Summer Break Point

Shun's POV 

The team van smells like sweat and oranges. I press my forehead against the window as 

we pull away from Kaimei High, watching their tennis courts shrink in the distance. The 

ball Tachibana gave me burns in my pocket. 

"Damn, their new player's got some moves," Yuma says through a mouthful of rice ball. 

He rewinds the scouting video on his phone—Tachibana's perfect backhand, Aoi's 

lightning reflexes. "Since when does Minami play again?" 

Since him, I want to snap. Since some Osaka upstart decided to dig up graves. 

Coach adjusts the rearview mirror, eyes locking onto mine. "You know him, Kurosawa?" 

The lie comes easy. "No." 

But Yuma's already scrolling through tournament archives. "Wait... this guy took silver at 

Kansai Juniors three years back. Lost to..." His voice drops. "Oh." 

The van goes quiet. Everyone's looking at me now. They know what summer that was. 

Mori—always the tactless one—whistles. "So what? He copying Saito's style to mess 

with Minami or—" 

"Shut up," I growl. 

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. 

Flashback - Regional Finals 2017 

Mirai was wiping strawberry lip balm on her wristbands when I approached. "Ready to 

lose, Kurosawa?" 

Behind her, tiny Aoi Minami adjusted her visor with trembling fingers. I smirked. "Your 

rookie looks ready to piss herself." 

Mirai's smile vanished. She stepped close enough that I could smell the sugar on her 

lips. "Talk about my partner again, and I'll break your serve so bad you'll quit tennis." 

The threat should've been funny. Except her eyes—dark and deadly serious—said she 

meant it. 

I won that match. Barely. Afterward, as I clutched my trophy, I heard Mirai telling 

Aoi: "Next time, we'll destroy him." 

There never was a next time. 

Present Day - Central High Locker Room

"Check this out." Mori tosses a newspaper on the bench. The headline screams: Fallen 

Star Returns? Kaimei's Prodigy Back on Court. 

A grainy photo shows Aoi mid-swing, Tachibana grinning behind her. My stomach 

twists. 

Yuma peers over my shoulder. "Think she'll actually compete in regionals?" 

I crush the paper in my fists. The team freezes. Even Coach stops his strategy talk. 

"Enough about Kaimei," I snap. "We have our own matches to—" 

My phone buzzes. A notification from Tennis Monthly: "This Day in History: Mirai Saito's 

Record-Breaking Serve..." 

The locker room tiles suddenly feel unsteady beneath me. That serve—the one 

Tachibana replicated perfectly today. The one I'd studied for years, trying to understand 

how a girl half my size could hit with such brutal precision. 

Mori misreads my silence. "Hey, it's not your fault she—" 

I slam my locker so hard the metal dents. "I said enough." 

The walk to the showers gives me ten seconds to compose myself. Ten seconds where 

the team can't see my hands shaking. 

Under the scalding water, I finally pull the ball from my pocket—the one Tachibana gave 

me. It's cheap, barely used. The kind Mirai always insisted on practicing with. "Better to 

master the worst balls," she'd say, "then competition ones feel easy." 

I squeeze until the rubber seams bite my palm. 

A shadow appears outside the stall. Coach's voice comes low: "They're holding a 

memorial tournament. At her old club." 

The water turns icy. I know what he's not saying—it's the weekend before regionals. 

"Send the second-years," I say. 

Coach sighs. "They want you to present the trophy." 

The ball slips from my fingers, bouncing wildly across the wet tiles. Just like the last ball 

Mirai ever served to me—an ace I couldn't touch. 

That Night - My Bedroom 

The shelf above my desk groans under trophies. Only one matters: 2017 Regional Singles 

Champion - Kurosawa Shun. 

The photo beside it shows a grinning Mirai holding her runner-up plaque, sticking her 

tongue out at the camera. I'd taken it from the tournament website. 

My phone lights up with a text from an unknown number: 

"She kept every match note you ever played. Ask Aoi." 

I don't need to check the sender to know. That twisted serve. That knowing look. 

Tachibana. 

Outside, a storm rolls in. The first thunderclap shakes my windows just as my fist 

connects with the shelf. 

The trophy topples. The glass shatters. 

And for the first time in four years, I let myself scream.