Crosswind Rivals: The Unexpected Curling Duel
Have you ever watched people glide stones on ice, shouting with wild focus? That’s curling, though in Saitama High no one seems to care—until now. Seiji Kobayashi, seventeen, can’t figure out baseball, basketball, or even ping pong. What he’s got is drive, and a sharp eye for angles. Friends poke at him because he’s small and talks too much, but his best mate Renji always says, “Use that brain, not just your mouth.” So, why does curling call to him? Because at Saitama High, curling’s supposed to be a joke. No hope. “Your team hasn’t won in five years,” a girl at the prep school gym tells him, flipping her phone. “Ever tried dodgeball?”
Renji shrugs that off. “Best time for a comeback,” he says, grinning. The two apply for the school’s pile-up curling club after spotting ancient brooms and busted stones abandoned near the track. Coach Tamura takes them in. “You want to play? Show me you can sweep straight—ten times.” Seiji fails the first nine tries and skins his knuckles. Renji does even worse, DM-ing all his woes to their group chat. Makes you wonder—why try after failing so much? Hold that question. When the club faces a “friendly match” against Rin Kondo, the prep school team captain, kids show up just to laugh. Figures.
The “match” starts in silence. Seiji surveys the patched ice, remembering the slide isn’t about brute force, but something like chess—and math. Sweat forms under his bangs as his stone glides for the house, missing wide right. Coach yells, “Don’t hope it works; make it work.” That sticks. Next ends, Seiji tries for the center again, aiming not to please anyone, but just to see if he can do one thing right. Renji’s toss slides clean, bumping his friend’s stone closer—even if it’s luck. For a second, you get the feeling effort can pay off, right?
Rin smirks, picking her cue with cool pride. When she knocks Seiji’s stone out of the zone in one swift flick, the crowd loves her. She whispers to Seiji at the sweepers’ swap, “You’ll never break eighth place here.” Kind, in her way. Her last name leans on her—she’s a curling ace, and everyone expects her to destroy them. But you see her pause, studying Seiji’s posture with something like worry. Got nerves? Or care?
By mid-game, rain starts spitting onto the ancient gym roof above them, drumming in sync with Seiji’s heart. Renji slips, landing hard; Seiji dashes over. “I’m fine, really—I smashed my butt, not my dreams,” Renji jokes through tears. You laugh inside, right? No team spirit like pain-shared. Coach barks, “Time! Ten-minute break. If you wanna quit, here’s your chance.” Half the crowd leaves, hungry for drama. But Seiji claps once, eyes flaring. “I’m not done. I actually feel alive here.” Who’d quit now?
In the last end, Saitama trails two. The prep captain eyes the clock, folding her arms. It’s on Seiji. Renji, cheeks bruising, winks. “Don’t screw up.” Seiji lines up his shot, hands chalky, and remembers Coach’s voice: “Less arms. More legs.” He breathes deep, pushes off. For a moment, the crowd forgets to jeer. The stone glides, taps Rin’s blocker, slows, spins in a slow draw straight toward the center. Sounds dramatic, but that’s what it is—a small, real moment.
You want a miracle? The stone lands. Just out of reach for Rin to counter. Massive exhale, both relief and nerves. Game’s not over though. Rin grins, picks her stone, locks eyes with Seiji. For one flash, no rivalry. Just games. She whispers, “Can you do that again? Or was that your show?” Then she crouches and slides for her team’s last throw.
The stone travels, powered by precision. Rin sweeps ahead, her teammates shouting with practiced backs-and-forth, shoes grinding echoes in the old rink. Renji bites his thumb, Seiji stays still as if moving could ruin everything. The viewers you forgot start to lean forward. Then—Rin’s stone just touches his, too soft, stopping millimeters back. Saitama erupts all five people standing. Even Coach says, “Not bad.”
Rin takes it with grace, high-fiving her stunned teammates. She waves Seiji over. In perfect deadpan, she grins, “Bet you can’t beat us in the real meet.” He retorts, “Bet lunch.” The beef’s friendly but square. Cue a challenge: real league play, a shot at making the school whole again after so long without pride. Do you get the goosebumps when an underdog gets noticed?
After the match, Seiji walks home alone, mind flitting between fear and hope. What was that luck, or learning? By his mailbox is a note in neat pen: “Join the City League tryouts, 8 AM. Bring the spirit you showed today.” It’s not signed. You thinking what I am—did Rin send it? Coach? Or maybe, fate finally in his corner?
Seiji stares at the invite, fists curled. Lights spark in his window. “Am I really going to try?” he says softly. Voice inside—maybe, just maybe that’s his shot.
But there’s one more thing. The City League roster has only five open spots, with eight schools fighting. If Seiji says yes, he’ll face Rin again—maybe even better curlers. Can he keep winning? Or does one good day just fade away?
He pulls his coat on and heads back to the gym, determined not to let hope slip. The credits roll as rain sweeps Saitama, but in his pocket is that invite—promise or trap?
Will Seiji show up? Will Renji rally the spirits—and what does Rin really want? If you had this tiny chance, would you grab hold or run away?
Scene-count: 4 images suggested across this first curling-centric arc. Where might you freeze the story—at his final stone, his mailbox letter, team highs or silent hopes?
