Natsuki's POV
Coach Kubo is drinking straight from a thermos labeled "COFFEE" in peeling silver letters, but I'm 85% sure it's just black tea and despair.
He squints at the court like the sun personally insulted him.
"Minami's gonna break something," he mutters.
"Her shoulder," I say. "Or the ball machine."
Aoi's on serve again. Across the net, Haru's doing his best impression of a human wall, catching every shot with the kind of calm that makes you wonder if he's secretly crying inside.
Rio's nearby, kneeling by the bench, unwrapping new grip tape. Not watching, but not not watching either. Every so often, her hand twitches like she wants to jump in.
Coach groans. "They gonna talk, or just play murder-tennis until someone loses a limb?"
I shrug. "Hard to say. My money's on psychological warfare."
He sighs. "We're not gonna survive regionals like this."
That's when I hand him the proposed pairings list.
His eyebrows rise halfway to his hairline. "You serious?"
"Yes."
"You really wanna pair them together in doubles?"
"Yes."
Coach reads it again, lips twitching. "You're evil."
"Efficient," I correct.
He squints back at the court, where Aoi has finally stopped serving—sweat dripping off her chin, shirt sticking to her back. Haru offers her a towel. She doesn't take it.
Coach rubs his temples. "Fine. Let's light the fuse."
Coach Kubo's POV
We've seen this before.
Talented players who hate each other. Or worse—pretend they don't feel anything at all.
It always ends in one of two ways:
A meltdown.Or a breakthrough.
The only trick is knowing which is coming.
I gather the team around, clipboard in hand. Natsuki stands just behind me like my devil's conscience, arms folded, eyes sharp.
"Today's scrimmage," I announce, "will be doubles rotation. Rio, Aoi—you're together. First round."
The silence is immediate.
Tanaka's eyebrows go way up. Haru coughs.
Rio straightens slowly, face unreadable.
Aoi… doesn't move.
"You want me to—" she starts.
"—play," I cut in. "With your new teammate. Yes."
She opens her mouth to argue. Then closes it.
Good. That means we're still in "grudging obedience" territory—not "walkout and set fire to the locker room" territory.
Scrimmage Begins – Natsuki Observing
It's worse than I expected.
Not the tennis. That's sharp. Technically flawless.
Aoi's backhand is slicing corners. Rio's net play is terrifying.
But their rhythm is all wrong.
They don't communicate. Don't call shots. Don't switch sides properly. They bump rackets three times in the first game, and by the second, Rio starts playing every ball like Aoi isn't even there.
Which, of course, makes Aoi furious.
Midway through Game 3, Aoi hits a lob that hangs too long.
Sho—visiting for a scouting peek, of all things—smashes it back down the line.
The point ends. The ball bounces once. Twice.
And then Aoi turns to Rio and says, "You're crowding the service box."
Rio fires back, "You're leaving the baseline open."
"It's not open if you're not five feet ahead of the play."
"I was covering your return."
"My return was fine."
They step toward each other. Not close enough to yell. Just enough to simmer.
Coach looks at me sideways.
"Meltdown or breakthrough?" he murmurs.
I check my watch. "Give it ten more minutes."
"Or?"
"Or we sub them out before the court cracks."
Aoi's POV
By Game 5, I stop trying to talk to her.
Not that we were really talking—just clipped commands and passive-aggressive footwork. But now I don't even bother.
Let her guess my shots.
Let her crash the net if she wants it that badly.
I'm done pulling her into sync.
She's not Mirai.
She never will be.
Rio moves like someone with something to prove. Her steps are crisp. Her racket flashes like a blade. She charges into my space every chance she gets, as if she's trying to overwrite my presence entirely.
And maybe she is.
Maybe I am too.
The score hits deuce. Our opponents—Sho and Tanaka—look more like peacekeepers than rivals. Sho is visibly sweating despite barely moving. Tanaka is whistling nervously.
Coach hasn't called a timeout yet.
I don't know if he's brave or stupid.
Rio serves.
It's fast, slicing, beautiful—and it forces a desperate return from Sho.
The ball rises high. A moonball. It hangs in the air like a warning flare.
We both go for it.
I call it first—"Mine."
But Rio doesn't stop.
I see her at the edge of my vision—coming in hot, eyes locked on the ball, feet leaving the ground.
"RIO—!"
Too late.
We collide midair—shoulders slamming, rackets tangling.
The ball drops untouched.
So does my breath.
So does the whole court.
Tanaka's POV
Nobody breathes.
For a second, I think Aoi's gonna deck her.
Rio's standing, barely, one foot half off the court line. Aoi's crouched, one knee down, racket dented, hair falling out of its tie.
"You said mine," Rio growls.
"You didn't listen," Aoi snaps.
"I don't need your permission to play aggressive."
"No, you just need a leash."
And that's it.
That's the moment.
The match doesn't end. The point doesn't resolve.
But the line between them?
It shatters.
Natsuki's POV
Coach steps forward, slow and measured.
"Scrimmage's over," he says.
No one argues.
He looks at the two girls across the net—Rio breathing hard like she just ran a mile, Aoi burning like her rage might set the net on fire.
"You want to win regionals?" he says calmly. "Figure it out."
And then he walks away.
Leaving the whole team standing in the silence of the fallout.