Aoi's POV
The scoreboard glows 5-5 in the third set, the numbers searing into my vision like brands. My lungs scream with each breath, sweat stinging the paper cut I got yesterday while flipping through Mirai's old match notes. Across the net, Shun bounces the ball exactly four times—his tell for a slice serve.
"Time!" Haru jogs to the baseline, blocking the umpire's view as he presses something into my palm—a crumpled Post-it note.
Mirai's handwriting leaps out at me:
"Shun's kick serve lands 78% in the ad court when nervous. Stand 3 inches left."
I stare at Haru. "Where did you—"
"Equipment room." His grin is all mischief. "Found it taped inside her old locker."
The umpire clears his throat. Haru squeezes my wrist—hard—before retreating. The note flutters to the clay, sticking to the damp spot where my water bottle leaked.
Shun's serve comes like a bullet.
I shift left.
The ball kicks where Mirai predicted, but Shun's added a new wrinkle—extra topspin that makes it skid off the line. My return clips the net cord, hanging for a heart-stopping moment before dropping back on my side.
"Advantage, Central High."
The crowd erupts. Behind me, Haru swears violently.
Changeover
Natsuki wordlessly hands me a towel. It smells faintly of strawberries—she must have washed it with the detergent Mirai always used. The scent unleashes a memory:
"You're overthinking," Mirai laughs, tying my shoelaces before middle school finals. "Tennis is just dancing with gravity."
Tanaka shoves a water bottle at me. "Dude, you gotta see this." He flips open a battered composition notebook—Mirai's secret training journal—to a page titled Kurosawa Shun: Weaknesses.
Three things jump out:
A doodle of Shun as a frowning samuraiThe phrase "Serve return PTSD from 2016 loss" circled in pinkA sticky note: "Tell Aoi to use more drop shots—his ankles are trash"
Haru peers over my shoulder. "She had one for all of us." He taps a page where Tachibana Haru is written in glitter pen. "Future doubles partner if Aoi ever dumps me lol."
My throat tightens. The date in the corner—August 14—is the day before the accident.
The umpire calls time.
Match Point - 6-6
Shun's second serve is a 98mph bullet to my forehand. I barely get my strings on it, sending up a defensive lob. He smashes it cross-court—
Exactly where Mirai's journal predicted.
I'm already moving, my racket flashing in a desperate slice. The ball floats just over the net, dying before Shun can reach it.
"Deuce!"
Shun slams his racket against his shoe—his tell for frustration, according to page 37 of Mirai's notes. The crowd's roar fades to white noise as I glance at the stands, where Coach Kubo is dramatically pretending to faint.
Haru bounces on his toes. "One more!"
The words slip out before I can stop them: "Partner."
His grin could power Tokyo.
Final Point - 7-6
Shun's serve comes at my body, a brutal play meant to intimidate. At the last second, I sidestep and chip it back—a move Mirai and I practiced for hours, the one she called "ghost returns" because the ball seems to disappear.
Shun barely grazes it. The ball floats high, a lazy moonball begging to be crushed.
For a split second, time fractures:
Mirai at twelve, pigtails flying as she demonstrates the perfect overheadHaru last week, laughing when I nailed this same shot during practiceShun's face yesterday when he realized who'd funded his rackets
I swing.
The impact sings up my arms, perfect and pure. The ball kisses the baseline—
"GAME, SET, MATCH—KAIMEI!"
Aftermath
The team swarms me. Tanaka's bear hug lifts me off the ground while Natsuki silently presses Mirai's journal to my chest. Haru just stands there, sweat-streaked and glorious, mouthing "Partner" like it's a prayer.
Shun waits at the net, his breathing ragged. When I offer my hand, he pulls me close instead.
"She knew," he murmurs, jerking his chin at the journal. "About all of us."
The truth settles over me like sunlight:
Mirai hadn't just been preparing me to keep playing.
She'd been preparing everyone.