r.

WHEN YUTA STROLLS onto the court the next morning, there’s a new calmness about him, a relaxed easiness to his gait that for some reason makes you smile. Part of you thinks you might be more nervous for this match than he is—all of you are, Maki on your left and Toge on your right, tense with anticipation.

Opposite Yuta on the court stands Naoya Zenin, leering, arrogant. The sun makes their silhouettes stretch long and spindly along the ground, exaggerated puppets of their true forms.

As the two of them approach the net to shake hands, Maki goes rigid beside you. Toge is fully ready to start booing before you elbow him in the ribs.

There’s a low exchanging of words, and you can’t help remembering what Naoya said to Toge at their match. Worthless son. Great expectations.

What has he dug up on Yuta? God, you hope he’s not spewing shit about Rika or something. No doubt that Naoya would stoop that low.

But Yuta looks at ease as he walks back to his side of the court, and you’re a bit far away to tell, but you think Naoya might even look a little annoyed.

The asshole serves first, and you hold your breath as he sends a ball to Yuta’s box—it’s slow, easy to hit, Naoya’s attempt at throwing off his opponent early.

And Yuta just stands there and lets it hit the ground.

You clap a hand over your mouth as Toge starts giggling beside you.

“Holy shit,” Maki says.

Holy shit, indeed.

Yuta is doing to Naoya exactly what Naoya did to Toge. Psyching him out. Playing with him. You aren’t sure if you want to congratulate him or run down to the court and shake him by the shoulders.

But you trust Yuta. You trust his ability and his knowledge of that ability. He gave up a point because he knows he can get it back, and that confidence says volumes. Naoya is absolutely off his game now.

Yuta service breaks in the first game. Wins the second. The third is Naoya’s again, but he’s already faltering, no match for the unpredictability of Yuta’s movements, the sporadic nature of his serves. His aces, right into no man’s land.

By the time Yuta takes the first set, whatever apprehension you’d been feeling about this match is somewhere deep in the gutter, melted off you like snow in spring. It’s early—in theory, Naoya could still get this back. But you know for a fact that he won’t.

With the lead secured, Yuta continues to play with Naoya’s emotions, building off his frustration as he racks up games. When Naoya snags a point, Yuta grins at him, and Naoya nearly throws his racket into the ground.

On set three, Yuta puts on a show, makes it close, but everyone knows damn well he just let Naoya win. And then… then he lets him win set four, too.

It’s unlike him to draw it out like this. Yuta is a good sport, not manipulative, there to win the game fair and square. He’s already won and everyone here knows it. But the crowd isn’t upset, even as the match enters its fourth hour. They’re eating this up, watching Naoya Zenin get played like a fiddle.

Toge is downright giddy beside you. Maki is thoroughly enjoying watching Naoya get pummeled, and you don’t say anything when she quietly pulls her phone out and records for a few minutes. Footage of Naoya losing his shit. Perfect for a rainy day.

Yuta runs Naoya Zenin into the ground. When he snags the final point, he doesn’t so much as smile, just leveling Naoya with a calm expression from across the court. The rage that sweeps over Naoya’s face is heated and visceral, and you and Maki have to physically turn around because you’re laughing so hard.

You don’t kiss Yuta in front of everyone, but you waste no time doing so as soon as you get him behind closed doors.

—

“Are you dating?” Toge asks casually as you hit back and forth, wiggling his eyebrows as he sends the ball across the court to Maki.

You’re back on campus, and Yuta and Toge are joining you until a few days before the invitational. For the last few days, they’ve been testing you and Maki as a unit, but today you’ve switched up your pairings for a change of pace.

Are you dating?

What a question. You haven’t talked about that, the label, but not because of any hesitation—it just hasn’t seemed important, in the grand scheme of things. You’re… something, certainly. But is he your boyfriend?

Apparently you’ve hesitated too long, so Toge shouts to the other side. “Yuta! Are you guys dating?”

Yuta stumbles, wide-eyed, and misses the ball.

“Oh my god.” You make a pleading face at Maki, but she just smirks.

“Yeah, Ace,” she calls. “You guys dating?”

Yuta straightens, making eye contact with you over the net. He’s wearing black shorts and a white tank, which is a stupid decision but one you’re infinitely grateful for. It’s scorching, and all of you are drenched in sweat. The image of the fabric clinging to Yuta’s torso is… not an unpleasant one, to say the least.

He shrugs with one shoulder, as if to say I’m cool if you’re cool.

You shrug back. Sure.

“Yes,” he says firmly. A grin breaks out across your face unbidden. That warm, fluttery thing that’s been rooted in your chest for months now seems to hum a little. “Yes, we are.”

“Oh my god, yeah you are,” Toge gapes. “You just did that creepy twin thing where you have a whole conversation without talking.”

You snort and make to swat him with your racket, and he nearly falls on his ass dodging your swing. “Maybe don’t compare us to twins when we just told you we’re in a relationship.”

“Creepy couple thing,” Toge amends, serving a new ball. Your rallies are long, your hits all over the place, and even alongside Maki you can see the love of doubles in Yuta’s playstyle, how much he’s remembering his own joy as he moves across the court. It’s addicting to watch, and you have to make a conscious effort to focus on your own game.

The days go by, and it feels like nothing has changed, even though in a way, everything has.

Yuta Okkotsu is your boyfriend.

Nobody seems surprised, but Nobara does scream so loud in her apartment that the girl from across the hall comes over to make sure she’s okay. She and Toge go back and forth between terrorizing each other and everyone else. Gojo loudly gives Yuta the shovel talk in front of your entire team, and you want to die, but Yuta just stands there smiling politely and then says, seriously, “If I ever hurt her, everyone on this court better come after me with everything they have.”

Shoko just looks all-knowing and unfazed. Tsumiki asks if she should give you the safe sex talk with a shit-eating grin on her face. Ino starts sending you Instagram reels of Yuta’s matches captioned do u know him?

The assistant coaches are back from their big coaching convention or workshop or whatever that Shoko and Gojo skipped out on, so now your practices are more structured, with Kusakabe and Nitta around to pick up some of the slack. You throw yourself into the extra work, and you keep going after hours, when Yuta and Toge drill you and Maki into the ground.

And then, after after hours, Yuta’s all yours.

He takes you on a date to a nearby restaurant, hat pulled low over his face to avoid recognition.

Then he takes you on another one and doesn’t bother hiding. You raise a questioning brow when he picks you up outside your building with no hat or sunglasses, and he just shrugs. “Let them know,” he says. “Your heart is more impressive than anything else I’ve ever won.”

He says it so casually. You don’t stop thinking about it the entire night, not when he takes your hand and leads you down the street, not when he pays for your ice cream at the corner shop, not when he kisses you in front of the California sunset and whispers “I’m so in love with you” against the shell of your ear.

You say it back.

Everything about it feels right. He just fits perfectly into your routine, inside and outside of tennis, with or without the rest of your friends present. Somehow he’s become so integral to all aspects of your life over the span of just a few months.

He’s not your “other half.” You are both whole, and when you’re together, your Venn diagram becomes a circle. It’s just… easy.

Toward the end of August, you drive him and Toge to the airport. The US Open is coming up, and your whole team is in full training mode anyway. Even though it’s the second year of the pilot program, it’s strange, this being a fall sport. You like it like this, the immediacy of it. A fresh start on all fronts.

Before Yuta gets out of the passenger seat, he kisses you and says, “Be back soon.” Like it’s normal. Like you’ve always done this. Like you’re going to keep doing this for the rest of your lives.

You’re grinning the whole way home.

—

“I’m going to kill you!”

Ah, some things never change.

Iori Utahime stands glowering up at a relaxed, smirking Gojo, her fists clenched and shaking so violently you half expect her to combust. She’s red in the face and absolutely livid, and you’ve been here for all of… you glance at your watch.

Four minutes.

You’re familiar with the Kyoto campus and most of the players on its tennis team. Most are welcome faces, but there are a few you never know quite what to do with.

Mai, for instance.

No matter how many times you see them interact, no matter how many times Maki explains that she and her sister have an understanding, you do not understand how they actually feel about each other. They’ll spit lethal words at each other and then shrug and shake hands. In some ways, they remind you of a pair of middle school boys—having a fight, punching each other, and calling it even.

They don’t greet each other when you and Maki walk onto the court. Mai just looks at her coolly, and Maki inclines her head ever so slightly.

“I don’t get you,” you say for the thousandth time. “Are you mad at each other?”

“No more than we usually are,” Maki says unhelpfully.

Geto has stepped between Gojo and Utahime—finally done with embarrassing the twins in front of everyone—and Utahime stalks off in the other direction, fuming, as Geto and Gojo settle into their we’re flirting in front of the students and we’re going to deny it later routine.

“You guys!” Kasumi Miwa shouts as she runs up to you and Maki, towing Muta behind her. “Hi! It’s been so long!”

“Hey, Kasumi.” You grin, accepting her side-hug and nodding at Muta—he’s shy, but kind, always at Kasumi’s back looking unsure of whether he should join the conversation. “Nobara says hi.”

“Oh, I love her,” Kasumi says, like she does every time. “Tell her hi back, will you? We should hang out.”

Across the court, Todo and Choso are having some kind of standoff while Yuji flits anxiously between them. Megumi has abandoned him in favor of slinking off with Ino and Hakari, and Junpei is warming up with Riko near the gate.

You love this organized chaos, the way the energy of a matchday builds up in the air until everyone’s buzzing with it. And it’s all the better when all these people are your friends, and the sun is high in the sky, and you all want the same thing: to win, and to have a good fucking time doing it.

The Kyoto Tech Invitational is a standard tournament format with three simultaneous doubles matches, but unlike actual NCAA play, the guys and girls aren’t scoring separately. Everyone plays doubles and singles, because this is a mock tournament made possible mostly by the fact that Gojo and Geto can’t stay away from each other for that long.

It’s a preseason exercise. Not that you ever take it as such. This is a competition as much as anything else, and you intend to win.

Nanami, per usual, is the one to rein everyone in and get things going. He coaches the men’s team and Geto coaches the women’s team, but they for the most part all train together, not dissimilar to the way Gojo and Shoko run things at Kaisen.

The tournament starts with doubles, three simultaneous matches. Ino and Junpei are on the far court with Hakari and Choso in the middle, but Yuji and Megumi’s match is the one you’re focused on. Because they’re up against the lethal combination of Noritoshi and Todo.

Geto’s calling their match, and it escalates fast. Yuji and Megumi are all speed, but Todo is raw strength. Coupled with Noritoshi’s impeccable technique, they’re a tough battle. By the time the other guys have wrapped up their matches, Yuji and Megumi have just won game four, tying it up 2-2.

The sun is blazing, so you’re glad when it doesn’t go all the way to a tiebreak round. Todo dives for a lowball from Yuji, and just when it looks like he’s not going to make it, somehow Noritoshi is there in his stead, slamming it back to Megumi at an insane angle.

You’re sure he doesn’t stand a chance. But he loosens his grip on his racket ever so slightly, letting it slide nearly out of his hand, to reach the ball on the right side. And then he turns his entire body with the racket to build up momentum, enough to get it back over the net, and the move was so unexpected Todo doesn’t reach for it in time.

“Shit,” you breathe, thoroughly impressed. Yuji’s all over Megumi, crowing about how amazing he is, and Megumi just shrugs nonchalantly like he doesn’t care.

You know he does. Especially when he catches Gojo’s proud dad smile from the sideline and promptly faces the other direction, ducking his head to hide the flush on his face.

You and Maki are up against Mai and Kasumi, to nobody’s surprise. Usually, you wind up feeling like an accessory to Maki’s weird, silent battle with her sister. But this time, you’re locked in. You’re matching them all hit for hit, then surpassing them—only one side of this court has been training with Olympians all summer. And it doesn’t take long for that to show.

“That was amazing,” Kasumi pants at the end, stumbling up to the net to shake your hand. “You—wow, guys, good job.”

Mai strides silently up to the net, looking you up and down, then doing the same to Maki. Maki holds her gaze, raising a brow.

They silently shake hands over the net—once, firm, like a business transaction. And then they turn away from each other.

You will never understand them.

Your match wrapped up before Riko and Kirara’s, and you tune in just in time to hear Haibara, one of the assistant coaches, call it in favor of Kyoto. Momo is a beast on the court. There’s something so biologically impossible about how high she can jump. You swear to god she’s a witch or something.

Riko’s sulking, but Kirara is already animatedly discussing strategy with Momo, ready to take the loss in stride and use it to improve their play.

At one point the Kyoto trainer, Ijichi, slinks out to supervise some of the singles matches while Utahime makes a lunch run “to get Gojo out of her face for two goddamn minutes.” It’s a whirlwind of sets and sweat, camaraderie and rivalry, shared stories and arguments.

By the end of the day, Kaisen has taken Kyoto by just a few points, and you’re dead on your feet.

samurai: how’d it go? you: killed maki’s sister in doubles. got momo for singles, she’s brutal samurai: but you won! :) you: you know what they say about assuming samurai: but i’m right

You laugh, a little dumbfounded still by Yuta’s wholehearted faith in you.

you: yes you are you: and you? how goes the slam samurai: decent so far

You already looked up the scores. Yuta is doing a lot fucking better than decent.

You send him an article from The Athletic waxing poetic about how he might just be the best tennis player of this generation.

He’s quiet for a few minutes, and then:

samurai: ah. well samurai: i was thinking you about the whole time

—

You catch Yuta and Toge on TV when you can, record them when you can’t. After all… that’s your boyfriend. Your pro tennis player boyfriend.

He wins the US Open. He’s in the Davis Cup. He’s a legend.

And in the NCAA circles, you’re becoming a legend, too.

As the season goes on, you and Maki are an unstoppable force. You feel amazing, you play amazing, and now—you’re bringing that energy into your singles play. You were always the best women’s doubles players in the conference. But now, you’re holding your own.

There are four ways to qualify for NCAA Championships, scattered throughout the fall season. Gojo and Shoko split you up accordingly, strategically, finding the best routes for each of you to give it your best shot.

You and Maki qualify in late September through the All-American Championships, pulling out a win over a pair of crazy good girls from Washington. When you walk off the court, Shoko grins at you and says, “I can’t wait to watch you kick ass like that in the Olympics, kid.”

Yuji and Megumi represent the guys, and though they’re runners-up, they still qualify for Championships by a landslide.

Yuta calls you that night and whispers to you over the phone. He wants you to come out to his place for a weekend when the season’s over.

“I know I’m not home a lot, but I want you to see that part of me,” he murmurs. “And… I want to see you in that part of my life, you know? I want to see you with messy hair looking out the window in my bedroom. I want to kiss you awake and make you coffee and make fun of your morning breath—”

“Excuse you.”

“—and,” he says, talking over you, “I want to give you a key.”

You freeze.

“What?”

“I… sorry. Is that coming on too strong? I know it’s only been a couple months, I just—”

“Yuta,” you cut in, before he can go on spiraling. “No, I—I was just surprised. I would love to. I mean, I would love to see your place, and wake up with you, and put your key on my keychain.” You’re a little bit breathless with the possibility of it. “And make fun of your morning breath, which is objectively worse than mine.”

“Excuse you!”

In October, Kirara and Riko and the twins go to regionals. Ino and Junpei win sectionals in November. Then it’s time for Conference Masters, and you and Maki go all-in just for the hell of it, Hakari and Choso on your heels. It’s a crazy season, and a mix of players from both teams qualify in doubles and singles combinations.

And through it all, you’re playing the best you ever have, somehow balancing school and tennis and the reality of having a serious relationship in the middle of it all.

And then the season is nearly over, and the Championships are on the horizon, and all of your blood and sweat and tears have been for this.

If you win this, that Accelerator spot is yours.

—

The East Coast is so different from your own—palm trees and ocean salt, sure, but Florida is more humid. The air holds the moisture blown in from the warmer ocean currents, and you feel like you’re sweating bullets the second you step off the plane.

NCAA Championships are in Orlando, as always, at the USTA National Campus. You and Maki spent the flight going over the rosters and the bracket, the standout players who have the potential to really give you some trouble.

To qualify for the Accelerator in singles, you need to get to the quarterfinals. But you know that’s not enough for you. You want to win.

There aren’t many competitors here to play both doubles and singles. Even from your team, only a handful of players have made it this far—Yuji and Megumi in doubles, along with Hakari and Choso. Kirara and Ino in singles.

And you and Maki, for both.

“At least it’s November,” she offers dryly as you make your way through the airport to the waiting bus. “Imagine being in this hellhole in July.”

“Did you just call Florida a hellhole?” Yuji squawks. “This is heaven. I want to live here.”

“You’re a moron,” Megumi says flatly.

Yuji beams.

“Head count, you obnoxious children!” Shoko calls, herding the lot of you toward the entrance while Gojo is being absolutely no help, insisting that the airport is the best place to buy donuts right now. Shoko swats him on the back of the head and shoves him toward the bus.

“Ow,” he whines.

“Alright, give me the matchups,” Kusakabe calls once you’re all on the bus. He’s pacing up and down the aisle, handing out brackets, and you scan up and down the row for the Round of 64, then 32, then 16, trying to guess the most likely opponents like you did on the plane.

You’re not worried about the first round, or even the second, although you recognize a few names. Flipping to the doubles bracket, you see that you and Maki are facing a pair of girls from Texas.

Sure enough, all of you kill the Round of 64 in singles. The next day, the doubles matches start as well, kicking off with the Round of 32 because of the smaller draw.

Nobara calls you right before your singles match.

“Saori!” she yells in lieu of a greeting, and you grimace, pulling the phone away from your ear.

“Headphone warning, my god.”

“You’re playing Saori!” she repeats, ignoring your protests. “Remember her? We grew up together!”

You groan. “Nobara! Don’t tell me that!” Maki glances at you as you walk toward the courts, and you smirk. “Now I’m gonna feel bad when I kick her ass.”

You shove your phone into Maki’s hand and grin as you walk onto the court, leaving Maki to entertain her girlfriend while you take on her childhood best friend and, hopefully, crush her.

“I hear we have a mutual friend,” you tell Saori as you shake her hand over the net. She’s pretty, short brown hair with windswept bangs and wide brown eyes, and you know for a fact that Nobara had a crush on her as a kid.

“Bara?” Saori laughs, her voice bright and airy. “Well, don’t let her make you feel too bad if you beat me.” She’s teasing, but there’s a truth in her voice that startles you. The fact that you’ve been training with Yuta isn’t a secret. You just haven’t quite realized the extent of your reputation until it’s staring you in the face, accepting loss before the match even starts.

You know you’re going to win. She knows, too. But you can tell she’s going to give it her all, anyway.

And she does, but it’s not enough.

The first game goes your way, then the next, and the next. Saori isn’t as fast as Maki or Yuta or Toge, as fast as you, and you realize halfway through the first set that you can flawlessly predict her movements. All those hours of you and Yuta analyzing film, of him drilling you on match strategy, are paying off. Never has your progress felt as tangible as it does right now.

By the time you’ve swept her in two sets, you still feel ready to play three more.

Saori smiles resignedly, panting as you approach the net to wish her a good game.

“You’re real good, you know,” she says. “Tell Bara I said hi.”

You and Maki beat the girls from Texas the same day, moving onto the Round of 16, and the next day is just as muggy and sweltering as ever. What a sad excuse for autumn. But it’s hard to even be irritated by the heat when you’re playing at your best, and Yuta’s dominating the US Open, and the rest of your team is steadily progressing through their respective matchups.

Old friends seem to be a trend. The next girl you play catches Yuji’s eye immediately, and after you beat her, he rushes up to her and practically tackles her right on the spot.

“Ozawa! Hi!” Yuji grins, pulling her into a hug. She yelps, but smiles when he pulls back. “It’s so good to see you, how have you been?”

They devolve into small talk while Megumi stands beside Yuji, reluctantly polite. To anyone else, he probably looks his stoic self. To you, he looks annoyed and territorial. You catch a few snippets of Yuji’s ramblings and figure out that the two of them went to high school together.

“She was into you,” Megumi tells Yuji flatly as you all make your way to the far courts to watch Ino’s match.

“What?”

Kirara snorts and throws her arm around Yuji, ruffling his hair like he’s her little brother. “Oh, Yuji, you sweet summer child.”

Yuji just beams. “Aw, thanks!”

—

You knew you could beat Saori.

This new girl, you’re not so sure.

Hana Kurusu stands on the other side of the net with flawless form, looking entirely at ease in a way that unsettles you. This is a girl who’s confident on the ball. This is a girl who can give you a run for your money. Her name isn’t new to you—she’s been making big waves up in New York this year.

But it’s only the quarterfinals. You’re not done yet. You’re going to win it all.

Kirara’s out for the count as of this morning, and Choso and Hakari are fighting for their spot right this second. You refuse to be the next one to fall.

“Love-love,” Hana calls, her voice unnervingly sweet, and she sends a bullet your way. You have to dive for it, but you return, and then you’re rallying and you know this won’t be easy. She’s got a lethal slice, but now, so do you.

The game goes to her, but you win your service game. 1-1.

Her facial expressions don’t change no matter what happens. She snags a point with a clever lowball, and the set of her brows doesn’t even remotely move. You get a service break to take game three, and she doesn’t even blink.

You already know what Yuji’s going to say. Do you think she’s a robot? Imagine tennis-playing robots. Should we make one?

It’s not until you win set one that you finally get her to crack. The official calls it in your favor, and you simply nod rather than breaking out in a grin, wanting to give Hana a taste of her own unnervingly non-expressive medicine.

She turns around to face the fence and takes a breath so deep you can see her shoulders move. Composing herself.

Got her.

After that, it’s easier to get under her skin, easier to tell where the flow of the game is taking you. She’s a tough opponent, but halfway into the second set, you know this is a victory you can pull off, so long as you don’t let up. She’s giving you hell, but you’re serving it right back.

Set two is yours. You advance.

When you get off the court, Yuji’s there bouncing on the balls of his feet, Megumi and Maki standing behind him with more subdued pride.

“Good job!” Yuji throws his arms around you and you laugh, hugging him back. “Choso and Hakari lost. We have to avenge them.”

That means that as far as doubles go, it’s just you, Maki, Yuji, and Megumi in the semis. In singles, you, Maki, and Ino are the last ones standing.

“She was a menace,” Maki says as she slaps you on the shoulder in congratulations.

You groan. “That girl has one facial expression.”

“Do you think she’s a robot?” Yuji gasps. You can’t explain to him why you’re laughing so hard.

In doubles semifinals, you and Maki take down a pair of sisters from the Midwest, and Yuji and Megumi shut down their opponents in three sets. Maki narrowly loses her singles match and Ino narrowly wins his. You prevail over Momo Nishimiya in a brutal three-set match that goes to the tiebreak game, not nailing her down until the last second, when you fake her out on a lowball that she was expecting to have to jump for.

Just like that, you’re in the finals.

That night, the lot of you are gathered in the hotel common space, sprawled out on the spread of couches and armchairs talking or playing cards. Maki’s phone on the coffee table lights up with a FaceTime call from Nobara, and she glances around, as if asking for permission to take it.

For all Maki’s confidence, she’s so shy about her relationship. Nobara is one of the most physically affectionate people you know, but Maki avoids PDA like the plague. She’s even hesitant to take a call in front of the team, like it’s somehow disruptive. But it’s Nobara. She might as well be an honorary tennis player—Gojo once offered to make her the mascot, much to her indignation.

In Maki’s hesitation, you reach forward and pick up the call in her stead.

“Hellooooo,” she sings as soon as the call connects. “My wife—oh, you’re not my wife. I mean, you’re also my wife, but you’re not my wife wife, you know? Hi.” She grins. She’s splayed on the floor of her dorm room, one cheek imprinted with the pattern of her rug.

Maki rolls her eyes and wrenches the phone from your grasp as a chorus of “Hi, Nobara!” and “Kugisaki!” sounds from around the room.

Nobara starts yapping immediately, and then your phone lights up with a phone call.

Suddenly, you understand Maki’s trepidation on a very deep level.

“Who’s samurai?” Ino grins, leaning over your shoulder. You swat at him, and he just wiggles his eyebrows.

“Shut up,” you grumble, sliding to accept and putting the phone to your ear. “Hi.”

“Hi.” You can hear the smile in his voice. “Heard you killed it today.”

“Are you surprised?” you tease, ignoring the heart Yuji is obnoxiously making with his hands.

Megumi kicks him in the ankle, and when Yuji looks mortally offended, he just glances pointedly down at their abandoned card game and says, “It’s your turn, dipshit.”

“Never,” Yuta says. “Who’s on the docket tomorrow?”

“Put it on speaker, coward!” Hakari yells from across the room, and Yuta snorts. You flip him off.

“Uraume. They’re... really good.” After all, they're the ones who knocked Maki out of the singles competition. And that's not something to be taken lightly.

“From Virginia? I remember the news articles about the school admin letting them choose between men’s and women’s. It was a whole thing.”

Indeed, it had been. And Uraume had chosen women’s tennis, because it’s always been the harder sport, and anyone who can’t see that is a moron. Forget five sets. Women don’t need all that wiggle room to prove their worth.

“Yep,” you say, popping the p. Yuta hums thoughtfully—he knows Uraume’s reputation as well as you do. And it’s a damn good one.

“Ah, well, you’ll kill it.”

You feel suddenly vulnerable. Because what if you don’t? What if going up against Uraume is where your luck runs out?

Reading your silence, Yuta says, softer, “Don’t sell yourself short, Ace. You deserve better than that.”

You look around the room at your team. At some point, Choso and Hakari started arm wrestling. Kirara is debating the merits of some metal band with Ino next to where Megumi and Yuji play cards—you’re pretty sure Megumi’s letting him win just to see if he notices—and Maki is trying not to blush as Nobara loudly talks about how hot it is when she serves.

You love your team, and you love your sport. You didn’t think you needed anything more. But Yuta is a quiet, steady reassurance in your ear that you can’t help but lean into.

“Thanks,” you whisper, smiling softly. “Y’know, you’re not half bad at the pep talk thing.”

“Yeah, I practiced that one in the mirror all morning.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you laugh.

There’s a silence in which you can just see Yuta’s smirk. “Wish you could make me.”

—

The finals.

Today is all or nothing, and it won’t be easy for you in particular—you have your doubles match in the morning and your final head-to-head against Uraume just hours later. It’s almost unheard of for a player to take home national singles and doubles titles in the same year, let alone on the same day. Even the thought of it makes your muscles burn.

Your phone’s been silent this morning. Yuta’s been in Spain this week for the Davis Cup, and the finals are—were—today. Time differences, and all that. Italy always wins, it seems, but the U.S. put up a good fight. You figure he’s out enjoying Málaga while it lasts.

It’s clear a half-second into the match that you’re going to have to fight for this one. The girl serving—Remi—has deceitfully innocent-looking bubble braids, and she’s lithe but so fast you nearly miss the return. Her partner, Takako, seems to move through the air like it’s a part of her, and it’s a constant struggle to keep up with the way she takes space.

But it’s you and Maki. You’ve taken this title before, and you know damn well you can do it again.

These girls don’t make it easy. You stretch it to three sets, and then a piercing whistle draws your attention to the stands after a game point.

At first you think you’re hallucinating. The heat’s gotten to you. You’re just making shit up.

But no, there he is. Yuta Okkotsu, an Olympian at an NCAA women’s tennis match, looking jet-lagged as all hell, and grinning proudly at you from the bottom of the bleachers.

“Oh my god,” Maki hisses in your ear as you swap sides. “You know what that means, right? That he skipped out on the Italy match to fly his ass back here.”

“Simp,” you say, grinning.

Your heart swells.

And you and Maki kick absolute ass.

—

“I can’t believe you came all the way here.” You lean into Yuta’s side, the gorgeous Floridian sunset stretched out before you.

The curb of a local gas station isn’t inherently the most romantic place in the world. But you wanted ice cream, and the clouds are lit up with purples and oranges, and Yuta is at your side, and it all feels a little bit surreal.

“You should be enjoying Spain!” you go on, nudging him with your elbow.

Yuta just smiles softly, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “I wanted to be here.”

He’s not lying, but there’s something you can’t quite parse in his expression. His eyes are a little… sad? There’s something heavy about him.

“You played well, you know,” you say, knocking your knee against his.

“I know.” He sighs. “It’s not that. Sorry. I do want to be here. And I know it’s a huge privilege to just be able to go to Spain, and come back, and—just…”

You don’t push. This is a familiar dance for you, now. He talks when he’s ready to talk.

For a while, the only sounds are softly chirping crickets and the rumble of passing cars, laughter floating from down the block, birds flitting between the trees. And then Yuta says, “It’s, uh—it’s Rika’s birthday.”

You sit up, turning to face him fully. “Oh, Yuta. I…”

“I don’t want you to feel bad, or anything,” he rushes, backpedaling the way he always does when he’s nervous. “I just didn’t want you to think I was being weird because of you, or something, I don’t know. I just… sorry.”

You reach out and lace your fingers through Yuta’s, resting your joined hands on his knee. “Hey.” You wait until he looks at you, his wide, dark eyes reflecting the floodlights of the gas station parking lot. “Nothing to be sorry for. Nothing at all.” You squeeze his hand. “I… how are you doing? That feels like such a stupid question. But is there anything I can… I don’t know, do? To help?”

Yuta softens a little, shakes his head gently. “You’re helping,” he murmurs. “I came back early to see you play. To see you win. But also just to… see you. I thought it would help.”

On one of the hardest days of Yuta’s year, he thought seeing you would help. Enough that he flew back here from Spain to find out.

“I love you, y’know,” you murmur. Something about the situation seems to call for hushed words, quiet affections.

“I love you too.” He seems to deflate in relief, having gotten this off his chest now. “You just felt safer, somehow. Than all my teammates. They have good intentions, they just don’t know. Which is my fault, too, obviously. I could have told them. I just—she would have really liked you, you know? And you made me fall back in love with the game, Ace. No, I mean it,” he doubles down when you open your mouth. “You did. And I think she would have been grateful for that. So it just—felt right, to be here. With you.”

Yuta’s cheeks are a little flushed, partially with heat and partially with something sheepish and shy. You lean in and kiss him. Short, sweet. Easy. You want this to be easy for him.

“I didn’t know Rika,” you say, not breaking eye contact. “But I think she’d be really goddamn proud of you, Yuta.”

He swallows once, hard, and swipes the back of his hand across his eyes with a wet laugh. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You scoot closer to Yuta on the curb and turn back to the sun, now almost hidden behind the horizon, and lean your head on his shoulder. “And I’m proud of you, too.”

—

Uraume is a walking contradiction.

They can’t be taller than 5’4” or so, and their thin build is covered by the baggiest tennis clothes you’ve ever seen. Still, you know they have one of the strongest backhands in the country. They have the worst resting bitch face you’ve ever seen, but as you shake hands at the net, they crack a little smile and say, “I’m excited to play you. I’ve watched you, you know.”

“Oh?” You’ve watched Uraume, too, of course. Nobody gets to this stage of the competition without studying up.

“You trying to take home both titles?” Uraume says, and doesn’t wait for your response. “That’s ballsy. I respect it.” They don’t say good luck. Neither do you. Despite their words being sparse and stiff, you somehow take a liking to them immediately—they’re honest, and they’re not here to play any mental games. Just the one you both love.

It’s one of the hardest matches of your life.

Uraume doesn’t pull any punches, and in the first set, they run you all over the court. But there’s no malice in it, just calculated moves that prove their undeniable skill.

The second set is yours. As you pull back on a brutal slice that gets you the winning point, they look up through a shock of white hair and grin. That’s more like it, they seem to say. And then it’s their serve.

Sweat is pouring in a river down your back, and your breathing is fast and shallow, but you feel alive with it, the love of this sport. You have no idea who’s winning this match. It’s their game, your game, their game, your game—you’re even alternating every other point, you’re so well-matched. They’re making you fight for this.

Somebody hollers from the stands—Yuji! He and Megumi must be done with their doubles final now, and have made their way over to your match. You sneak a glance out of the corner of your eye and find Megumi looking properly satisfied beside him. They won, then. Kaisen swept doubles. Ino lost his singles match earlier, which means as far as individual play goes, you’re the sole survivor. He’s there too, next to Choso and Hakari, and beside them is Maki, looking entirely unconcerned. Like she knows you can do this.

And beside her is Yuta. He waves, a little shy, and you suddenly feel lighter on your feet.

By the time you reach the tiebreak game, you’re running purely on adrenaline. Uraume came into this match fresh and rested. You came into it right after one of the toughest doubles matches of your life.

It’s match point.

And it’s Uraume’s serve.

You have the disadvantage here and everybody knows it. It’s like the bleachers are holding their collective breath. But you force yourself to breathe long and deep, not giving in to the urge to look back at Yuta, at Maki, at all your friends hanging onto your every move.

This one’s yours.

Uraume raises their racket, and you realize with a jolt exactly where the ball is headed. It feels, somehow, like everything has led up to this moment. Every grueling training session with Yuta, every tournament at Maki’s side, every moment watching film in Gojo’s office. It was all for this, right here, right now.

It’s headed to no man’s land.

And you’re ready.

It’s a bullet of a ball, and you can tell Uraume meant for it to throw you off balance, but—how could they know? This isn’t your weak spot anymore. No man’s land isn’t no man’s land to you, not after Yuta. It’s yours.

You send it sailing back, and Uraume backpedals to return it to you. In their hesitation, they send it higher than they should’ve. It sets you up perfectly.

You stretch out your arm, leap into the air, and slam that shit right back into Uraume’s no man’s land.

It lands just inside the line.

This isn’t your first rodeo, though. You know in your bones that was in, but it’s all down to the official now, and you’ve had shit luck with umps in the past. There was this one back in sophomore year, Shiu Kong, and you swear to god he was getting paid off.

Across the court, Uraume is staring at you steadily, their head ever so slightly inclined. They know they’ve lost.

And Higuruma steps up to the line and calls, “IN!”

Just like that, it’s over. You let out a whoop, jumping into the air one more time just for the hell of it, and the stands erupt, your team clamoring right up against the fence.

You’ve won.

The second you’re out of the gate, your team is on you, full dog-pile, and even Maki is screaming, and Megumi mutters good fucking job in your ear and Gojo lifts you up and twirls you in the air and then Yuta pushes back your visor and kisses you in front of everybody, and this, this is everything.

Life is so, so good.

—

With your dual title—singles and doubles in the same year—you become a national sensation, qualify for the WTA College Accelerator, and segue smoothly into WTA play postgrad. And you and Yuta are doing life together, and it feels… right.

He takes you to his place up the coast, and soon it becomes as much your home as it is his. Your schedules are demanding, and the both of you are constantly traveling, sometimes together, sometimes not, but every time you come back to his little house on the waterline, and it feels perfect.

You and Maki have both proved yourself enough in singles, gravitated back to each other like binary stars. You’re meant to play this game at each other’s sides and you both know it, and soon you’re dominating the circuits as a unit, the way it always should have been.

And one day, you get a phone call from Gojo.

“What’s up?” you ask, yawning and accepting the smoothie Maki pushes into your hand. It's been years since you graduated, but Gojo simply never stopped being your coach. You never know if his calls are you going to be real business or something stupid.

“Are you with Zenin right now?”

Maki picks up on his question and raises a brow, sitting down on the couch and motioning for you to join her. Toge is being obnoxious in Yuta’s kitchen and saying something about how if he puts every flavor of Gatorade into a blender, it’ll give him superpowers.

You scoff at Gojo’s question. “Duh?”

The call turns into a FaceTime, and Gojo’s face fills the screen as you settle beside Maki. He’s leaning back in his office chair, phone propped up on the desk, with his hair all messy after practice.

“What do you want?” Maki says, but there’s no heat in it, a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

“You love me,” Gojo says. “Listen. Ooh, Ieiri, c’mere!”

Shoko must have been passing by in the hallway, because soon she appears beside him in the frame. “Oh! Hey, you.”

“You didn’t look that excited to see me,” Gojo mutters.

“I see you every day, dipshit. Have you told them yet?”

“Oh my god,” you cut in, wishing you could reach through the screen and grab Gojo by the shoulders. “Told us what? Cut to the chase, old man.”

The old man in question sticks his tongue out at you. “Listen, I got a very important phone call earlier today,” he says, and your heart starts thundering in your chest. Could it…?

“Yuta! Thing Two!” Maki hollers, like she too can sense what’s about to happen, knows that you want Yuta to hear it too. Toge makes an offended squeak and stumbles out of the kitchen, Yuta on his heels, head tilted inquisitively.

When you’re all crowded around the phone, hanging onto Gojo’s every word, he finally tells you.

“You, my friends,” he says slowly, breaking out into a genuine grin, “are going to the Olympics.”

—

JULY 28, 2028.

“Me!” you holler as you dive for the ball that’s coming right to the center, twisting just in time to get it back over the net and nearly scraping your knee on the court in the process. You scramble back, panting as Maki returns the next hit.

She catches your eye ever so briefly, and you know exactly what she wants you to do.

With an imperceptible nod, you shift back into position. On the next rally, Maki returns it long, forcing the opponent all the way back to the line.

And when they send it sailing to the far end of your box, you’re right there waiting with your racket in the air.

Your strike is decisive, swift, a bullet on an unstoppable trajectory. It’s high, and then it’s low, and it’s too shallow for the women on the other side of the court to get there in time.

The ball lands, uncontested, in no man’s land.

And the whole world erupts.

“Holy shit!” Maki’s screaming in your ear, and you’re grinning and sweating and laughing out loud, and then your gaze lands on a very familiar pair of eyes sparkling in the stands.

“Go, you stupid lovebird!” Maki shouts, shoving you toward him. And you go to leap right over the barrier, right into Yuta’s waiting arms, and kiss him in front of all the cameras and the tabloids and the fans.

“You did it!” he calls over the din, smile splitting his face as he pulls back. “You won the fucking Olympics!”

Nobara is on you then, nearly tackling you back over the barrier, and then she’s kissing Maki on the lips in public, which Maki would never allow under any other circumstances in the entire world. But you’re gold medalists—for that matter, so is Nobara, fresh off her first Olympic victory the day before—and right now anything is possible.

The whole celebration is a haze, and everyone is here—Gojo, Shoko, Akari, Kusakabe. Yuji and Megumi. Riko, the twins. Even Mai is there, and you swear to god you see her and Maki hug.

“I am so goddamn proud of you,” Gojo says in your ear, and then he’s stepping back, letting you get swept away by the press. In front of the sponsored Olympic backdrop, cameras glowing in your faces, you and Maki recount the best moment of your lives.

“I knew she had it,” Maki says, arm around your shoulder. “They don’t call her Ace for nothing.”

“She set me up perfectly,” you say, elbowing her for trying to give you all the credit. It’s hard to focus on the interviewers talking to you when the whole of Carson Courts is bursting with celebration, but you manage to get through a series of questions before another news outlet pulls Maki away.

Seizing the opportunity, the reporter on your right catches sight of Yuta and hauls him into frame. He stumbles into you, caught off guard, but the guy’s already talking.

“The famous couple, fresh off a pair of golds! Tell me, how does it feel? And Mr. Okkotsu, why back to doubles?”

“It feels amazing,” you say breathlessly, hand on Yuta’s back. He still gets shy in front of the press, even after all this time. “I mean, winning the Olympics at home? Right in Cali? I couldn’t ask for anything more. And doing it in tandem, it makes it even better.”

“Yeah,” Yuta says, latching onto your words. “It really does. And doubles—you know, if it weren’t for her, I don’t know if I ever would have realized how much I love playing this sport as a pair.”

“You don’t mind sharing the glory?” another reporter presses, shoving a mic closer to Yuta.

“No,” he shrugs honestly, briefly scanning the crowd—for Toge, probably, but you know he’s got to be wreaking havoc elsewhere by now. “I mean, learning to stand on your own is important. Great, even. In the end, though, on that podium… god, it’s better to be half of a whole.”

He glances at you, smiling. “Glory’s not meant to be a solo endeavor.”

“A double endeavor,” you grin, leaning into his side.

“Would you ever consider mixed doubles? Playing together?” someone else calls.

“We play together all the time,” you say. “And love it. But Maki and I are gonna ride this wave as far as it’ll take us.”

Yuta laughs. “Same here.” He and Toge are a well-oiled machine. Yesterday, they took the gold by beating down a total asshole from Japan named Mahito and that blond-haired ponytail guy from the Cincinnati Open, who’s apparently become a doubles player as well.

You finally ditch the reporters and catch the end of another interview of Maki’s, where she’s politely declining to comment on her cousin’s incredible downfall. She can’t entirely hide the smug look on her face, though, and you can’t blame her. Watching Naoya do horribly this year has been a source of immense joy.

It’s been a long road to get here. Years and years of training, long bouts of competition, the lowest of lows and the highest of highs. But you have never been alone. Maki’s always been at your side. Yuta’s always been your biggest supporter. Gojo even managed to keep coaching you and Maki independently after you graduated, giving up the head coaching job to Kusakabe and staying on as an assistant.

“You don’t have to,” you’d said, sitting in his office when he told you and Maki the news.

“I know,” he said. “But you guys are something special. And I want to see this all the way through, if you’ll let me.”

Gojo has so much pride in his students, and he has so much pride in you. Between him and Shoko, you have all the support you could ever ask for, plus all of their many professional connections and several of your college teammates, who have gone on to have incredible careers.

And watching Gojo guide you through your career has sparked something in Yuta, too.

“I think I want to be a coach,” he tells you later, when you’re back in your hotel room, sprawled out on the bed with women’s swimming coverage on in the background. “When this is all over, I mean.”

You prop yourself up on an elbow, raising a brow. “When this is all over?”

He grins sheepishly. “Like, when I retire.”

“So next year?”

He swats at you as you devolve into laughter, insisting, “I am not that much older than you!”

You stick your tongue out, very maturely, and he starts tickling you, which is a cheap move that guarantees his victory.

“Yuta!”

“Yes, Ace?”

“Stop th—hey!”

You have only one card left to play. You squirm your way out of his grasp and then launch yourself at him, pushing him back down on the bed by the shoulders, and kiss him.

All tickling efforts immediately cease.

The court is your first love. You never anticipated you’d have the space in your heart for anything more, and even if you did… it scared you more than you’d have liked to admit. Your own personal no man’s land.

But with Yuta, it’s not a challenge. It’s not an obstacle. He taught you to navigate no man’s land, and apparently that wasn’t only true on the court.

This? This is easy.

The next day, there’s a headline from The Athletic in your inbox, forwarded from Gojo. You sidle up to Yuta’s side with your computer open in your lap, clicking into the new tab.

“A double endeavor,” he reads out loud, chuckling. “You sure are quotable.” Your names are just below the bold lettering, detailing your pair of gold medals and then launching into a history of your tennis career with Maki, then Yuta’s journey from doubles player to singles and back to doubles at Toge’s side.

“In many ways, it’s been a parallel journey for this pair of standouts,” you read, scrolling down the page. “But in others, it’s been a map of crossed paths and opportunities, ups and downs.”

It’s true—so many things had to happen to get you to this point. All the people you met, beat, lost to. Every grueling hour on the court. Thousands and thousands of hours, choices, steps, hits, all to get you right here, right now.

“One thing is for sure: Former Olympian and renowned coach Satoru Gojo was right when he told us, ‘You haven’t seen the last of these guys.’ For all four of them, whether in singles or doubles play, the stars of this generation of tennis players are just getting started.”

“Aw,” Yuta hums. “Gojo said that?”

You don’t miss a beat. “Yeah, I paid him to.”

“Oh, shut up.”

You close the computer, sliding it onto the bedside table, and look up at Yuta. “Oh? Make me.”

Yuta’s grin is slow and lazy, rays of sunlight slipping through the blinds and lighting him up in gold.

“Well,” he says, one hand on your jaw. “I do like a challenge.”

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