Aoi's POV
I hate this.
Not the match.
Not the drills.
This.
Being forced to stand beside Rio like everything hasn't already broken. Like we didn't nearly come to blows thirty minutes ago. Like she didn't serve me my best friend's ghost wrapped in spin and timing.
"Baseline," I mutter.
Rio nods without looking at me. "Got it."
Haru and Natsuki take their places opposite us.
Coach leans against the far fence. Watching. Judging. Probably waiting to see who explodes first.
The first serve comes fast—Haru's. As always, clean and deep.
Rio returns it sharp. Natsuki volleys it low. I recover. Rio cuts across. I back up. We clash near the middle—again.
I call it.
She hits it anyway.
Fault.
We reset.
Again.
Rio's POV
She keeps calling shots like I'm deaf.
She says "mine" like she doesn't already assume I'll take it.
She's stiff. Unreadable. She doesn't trust me. That much is obvious.
But what burns worse?
She hasn't even tried to.
We lose the first game.
We barely make it through the second.
Every point we win feels like an accident. A hiccup. A flinch in the middle of the storm.
"Talk to me," I say between serves.
Aoi doesn't respond.
"You said you cared about the team," I add.
That gets her attention.
She turns. Calm on the outside. Sharp ice beneath.
"I care enough not to fake chemistry."
I flinch.
Because it's not just a dig. It's a reminder: I'm not Mirai. I never was.
Haru's POV
I almost feel bad.
Almost.
Natsuki and I aren't going easy on them. We're placing shots where we know they'll hesitate. Testing their sync. Their silence.
This isn't about tennis. Not really.
It's about trust.
And right now?
They don't have it.
Aoi plays like a girl protecting a scar. Rio plays like someone who never learned how to pass the ball.
But somewhere around Game Four…
Something shifts.
Natsuki's POV
It's the return shot that does it.
Mid-rally, Rio lunges for a low volley—and misses. Barely.
Aoi backs her up without a word.
Smooth. Silent. Automatic.
She doesn't hesitate.
She just moves.
Like her body remembered what her heart's still fighting.
And for the first time all match—they stop getting in each other's way.
It's clumsy. It's not perfect. But it's real.
They lose the game.
But it's the first time they lose like a team.
Aoi's POV
I didn't mean to help her.
It just… happened.
She missed the shot. I recovered. We both reset at the baseline. And for the first time, she glanced at me—not with challenge, not with heat.
But with something else.
Something close to respect.
I don't say anything.
But I don't pull away either.
And when she calls the next shot—"Yours"—I let her take it.
We win that point.
And suddenly, the court doesn't feel quite so heavy.
Coach Kubo's POV
I don't smile.
But inside?
I grin like a proud dad pretending not to cry at a middle school recital.
They're still a mess.
But for the first time since Rio arrived, it's the same mess.
And that's how all great doubles start.