Mid-June heat clings to the small Aozora High gym. Voices echo against the wooden floor. Yuuto Takahashi wipes sweat off his brow before clutching the red paddle against his chest. He’s never played for the win. Not since the old rivalry wrecked last summer’s regionals.
Minami, the club’s loud but quick-witted vice-captain, barks, “Oi, Yuuto! Sensei signed us up for the summer bracket! You in?” His heart hammers. He doesn’t want to answer. He looks at his rough hand, taped from round after round since winter. “I’ll think on it.” You would, if you were Yuuto?
Keiko, tallest on their team, often spends late hours adjusting her stance by the vending machine. “Minami said you’re dodging meets, Takahashi. Are you okay with Benri calling you a coward?” The insult bites, reminders of taunts from second years running in Yuuto’s head. He wants to win. Not for him — for his old coach’s sake. She believed he was the pick for next ace before she left for the hospital.
The first part of the bracket lands them versus West Saitama’s legends. These guys spin serve over 100 kph, and their prodigy—Aoi Mizushima—holds a prefectural record for returns in a set. Burning under the hakama and blinding lights, Yuuto can’t meet the rivals’s features. “You still choking off the final ball?” drones Aoi. Yuuto swallows memories of the lost semi. “Bring it.” Simple answer, packed with old pain and hope.
Game one cracks six minutes in. West Saitama’s captain pushes each play to Yuuto’s weak right zone. Minami leaps to meet a faster ball, misses. Yuuto is slow covering. Manager Kanda scribbles fresh notes. As West Saitama racks up match points, spectators flinch and Chiba yells, “You trailing Yuuto or still warming up there?” You ever felt fans squirm from secondhand dread?
Off-set, at the bleak vending machines, Yuuto clutches cold melon soda. Keiko finds him. “Coach left her bat to you, right? Play at least one point for her.” Blinking back tears works only at night, silent and alone.
A shuffled huddle forms around Yuuto at the tied game break. Has anyone whispered your name half-hope, half-doubt between hands like cold paper? “Play your game, Takahashi,” Minami says, lighting resolve in Yuuto’s gut. Keiko nods, hand over her battered paddle.
Return. Grip. Serve. Return. Yuuto banks three quick points, each from fast tenacity and stubborn angles. Ball lines blur. The lead swaps with Saitama. West Saitama grumbles. Yuuto moves faster, tongue pressing white teeth. At 10-10, last serve, the world shrinks to one trembling hand.
Aoi mutters, “This is all you have?” Yuuto’s paddle meets ball with clean pop. A final drive. Silence. The point isn’t ready to land. Freeze frame. Will Yuuto break the rivalry—and his own curse? Fans are stuck, hearts in stutter mode. Cliffhanger slams, music surging. Would you risk serving for your goal after all those stumbles?
