The ball soared over the net like a comet, and Mirai Saito was already airborne.
"Mine!" she shouted, her racket slashing through the humid summer air. The crack of the strings echoed across Court 3 as the ball bulleted toward the far corner of the opponents' court. Aoi Minami didn't flinch. She knew better than to doubt her partner's wildest shots—even this one, a between-the-legs desperation return that defied physics, coaching manuals, and common sense.
The twins from Nagoya froze, their synchronized ponytails swishing in defeat as the ball kissed the baseline.
"Game, set, and match!" the umpire called. "Saito and Minami advance to the Kanto Regionals!"
Mirai collapsed onto the clay, grinning at the cloudless sky. "Did you see their faces?"
Aoi stood over her, offering a water bottle with her usual quiet smile. "You'll tear your ligaments doing stunts like that."
"But what a way to go," Mirai laughed, springing up to sling an arm around Aoi's shoulders. Their opponents trudged past, and Mirai stage-whispered, "Don't worry, we'll sign autographs later!"
Aoi's cheeks flushed pink, but her grip tightened on Mirai's wrist—their unspoken signal to please stop talking now.
That night, in the cramped dormitory of the Osaka Tennis Camp, Mirai hunched under a flickering desk lamp, her journal splayed open. Pages bulged with match statistics, strawberry-scented stickers, and feverish sketches: Aoi mid-backhand, Coach Ishida's cigarette dangling from his scowl, a particularly aggressive seagull that had stolen her melon bread that morning.
She uncapped her glitter pen and scrawled:
July 14
Today's Wins:
Beat the Nagoya Robots (aka the Suzuki twins)!!!Convinced cafeteria lady to give us extra strawberry jelly packets.Aoi laughed at my "grasshopper vs. tennis ball" impression. Actual laugh!
Plans:
Aoi's birthday surprise: Swap her grip tape with rainbow sparkle ones + sneak in strawberry shortcake (ask Coach to distract her during lunch).Destroy Shun Kurosawa's ego: His footwork's all show—hit cross-court dropshots until he faceplants. Again.Find Aoi a new partner when I'm gone.
Mirai's pen hovered over the last line. The words glared back, sharp as a fault line.
When I'm gone.
She slammed the journal shut.
Shun Kurosawa was a storm in white tennis shorts.
At twelve, he already played like he owned every court he stepped on—chin cocked, icy-blue eyes tracking opponents like prey. Two weeks earlier, he'd smugly informed Mirai that doubles were "for players scared to stand alone." She'd responded by dumping a sports drink over his head.
Now, in the camp's semifinals, they faced him again.
"Ready to cry, Saito?" Shun sneered during warm-ups, his new haircut so aggressively styled it looked Photoshopped.
Mirai twirled her racket. "Ready to lose, Kurosawa? Oh wait—you're already bald under all that gel!"
Aoi's quiet voice cut through the tension. "His weak spot's the ad court. Aim for his left heel."
The match was brutal. Shun's serves came like missiles, but Mirai and Aoi dismantled him piece by piece—Mirai's unpredictable spins driving him wide, Aoi's surgical strikes exploiting his stiff backhand. When Shun finally smashed his racket after missing a volley, Mirai blew him a kiss from the net.
"Doubles Rule #1," she singsonged. "Partners pick up the slack!"
The dizziness started during midnight practice.
Mirai had sneaked out to the deserted courts, unable to shake the itch beneath her skin. The journal entry haunted her. Find Aoi a new partner. Why had she written that? She wasn't going anywhere.
She served ball after ball, each one harder than the last, until the world tilted.
"Haru! Over here!"
The voice—Coach Ishida's—drifted from the next court. Mirai staggered toward the fence, curiosity cutting through the fog in her head.
A lanky boy with chestnut spikes of hair was practicing serves, his left-handed swings sending balls ricocheting off the fence with alarming speed.
"Faster follow-through!" Ishida barked. "You're sloppy!"
The boy—Haru—grinned, sweat dripping off his nose. "Sloppy's my middle name, Coach!"
Mirai's breath caught. His form was raw, explosive, familiar.
Just like hers.
The hospital smelled like antiseptic and lies.
"Congenital heart defect," the doctor said, avoiding Mirai's eyes. "No more competitive play. Ever."
Mirai stared at the ECG printout, the jagged lines mocking her. "But I feel fine."
"You collapsed, Mirai-san. Next time—"
"There won't be a next time!" She shoved the paperwork into her backpack, over a crumpled flyer for the National Junior Doubles Championship. Three months away.
Aoi was waiting outside, clutching two strawberry milk cartons. "Coach said you had food poisoning."
Mirai forced a laugh. "Yeah! Those cafeteria dumplings—"
Aoi's gaze dropped to Mirai's trembling hands.
"Race you to the station!" Mirai bolted, ignoring the way her pulse thundered in her ears. Liar, liar, liar.
Haru Tachibana hated waking before dawn, but the girl with pigtails and a death grip on his collar didn't care.
"Again," Mirai demanded, dragging him onto Court 5. "Your topspin's weak."
Haru yawned. "Lady, I don't even know your name."
"Mirai Saito. Future has-been." She tossed a ball. "Serve."
He blinked. "Why?"
"Because I'll give you five extra practice hours a week."
"I'm listening."
"Because…" She faltered, then slammed a ball cross-court. It hit the line with a crack. "Because someone needs to keep my partner playing when I'm gone."
Haru froze. The predawn light caught the silver tennis racket charm dangling from Mirai's ear—a gift from Aoi, he'd later learn.
"Promise me," she said, softer now. "Promise you'll be her anchor."
He didn't ask questions. Some truths are too heavy for words.
That night, Mirai added to her journal:
Haru's serve needs work, but his eyes—they've got the fight.
Aoi will hate him at first.
Good. Hate means she's still in the game.
Outside, cicadas screamed their approval. Somewhere, a strawberry moon watched as Mirai Saito began etching her legacy in sweat, graphite, and borrowed time.