just beat them—undo them. Make them look up and realize we don't fit in their tidy little equation."
"That's the goal."
She turned toward him, eyes narrowed with mock suspicion. "Since when do you get poetic?"
Kenji capped his water. "Since you started making chaos contagious."
Final Drill
Coach blew the whistle again. Last round. Mixed doubles scrimmage rotations.
Ayumi cracked her knuckles. "Ready for one more disaster?"
Kenji stood, adjusting his wristband. "Only if it's high-quality disaster."
She grinned. "You know me. Premium-grade havoc."
As they walked back onto the court, side by side, something clicked.
No longer just a pair. Not quite a machine.
But a system in its own right.
Messy. Fast. Funny. Dangerous.
And just maybe... ready.