Featuring chaos, control issues, and one very expressive forehead.
There he was.
New boy. Carrying a bag like it held national secrets. Walking like he'd memorized exactly how many steps it took from the school gate to Court 2. The kind of posture that said, "I schedule my existential crises in thirty-minute blocks."
Ayumi Takahashi watched him with interest. Not attraction. Not yet.
This was scientific.
Coach Sora had mentioned him. Kenji Nakamura. Transfer student. National ranking. Ranked in the top 200 juniors last year. Also—allegedly—"plays like a metronome, talks like a tax form."
Ayumi, naturally, was intrigued.
People who played like machines always cracked in the most interesting ways.
She spun her racket absentmindedly and bounced a ball against her strings.
Let's test the circuitry.
She didn't aim. That would be rude. She simply… released fate.
THWAP.
Direct hit.
Square to the forehead. Poetic, really.
"Oh no," she said, skipping a few steps forward. "Did I just hit your brain? Is it leaking? Blink twice if you've lost feeling in your moral compass."
He blinked once. Then again. Then fixed her with a stare cold enough to refrigerate soda.
Ayumi grinned.
This was promising.
She had a sixth sense for people—who would bore her, who would break her racket, who would make her care when she really, really didn't want to.
Kenji, standing there like he'd rather be filing tax returns in a thunderstorm, pinged every one of her inner alarms.
"You've got great bone structure," she added. "Really distributes the impact."
He didn't smile.
Even better.
"Let's play," she said. "One point. Winner takes the court. Loser buys the other one a theoretical snack."
"That's not regulation," he replied, like someone who actually used that phrase in real life.
"Neither is being fun, but I make exceptions."
A beat of silence. Then: "Fine."
He said it like it pained him.
Delicious.
She took her position, rolled her shoulder, and sent the ball into the air with exactly zero grace. It wobbled. Drifted. Mourned its own arc.
Then, with a flick of her wrist, she dinked it into the softest, ugliest drop shot ever executed by a living person.
Kenji froze.
Didn't lunge. Didn't even curse. Just stood there, betrayed by physics.
"Love game," she said sweetly, slinging her racket behind her back. "Thanks for playing."
He stared at the ball like it had insulted his entire family.
That made her pause.
Most people got mad when she beat them. Or embarrassed. Or flustered.
Kenji looked… disturbed. As if something about the moment didn't compute.
As if losing had never occurred to him as a legitimate possibility.
And that—that made something tug behind her ribs.
Curiosity, probably.
Definitely not attraction. Nope.
"Practice is tomorrow," she called as she turned to go. "Court 2. Bring your calculator."
He didn't answer.
But he would.
She was certain of that.
Because you don't forget the person who ruins your perfect first day with a drop shot and a compliment about your skull.
And Ayumi had every intention of becoming unforgettable.