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🎾 no man's land 🏅 set three: work-life balance

olympian!yuta x d1!reader | directory | prev. | next.

summary: at the division one level, tennis is more than a sport. it’s your livelihood, and with your doubles partner maki training overseas for the summer, you know you need to step up your game for your last season. luckily for you, your coach has connections. and who better to train you than a rising star olympian? over the course of the summer, you’ll push each other to your breaking points, and maybe farther. set by set, day by day, you start to untangle the mystery that is yuta okkotsu, the man he is off the court and the force he is on it. you might have finally met your match. but just like always—it’s all in the name of the game.

warnings: swearing, no use of y/n, obscenely excessive use of italics and em-dashes as always, memelord toge inumaki, choso being awful at technology, THE RETURN OF THE KING (maki), naoya warning, naoya warning against just in case, jogo is also here but he's just a guy, think of this as the beach episode but they're just at a tennis tournament in ohio, where there's a wii there's a way, toge has such incredible beef with matt the npc mii it's not even funny, lil' steamy toward the end there tbh || sfw. 10k words.

YUTA OKKOTSU IS not an impulsive person.

It’s part of what makes him such a good tennis player. He’s calculating, always measuring his opponents up against every possible variable, treating every set like a game of chess. It’s why he and Rika were unstoppable at each other’s side—because he was calm and cool and collected, and she was bright and reckless and undying, until she wasn’t.

He knows the moment Gojo sends him your highlight reel that you have potential like he hasn’t seen in a long, long time. Something about the way you navigate the court as if it’s your natural habitat, the way you serve like a first language. And that ace.

“She wants the Accelerator Program,” Gojo tells him over the phone.

“She’s making it,” Yuta says without missing a beat. “I’ll make sure.” He doesn’t say what he’s thinking, which is more along the lines of she’s going all the way to the fucking Olympics, as soon as I can get her out of her head.

He recognizes himself in you. Raised on doubles, afraid to stand alone. To excel in singles is to learn to take up your share of space on the court, to be unafraid of the dive and the fallback, to take advantage of the openings on the opposition’s side that come with solo play. He has struggled with all the same things, and Miguel has trained them out of him, by sword and by racket and by telling Yuta to stop holding himself back and just play already.

You’re brilliant, and he knows he can help you get even better.

He doesn’t quite expect how much you’ll make him better.

He knows he’s too serious about the game, but he can’t help it, it’s inside of him. Victory in his veins, Gojo said once, and he wasn’t really wrong. But you don’t shy away from the intensity of Yuta on the court the way everyone else seems to. You rise to meet him, dish out the trash talk as well as you take it. He hasn’t felt matched like this in a long, long time, not just as a player but as a person, and he savors it, becomes addicted to it, can’t get enough of the strain and push and pull of the way you play, the way you tease, the way you exist.

And you make him feel normal. Like a part of something. He sits surrounded by your friends in the campus dining center and laughs and bickers and tells stories, and he shows you his favorite songs when you drive him to the airport, and he starts to think of your team, your friends, as his friends, too. Something in him settles, something that hasn’t been still in a very long while.

You beat Gojo and he’s so proud he feels like he could burst. He didn’t know it would feel like this, helping someone become better, teaching them, guiding them. Maybe it’s just because it’s you. His puts his hand on your elbow and you learn a move he took years to master in a single attempt.

He feels like he’s on fire.

It’s not until the Generali Open that he realizes just how deeply you’ve settled into his bones. He raises the ball to serve and thinks, Let’s do this.

That was not part of the plan.

Every time he plays in the pro circuits, he presses his lips to the ball and thinks, It’s for you, Rika. Every time. For years and years and years, her face in his mind, her voice in his ear.

Why didn’t he think that? What changed? What—

It’s not rocket science. He can put two and two together. You’ve transformed him from a single-minded tennis machine on autopilot to the person he’s been trying to become for years. He has been trying for so, so long to decide if he loves this game without Rika in it.

He was beginning to think the answer was no.

But here he is, pressing the ball to his lips and feeling energized not by the memory of Rika but by the thrill of the game, and he knows that’s because of you.

It shouldn’t feel like a betrayal, but he can’t get past it.

He loses the match.

He can’t stop thinking about you.

There’s a tourist shop on the way back to his hotel, and he slips inside, only half-conscious of what he’s looking for. He knows it when he sees it, a flower unfurling, the way you make him feel every time you egg him on, ask him a question, listen to him in a way that doesn’t just hear but sees.

It’s the only thing he purchases in Austria, and he knows he won’t remember this trip for the destination or the tournament but for what it made him realize. For what you made him realize, even from six thousand miles away.

When he gets back, he knows he should just get a taxi to Gojo’s and crash. Should act like a sane person and wait until he sees you the next morning. But the pin burns a hole in his pocket and it’s pouring rain and somehow, somehow, he knows that the weather hasn’t stopped you.

His first love was supposed to be his last. That was part of his plan, his careful calculations. If Yuta knows anything at all about himself, it’s that he’s all-in. Tennis. Love. One and the same, really.

Falling for you, falling into you, accidentally and seamlessly and so, so easily, was not part of the plan.

In the end, though, how could he not? You move like the game was made for you and your laugh puts the sun in the sky and you challenge him every damn day, on the court and off of it, with that sharp grin and quick wit and undeniable talent and drive. You are a force, and after your very first training session, he thought, God, Rika would have loved you.

So he walks through the rain, thinking about how much he loved her. And he doesn’t know what to do.

But the turmoil in his mind comes grinding to a halt when he sees you in the rain, untouched by the chaos of the weather, like the sky is sparing only you. And it should, he thinks. You deserve the whole sky, and everything else.

And then he presses the pin into your hand and suddenly he’s talking about Rika, spilling his guts, laying all his insecurities and his tragedies out for you to pick through, and you do not pity him. You do not offer empty words. You listen and you see and you tell him why you play, and he remembers.

He remembers all over again how he fell in love with tennis. The sheer joy he felt the first time he hit the ball over the net, the pride of his first victory, the dance of the sport that became so much a part of him it’s written in his bone marrow. How he loved Rika and he loved the game and they conflated until he thought those things were one and the same. And they’re not.

He knows he’s obsessive. Things have a tendency to consume him, and Rika was no different. But your love of the game is so great it strikes some tuning fork inside of him, and there’s this resonance, and it’s not just because he’s infatuated with you, and that is the difference.

You’ve just proven to him that he can love his career and he can love a person, and you know what, he might even have more love to spare. You put your hand over his and suddenly he understands that he has the capacity to extend his devotion to the world around him. His heart was broken once, but the excess of love in it has not escaped through the cracks.

The words are out of his mouth before he’s even decided to say them, just like his hand wrapped around your wrist without his permission. Come with me.

It is not part of the plan.

You say yes, and he thinks he could power entire galaxies with the supernova in his chest.

Realizing that he’s in love with you and acting on it are two very different things, and Yuta is too afraid of derailing this bright, new thing to ruin it now. He’s going to wait it out. He’s going to get you into that Accelerator Program and he’s going to congratulate you and then he’s going to ask you if you feel what he feels, this absurd tangle of livewires that shouldn’t fit inside his heart, and if you say no, he will… he doesn’t know.

But that is not for now. That is for later.

Until you beat him.

“Don’t get comfortable,” he says, stealing Fushiguro’s words because you’re right in front of him and he can’t think of any of his own, and you smirk because of course you never get comfortable, that’s why you’re so goddamn good, that’s why he’s so goddamn in love.

You beat him so gracefully, so undeniably, with sharp hits and brilliant returns and inevitable serves, and his plan evaporates. He cannot wait, not with you right here, right now, sweat painting your cheekbones in the floodlights and your breath coming uneven through your teeth.

“I won,” you say.

You’ve won everything.

Yuta Okkotsu is not an impulsive person, so when he backs you up against the chain link fence and his breath tangles with yours in the air, he knows he’s completely, royally fucked.

He doesn’t remember dropping his racket, too focused on the curve of your lips as they part slightly, an unasked question trapped behind your teeth, and your face is so close to his he thinks he might just keel right over, and he has to claw his fingers around the fence just to keep himself standing.

This is nothing. His hand is on your waist and you’re looking at each other and that is not a sin, that is not even an action. This could be an innocent touch, an accidental glance at your lips, this could (should) be nothing.

But somehow, with this one touch, with your eyes wide and locked on his, he’s both bigger and smaller than he’s ever been all at once.

He doesn’t know if he moves first, or if you do. All he knows is the taste of you, the clash of teeth and tongues, the slip of sweat and the press of bodies and oh, how stupid to think he could have waited a second longer for this.

You say his name and he implodes.

“You’re amazing,” he whispers, and it’s all he can get out despite the millions of other words balled up in his chest, You saved my life because you saved my heart and I am so in love with you and I feel alive with you and I never want to take my hand off your skin again.

You deflect, you try to give him credit, and he will have none of it. Because sure, Gojo called him and asked him to train you, and he did, for a while. But you haven’t needed him for a long time now. You trained yourself into the ground and built yourself back up again and you are a brilliant, intangible thing. “Don’t.” He will not let you take this from yourself. “Don’t be humble.”

Your hand is cupping his jaw, and he can’t help leaning into the touch, and suddenly he’s spinning and the cool metal of the fence is pressing into his back and you’re the one in control, which feels right, because haven’t you always been?

Yuta Okkotsu is not an impulsive person, but with you, he’s an unchecked electrical charge.

He loses and finds himself in the gaps between your fingers, your lips against his skin, and he knows something so fundamental has just clicked into place.

It is almost unfathomable, Yuta thinks as you slide a hand up his spine, that he was asleep for so long and did not know it.

But he’s wide awake now.

YOU HAVEN’T TALKED about it.

You haven’t talked about the kiss.

Kiss feels like such a ridiculously small word for the way he set you on fire at that tennis court, the way his touch lit you up from the inside out. But whatever it was, you haven’t brought it up since. Every time the feeling floats to the tip of your tongue, you aren’t sure how to put it into words, and so you channel it into the game, hitting and serving and rallying until your arms are sore, and then it’s time for Cincinnati. Everything is crazy and busy and surreal, and you’re on a plane, watching California grow small through the half-open window, and you haven’t talked about it.

You’re hardly about to do so on a plane next to a veritable tennis celebrity, who’s already been recognized at least three times. It’s strange, realizing that this comes with the territory of being good at your game, being an Olympian. You wonder if you’ll get there, and then quickly shake the thought away in favor of a statement, like Nobara taught you—because my god, girl, could you doubt yourself any louder? We’re practicing manifestation. Sit your ass down.

So: You wonder what it will feel like when you get there.

The Round of 64 won’t start until Saturday, but you arrive on Thursday to get settled and watch some of the qualifiers before Yuta is slated to play. The courts here are standard concrete, hard and blue, but maintained so well you itch to play on them the second you lay eyes on the property. It’s the kind of court you know you’d kill on, unlike clay or grass—you’re still constantly in awe of how easily Yuta adapted to the courts at Wimbledon, the way he could anticipate the ball’s movement on grass despite the slower pace of the game. You resolve to ask him about that, soon, about training on other surfaces. You need to be ready for everything.

But first, Yuta has a meeting on the agenda. Not a meeting for him—a meeting for you.

“This,” he says, nodding with a small smile, “is Toge Inumaki.”

When Yuta talked about Inumaki, you pictured someone calm and collected like he is, someone with an indomitable presence. Imposing. Intimidating. Yuta said you can’t not listen to Toge. So you thought he’d be… well, you don’t know what you thought.

But it sure wasn’t this.

Toge greets you with a very dramatic bow, floppy blond hair nearly brushing the asphalt, and then grins and says, “At your service. Get it? Service? Tennis pun.”

You like him immediately.

Yuta just sighs, but you’re instantly reminded in a weird way of Nobara. You’re certain they would either despise each other or get along in a way that would threaten the whole of the universe.

You introduce yourself, shaking his hand, and say, “Yuta speaks very highly of you.” The shit-eating grin Toge shoots him over your shoulder just makes Yuta sigh again.

“As he should,” Toge says, then drags you toward the courts. “Now, Yuta tells me you’ve got quite an ace.”

The court is a practice one, populated only by a few doubles players on the far end, but you’re fairly certain it’s reserved only for actual competitors.

“I don’t think I’m allowed to be here,” you murmur to Yuta as Toge skips through the open gate.

He just smiles. “Nobody is going to see you play and think you don’t belong here. I can promise you that.”

Something in you warms at the praise, and you have to turn your face away under the guise of adjusting your visor so he doesn’t see your blush.

Toge tosses you a ball, and you catch it in one hand before bouncing it a few times, getting a feel for the court.

You glance at Yuta, uncertain. He nods.

You hold your racket high and serve an absolute bullet.

Toge actually shrieks as it barrels toward him, lurching back but coming up drastically short. The ball bounces inside the line and rolls harmlessly toward the fence, and Toge’s jaw drops as he turns to you.

“Holy shit,” he says, then starts bouncing on the balls of his feet as he glances between you and Yuta. “Yuta. Where did you find this woman? What the fuck? She’s a god.” He looks back at you. “You’re a tennis god.”

Yuta just smiles at you sheepishly, like sorry about him, but Toge has already launched into a very off-key rendition of God is a Woman and you actually think you’d like him to be your friend immediately.

You accept the next ball Yuta tosses your way and interrupt Toge’s singing with a shouted, “Love-love.”

And you play.

—

Yuta is going to take his first opponent in three sets without even breaking a sweat. He’s already dominated the first two, and he’s not letting up on the lanky guy across the court, some guy named Eso who looks oddly familiar but you can’t place.

Toge, fresh off his own first match, whistles low beside you.

“What a freak,” he says reverently. Your phone buzzes.

cho: can you tell your man to chill? cho: he has no mercy. none cho: :((((

It takes you a moment to figure out what he’s talking about, and then you remember with a start that Eso is Choso’s brother, one of the ones from out of state he’s always talking about. You swear to god he has a million siblings and you can’t keep track to save your life.

you: “my man” you: you’re typing in lowercase? you: who are you and what have you done with choso cho: ino shut off my auto caps and punctuation and i cant figure out how to turn them back on cho: he said i type like a heathen

You laugh out loud. Choso is maybe the most hopeless person you know when it comes to technology. Once, he’d wanted to watch one of his brothers in the US Open and couldn’t figure out how to get to the stream. Hakari had to explain the concept of pirating and painstakingly get Choso to get to the bootleg link without infecting his computer with a thousand viruses.

Toge looks at you questioningly. “That’s my friend’s brother,” you say, nodding at Eso. “One of his other ones is here too, actually.” You pull up the bracket and scan for his name. “He could end up playing Yuta too, if he gets to the third round.”

“Should I start booing Yuta?” Toge asks earnestly. “I have no issue with that.” He opens his mouth as if to start shouting obscenities and you clap a hand over it.

“Toge!”

Even if he had wanted to boo Yuta, there’s no time, because the set has just ended with a killer backhand to the far corner of the court. Yuta wins. Eso’s shoulders slump in a sigh, but he approaches the net to shake Yuta’s hand over it. You can see their mouths moving as Yuta laughs, and you wonder if they’re talking about Choso. He and Yuta get along well and are around the same age, Choso having stretched his D1 eligibility like Maki to stick around another season.

When you and Toge find Yuta after the match, he’s already pulled up the bracket on his phone, searching for his next opponent.

“You can’t let yourself bask in the glory for two seconds?” Yuta is such a single-minded beast on the court. Always thinking about his next move, his next set, his next opponent.

When he hears your voice, he looks up from the screen so fast you’re briefly worried his neck might snap. “Hey,” he grins.

“Hey yourself.”

“Why don’t you ever look that excited to see me?” Toge says, offended, and goes to tackle Yuta in a hug. “Give me your affection!”

“Get off me, you gremlin.” He’s doing a terrible job stifling his laughter.

Two days later, Yuta takes on a cocky guy with a long, blond ponytail and a leering, condescending smirk. You don’t even remember his name after hearing it twice, but his voice is high and grating, and you’re glad when Yuta pummels him.

Men’s tennis, at least in the pro circuits, plays five sets rather than three, and it fascinates you—seeing the pace work itself out, the stretch of time that forces each player to their limit. Not that Yuta has really been pushed to his limit yet, or anywhere close.

Toge is also impressive on the court, sweeping through his opponents effortlessly, and then it’s the third match.

Sure enough, Yuta winds up against Choso and Eso’s brother. His name is Kechizu, and you can see something of Choso’s playstyle in his movements. Choso comes from a tennis family, and all of them have distinct serves but the same familiar backhand that makes them such a threat. You wonder what happens when they play each other.

By now, the crowd knows what to expect of Yuta Okkotsu, and they’re dialed in on his every move. You almost feel a little bad for Kechizu, pitted against such a big-time opponent. But Kechizu doesn’t look sorry. In fact, he looks like he’s having the time of his life, absorbing every blow without a flinch and adapting to Yuta’s strategy as he goes.

This match goes to the fourth set, and Kechizu even manages to get a service break once, but he’s still out of his element against Yuta’s sheer skill.

cho: oh my god cho: not again takumaaa :D: girl choso is in mourning takumaaa :D: mourning? morning? wait

You don’t know when Ino got into your phone again to change his contact name. It’s been a recurring battle for years now.

takumaaa :D: AHA it’s mourning i was right

Right as Yuta wins, your phone rings, and you glance down to see Maki’s name dancing across the screen.

“Are you in Pacific time?” you ask without prelude. “I can feel it. I can feel the aura.” You’ve been religiously counting down the days until she comes back from Japan, and today she’s supposed to have landed back in the States. Fucking finally. Your one hesitation about going to Cincinnati with Yuta was that you wouldn’t be there to greet her, but she shut you down so fast you didn’t even have a chance to argue. You’re going, she’d said, and if you fight me I’ll stay in Japan.

You both knew damn well it was an empty threat, but you laughed and told her the message had been received.

“Indeed,” she says through a yawn. “Also, no you can’t. You’re in Central. Shut up.” She has a point. “Listen, I’m about to go sleep for at least twenty-four hours. But what if I came to Cinci after?”

You almost drop your phone.

“What?” You process the words. Maki, here. “I mean, yes, god, yes. But are you—like, are you sure? You just got back.”

“I’m sure,” Maki says, and you were expecting it, because she’s sure about everything. Except when she was pining after Nobara, which Nobara has begged you for details about ever since that one dinner. “I want to meet this Okkotsu guy, watch some pro play before we have to lock in for the invitational. Also, my dickwad cousin is there, and I wanna see him get his assed whooped. Is that cool with you?”

“Is that cool with me,” you scoff. “I mean, Nobara might kill us both. But yes. Please do. Please come. That’s—yes.” You’ve missed Maki so much, and you’re dying to get her on the court again, to test your new skills against hers, to hear all about training under Mei Mei and to introduce Maki and Yuta and—

Oh, god.

Maki knows you as well as you know your own racket. Even through the phone, she’s picked up on more of your whirlwind of feelings surrounding Yuta than you’d like to admit. You haven’t told her about the kiss yet. But she’ll know the second she lays eyes on you.

Toge nods toward the courts, an indication that he’s going to go catch up with Yuta, and you wave him off and mouth be there soon.

“Don’t bother with a hotel room,” you tell her. “You can crash in mine.”

“You sure?” she says, that teasing undertone shining clear through her exhaustion. “You don’t wanna share that bed with—”

“Maki!”

—

It’s a Saturday morning the day Maki finally arrives, the day of the quarterfinals. The Ohio sun is unrelenting, the air humid and slicking the back of your neck with sweat. You spent the morning hitting with Yuta and Toge, the two of them warming up for their matches today and you absorbing everything you could.

The way they play together reminds you of you and Maki—wordlessly anticipating one another’s moves, making for long rallies and fast shots, and it made you miss her even more. She steps out of the cab, all quiet confidence and readiness, wholly herself after settling in back home and kicking the jet lag.

You practically scream as you barrel into her, nearly knocking her right back into the backseat. “Christ, hello to you too,” she huffs, but you can hear the affection in her voice as she hugs you back.

“I missed you so much,” you say. “Never, ever, ever do that again.”

“What, train under an Olympian?” she smirks, knowing that wasn’t what you meant. “I feel like that resolution won’t last long, given…” When she pulls back, you follow her gaze over your shoulder to see Yuta engaged in animated conversation with Toge. She raises a brow at you and you feel your whole face go beet-red.

“It’s not—”

“Yes,” she interrupts, slinging an arm around your shoulder. “It is.”

You sigh and lean into Maki’s familiar warmth, and it’s like she never left. Thank god. You missed your partner. You missed your best friend.

She grabs her stuff from the trunk—racket, tennis bag, and alarmingly small backpack. She’s an absurdly light packer, and you’re the opposite. Yeah, you probably don’t need ten pairs of socks for a weekend trip, but what if something happens to eight pairs of them and then you’re left without extra socks? You never know.

You snag Maki’s stupidly light backpack and let her handle her tennis stuff, leading the way to the hotel entrance. “This is Maki,” you proclaim proudly as Yuta and Toge turn to face you. “Doubles partner extraordinaire, and also my best friend.”

Yuta holds out a hand. “Nice to meet you,” he says, and it would sound like stiff small talk coming from anyone else. But you can tell he means it.

“Okkotsu,” Maki says, shaking his hand firmly before he can introduce himself. “Heard a lot about you.” Yuta raises a brow your way, and you tug your visor down on your head as if that’ll hide the red in your face. “And you must be Inumaki.”

Toge’s eyes widen. “She knows me,” he stage-whispers to Yuta.

Maki and Yuta fall into conversation as you enter the hotel, and Toge holds the door before letting it swing closed behind the both of you. “She’s scary,” he murmurs.

“Oh my god. She’s not, I promise!” As soon as you say it, you’re pretty sure you’ve just lied.

Maki can be pretty imposing if you don’t know her, and even if you do know her, she’s someone you want to keep on your good side. As Yuji and Megumi well know, the wrath of Maki Zenin is not lightly incurred or escaped.

Toge gives you a meaningful look that reads something like yeah right, and you just giggle. Maki and Yuta seem to already get along, having jumped into a conversation about her awful cousin Naoya and the way he tries to run his opponents down early. It’ll be a beneficial discussion if he does make it far enough to play Yuta or Toge.

You hope he doesn’t. He’s a dick.

After dumping Maki’s stuff in your room, Toge heads out to get ready for his quarterfinal matchup and Yuta heads to the practice courts. You and Maki walk around the many courts hosting the day’s matches, catching glimpses of familiar and unfamiliar players, simultaneously analyzing matchups and catching up on the summer.

“That woman is insane,” Maki says. “I actually don’t know how I’m not dead. I swear she doesn’t feel normal human emotions. She ran me into the ground.”

Mei Mei is terrifying on the court, but according to Maki, she’s also terrifying off of it. “Half the time I was convinced she’s living a double life scamming people out of their money. But the other half, she’s such a damn good tennis player I couldn’t even care.”

Maki goes on a tirade about the drills Mei Mei had her run day after day, and her kind of creepy little brother who was always hanging around the courts, but the ranting is punctuated with statements that subtly make you understand Maki had a great summer. That it was hard, but worth her time; that it was brutal, but necessary. That she respects Mei Mei as a tennis player even if maybe nobody should respect her as a person, and that she’s excited to get back on the court here and kick some ass.

Then she asks about you.

More specifically, about you and Yuta.

For a while you’re able to dodge the question, walking her through your summer training in the same way she did hers, but by the time you’ve done two laps around all the courts, you’ve run out of ways to evade.

“So you kissed,” she says, and you stop in your tracks.

“Damn it!” You glare at her. “How do you know everything all the time? Do you have spies?”

“No, but I have eyes,” she drawls, leaning against the side of a vacant set of bleachers. “You keep dancing around each other. What’s the deal? Are you a thing or not?”

You climb up onto the bleachers and bury your head in your hands. “I don’t know,” you groan truthfully. “We haven’t talked about it since it happened. I can’t figure out if it’s just a casual thing or if he, like…”

“Forget his feelings for a second,” Maki says, and you look up through your hands at her. “Do you want to be with him?”

You instinctively go to blurt out I don’t know, but Maki’s no-bullshit expression stops you.

Of course you do know. It’s all you’ve been able to think about since he pressed you up against that fence.

“Yeah,” you murmur, and Maki nods, unfazed.

“Then ask if he does, too, and get it over with. Worst case scenario, it was a casual thing and you move on. Best case scenario, it wasn’t, and you’re dating a pro tennis player.” She shrugs, like this is all simple and easy and black-and-white, like the concept of asking Yuta what you mean to him doesn’t tie your stomach into a bunch of knots like a fucking balloon animal.

Reading your hesitation, Maki sighs, pulling herself up onto the bleachers next to you. “If you wait, it’s just gonna mess with your head even more.”

You know she’s right. Maki’s always right.

The gates open and an official leads two players onto the court in front of you as people start to file in from other matches. Toge finds you in the crowd and waves excitedly, and you crack a grin and wave back. You’ve unintentionally stopped right at his court.

Someone sits down beside you, and you turn to find Yuta, a relieved smile on his face. “Thought I was gonna be late,” he says, then glances over you and waves at Maki.

Maki is entirely at ease, but you’re worried Yuta can somehow read the conversation you just had in the air. Like your messed up feelings are written all over your face.

But he just turns to face the court, elbows on his knees, dialing in. He must recognize the other guy on the court, though you don’t. “Oh, he’s got this,” Yuta says, half to himself.

And he does. Whatever worries you have about Yuta fade into the back of your mind the second Toge serves, and you’re locked in, head following the ball back and forth and back and forth as Toge wins one set, loses, wins another.

Four sets and the guy is slinking off the court while the PA system announces that Toge Inumaki has advanced to the semifinals. You’re cheering, grabbing Yuta’s arm as you jump up and down, and he laughs and throws an arm over your shoulder in celebration.

Did the sun just get hotter?

Maki shoots you a look out of the corner of her eye. Fine, you mouth.

You’ll talk to him.

But right now, it’s his turn.

You reconnect with Toge outside the court as Yuta splits off to get to his own match, and the three of you take your time getting there, knowing you’ll be early enough to get good seats.

Yuta’s opponent is a bulkier guy, Jogo or something, who plays an incredibly different style of tennis than Yuta’s other opponents. He’s all power and brute force, none of Yuta’s finesse, but it’s threatening in a different way. You can see the calculation in Yuta’s eyes, and by the third game of the first set, it becomes clear what strategy he’s settled on.

He’s going to run Jogo around this court like a dog.

Jogo might have the strength, but he doesn’t have Yuta’s endurance, and by the time the second set rolls around, Yuta is consistently winning service breaks. You can’t help grinning as you watch. Jogo is undoubtedly talented. But he’s no match for Yuta Okkotsu.

Is anyone?

Jogo is exhausted by set three, but he turns it around and pulls one over on Yuta, though the victory is narrow. He tries to keep Yuta close to the baseline, but there’s no point, because Yuta’s returns are all over the place. There’s no rhyme or reason to his trajectories—he’ll hit four different places on the court and then the fifth one three times in a row, just to fuck with Jogo.

Four sets and it’s over, Yuta victorious. Toge is grinning, and you aren’t sure if it’s because of the win or because of the heightening chances of playing his best friend.

They’re not pitted against each other in the semifinals. But if they both win, it’ll be a hell of a final round.

You glance at Maki as the announcer crowns Yuta victorious, and to any bystander she’d look bored. But you’re well versed in the subtlest changes in her expressions, and you can tell she’s deeply impressed.

“If he plays like that,” she tells you lowly, “I am so excited to get your ass back on the court.”

—

Toge is hanging upside down on the couch in the hotel common room, watching some Instagram reel without headphones on, and laughing like a maniac.

“This guy is insane,” he says, shoving the screen your way. You flop down on the floor with your back against the couch beside him and take the phone in your hand just as the reel starts over.

It’s a guy with pink hair. He’d remind you of Yuji if it weren’t for the dark tattoos on his face and the sheer condescension of his expression—someone who should by all standards be intimidating, if it weren’t for the fact that the thing he’s so intensely ranting about is a low-quality recording of Yuta’s quarterfinals match. He’s giving commentary that also appears in thick white bubble letters, and you feel like you’re watching a video game stream.

“Look at this bitch,” the guy says, zooming in on Jogo. “He moves like a fuckin’ rock. My nephew can do better than that.”

Then the camera pans to Yuta, and the man whistles appreciatively before laughing a little maniacally. “This one, though. This little guy is insane, look at him—boom,” he cackles as Yuta hits an ace that Jogo has no hope of getting to in time. “Ooh, he’s a good fight. He might look like a little middle school twink, but look at that serve.” He plays another clip back and you don’t even hear what he says, because you’re cackling at the way he just called Olympian Yuta Okkotsu a “little middle school twink.”

Toge grins, takes his phone back, and hits follow.

“This guy’s whole livelihood is unhinged commentary on tennis,” he says. “He even does NCAA.”

You raise a brow and make a note to look into this later. Has he talked about you?

“That shit is monetized?”

Toge shrugs. “You can monetize anything nowadays. I have a burner account where I just post AI covers of Waluigi singing Post Malone songs and that shit blows up every time.”

The same man that apparently monetizes AI-generated Waluigi online is set to play Naoya Zenin in the semifinals.

“I kind of wish it was you,” Toge tells Yuta. “More fun that way.”

“I’ll kick your ass any time you like,” Yuta reassures him. Then Toge’s gaze drifts to the lounge’s television setup, lingering on the Wii.

“Anytime?” Toge grins.

Yuta groans. “Oh, no.”

Toge tries to flip himself off the couch and winds up half on the floor, half in your lap. “Well, hello,” you say.

Without missing a beat, he asks, “You any good at Wii tennis?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” You shoot Maki a massive grin as Yuta reluctantly digs four controllers out of the basket near the window, and she smirks back.

You’ve spent many a night in tense competition with Yuji and Megumi on the court. You’ve possibly spent even more nights duking it out on the Wii.

“I love doubles on Wii,” Toge says in a sing-song voice. “That way I don’t have to play Matt. That guy is op numero uno. I swear, he wants me dead.”

The familiar Wii Sports theme has all four of you lining up in front of the TV, and for some reason you feel more competitive about this than real tennis, at least in this moment. It’s partially the late hour, partially being reunited with Maki, and partially the way Toge keeps sneaking smug glances at you and Maki.

“You really think you have a chance, huh?” Maki snorts.

Toge goes pale.

“She’s kidding,” you whisper, nudging him in the ribs. Maki raises a brow at you and you amend, “Kind of.”

Toge selects a random Mii and opens up the customization settings so fast nobody has time to stop him. It’s actually mildly alarming how adept he is at navigating Wii controls, mostly because he’s a professional tennis player and how in god’s name does he have this much time on his hands? The eyebrows are now floating above the head of the green-skinned INUMAKIIII, making them look like alien antennae.

“He does this every time,” Yuta sighs, resigned.

Yuta picks a generic-looking guy but changes the name to Yuta, and you follow suit, side-eyeing him as you type in Ace.

He smiles.

Maki zeroes in on where, apparently, somebody has painstakingly duplicated the Matt NPC as a playable avatar. She gives Toge a shit-eating grin.

“No,” he begs with a levity that actually shocks you. “No, spare me, please. Not Matt. Anyone but Matt.”

She picks Matt.

Toge mourns her avatar choice for the entirety of the first match, which you dominate. Then Yuta looks at him and says, “Are you gonna keep playing around?”

An entirely new Toge emerges from the ashes of the one you once knew.

This man is an absolute menace. You have never seen anyone play the Wii more intensely—or precisely—than Toge Inumaki, at least when he’s not on the ground monologuing about Matt’s vengeance.

“Toge,” you say after he’s beaten you and Maki into the ground twice. “What the actual fuck? What Wii tennis prodigy school did you go to?”

“This is just how I train,” he says, so entirely deadpan that for a second you actually believe him.

Once he’s in his element, he loudly challenges “Matt” to a singles “duel of honor,” and Maki obliges. She actually holds her own against him, and they go back and forth for so long that you and Yuta strike up a conversation on the couch.

“He’s the most insane person I’ve ever met,” you tell Yuta sagely, nodding in Toge’s direction. “And that’s… a statement, coming from me.”

“Oh, I know.” Yuta nods fondly. “No words to describe Toge Inumaki, I guess. Did I tell you he lost a bet once and spoke only in sushi ingredients for a full forty-eight hours?”

“He…” You blink. “What?”

“Mhm. We call it the Salmon Incident. I still can’t decide if the worst part was him running around shouting about tuna mayo, or me actually understanding what he meant by the second day.”

“Dear god.”

Yuta shakes his head. “God certainly was not there.”

Toge shrieks so loud you nearly jump off the couch, instead falling practically into Yuta’s lap as your heart stutters. “Jesus, Toge!”

“He’s done it,” Toge announces, spinning to face you and dramatically wiping away imaginary tears. “He’s thwarted me once again.”

“He is right here and warned you that you would lose,” Maki shrugs.

Yuta chuckles, and the sound rumbles against your shoulder. You’re suddenly hyperaware of your position, your side pressed up against his chest, fingers wrapped around his forearm. Oh, god.

He must register your embarrassment, because he just offers you a reassuring smile. Which makes it worse. He can probably feel your pulse through your wrist.

You very pointedly don’t look at Maki as you murmur an apology and stand up, making a conscious effort not to physically shake out your limbs in the absence of Yuta’s warmth.

Toge closes his eyes and points the Wii remote at Yuta. “Please,” he whispers. “Avenge me.”

Yuta does.

—

Naoya Zenin is a prick.

Every story Maki’s ever told about him has confirmed this, but his match against Toge hasn’t even started before you see exactly what she means. From your vantage point about halfway up the bleachers, you can see the harsh movement of his mouth, Toge turned away from you.

You’re too far to understand what he’s saying, but Yuta grimaces. “Toge’s off his game,” he murmurs. “Whatever that guy just said…”

It’s nothing obvious—you watch Toge grin, make some fast quip, dance back to his side of the court as light as always. But Yuta knows Toge like you know Maki. If he says something is wrong, something is wrong.

“Fuck him,” Maki seethes. “I hope Inumaki runs him into the ground.”

For a brief, ridiculous moment, you can only see Naoya as a cartoonish little Mii.

Toge serves harder than usual, and Naoya makes absolutely no move toward the ball. He just lets it hit inside the line, practically gives Toge the point, and then gives him a lazy, wide grin.

“What is he doing?” you mutter.

“What he does best.” Maki scowls. “Manipulation.”

You’ve only known Toge for a few days, but already you’re certain he’s one of the most unflappable people out there. Sure, he might threaten to go to war against an NPC, but it’s hard to imagine anyone actually getting under his skin.

But sure enough, his next serve is off, closer to Naoya as if he wants him to hit it back. To move, to try. Naoya returns a lazy backhand, and they rally a few times before Naoya slams it just inside the baseline. Toge lunges, but it’s too late.

“Fuck,” you mutter, glancing at Yuta. He looks concerned, but only mildly.

Earlier today, he and some tall guy named Dagon stretched their semifinal matchup to five sets, pushing each other to the edge. Dagon rivaled Yuta in the fluidity of his movements, like the air was water around him, moving so fast you felt like he must’ve had extra arms or some shit. And he was strong to boot—like Jogo, but with all of Yuta’s grace.

Still, Yuta won, cementing his spot in the finals. And you expected that final matchup to come down to him and Toge. But now, you’re not so sure.

“Give him a few games. He’ll turn this around.” Yuta sounds so sure of himself, not in an arrogant sense, but in a way so matter-of-fact that you can’t help but believe him.

You wonder if Yuta has that sort of confidence in you. The thought makes something dangerous light itself up in your chest.

Toge does turn it around, snagging two service breaks by the time he takes the first set. But Naoya still looks unconcerned, and he keeps sending knowing glances Toge’s way, oscillating between high effort and absolutely none. It’s not just throwing Toge off—the audience is antsy, too, and you can tell none of them actually want Naoya to win.

They trade sets, back and forth, and after Naoya ties it up by taking set four, he actually yawns. Arms in the air, stretching, making no effort to hide it.

“Oh, fuck you,” Maki mutters beside you. You know looks can’t kill, because if they did, Naoya would be burning alive.

At one point, you get so frustrated you stand up to take a lap around the bleachers. They’re trading games back and forth, 4-4 now, and it’s been over three hours.

5-5.

6-6.

It’s a tiebreak game. You can’t stop running your hands through your hair, tugging just enough to hurt, because you want to strangle Naoya Zenin and his self-satisfied smirk. Even he can’t hide how tired he is now, the both of them panting as they take their positions.

You curse out loud when you realize it’s Naoya’s serve. The odds are stacked against Toge.

He gets the first point, but Toge gets the second. Then it’s 3-3. 4-4. 5-5. 6-5 as Naoya slams one right to Toge’s feet, giving him no time to get a racket under the ball. 6-6.

6-7, and Toge looks out into the crowd and locks eyes with Yuta. You’re sure you’re about to witness some kind of serious exchange. But then Toge lifts his hands and moves them up and down like he’s dribbling two balls, mouthing “six seven.”

“Oh my god,” you say out loud. “I actually think he should lose for that.” You don’t mean it, and Yuta can’t help laughing. But then it’s 7-7. 7-8. 8-8. It’s been four hours.

9-8. Match point.

If Naoya gets this, the tiebreak is over. The match is his.

“Come on,” you murmur under your breath. “Come on, Toge.”

They rally for what feels like forever but really can’t be more than twenty seconds. And then Naoya, with the most audacity you’ve ever seen, runs his hand through his hair as Toge’s ball soars through the air toward him. Like he’s bored.

And he slams it back.

Naoya wins.

—

Maki is still fuming hours later as the four of you hit on the practice courts, cursing Naoya out as she nails balls into the fence. “You have to run him into the ground,” she tells Yuta firmly.

“Avenge Toge like you did last night,” you nod. Yuta sighs.

The thing is, Maki is infinitely more upset about the loss than Toge. Toge actually seems… entirely unfazed. You stand at Yuta’s side, watching as Toge balances a tennis ball on his nose like a trick seal.

“How is he so unaffected by this?” you murmur, not really expecting a response.

“Work life balance!” Toge shouts.

Turns out, whatever Naoya said to him on the court was about Toge’s family. Apparently he’d done some research. Toge was more surprised that Naoya knew anything than affected by the actual shit-talking.

“Oh, you know, stuff about how I’m the worthless son and will never live up to my family’s great expectations or some shit,” he shrugged. “Truly, I don’t care. He doesn’t know anything.”

You were sure he couldn’t mean that, but he really seems indifferent about the whole ordeal. It’s like the words slid right off him, rain on a parka. The most you got out of him was a solemn nod and a Yuta, you must fight to the death. He is my Matt.

Yuta shrugs. “He’s just like that.”

When Maki is done raging about Naoya’s very existence, you fall into place at her side, the boys across from you on the court. This is what you’ve been waiting for. Your blood feels alive with anticipation.

It’s time to play doubles.

It is everything you thought it would be. You’re at an entirely new level from where you were at the beginning of the summer, but so is Maki. You read each other’s intentions and movements, adapt to each other’s improvements in the silent language of eye contact and minute gestures. It’s as if you’ve been growing side by side all these months, not an entire ocean apart.

This is the level of play you’re hungry for, the kind that’ll matter in the Olympics. NCAA tennis reduces a whole exhausting three sets of doubles to one point, and it’s always felt like such a diminishment of all the work and time that goes into it.

You and Maki lose, but you can’t deny it’s the best tennis you’ve ever played. You’re exhausted, limbs sagging, breath coming short and shallow, but you feel more accomplished than you have after any victory.

Well. Almost any victory, you think.

Your back against a chain link fence. Yuta’s breath mingling with yours—

“Nice, Ace,” Yuta calls, and your gaze snaps to his as if drawn by opposite magnetic poles. “That last slice was perfect.”

“I—thanks,” you call back, trying desperately to collect yourself. “That was great, both of you.”

“Count me impressed, Inumaki,” Maki admits.

Toge does a backflip—you didn’t know he could do that—and then shrugs, and Maki stares at him for a long moment before informing him, “You are so concerning. As a person.”

He beams.

“I wish you could come back to Kaisen after this,” you sigh as you grab your water bottle, taking a long, cold swig. “With Yuta. That was the best doubles match I’ve played in…”

Maki meets your gaze. “Years,” she finishes.

“What if I did?”

You freeze, turning to face Toge. “What? Aren’t you on the full ATP tour?” You frown. “When’s your next comp, next weekend?”

“I can play hooky,” Toge says devilishly, wiggling his brows. Yuta snorts, and Toge grins. “Nah, nah. I’m not going to Winston-Salem. It’s a 250 and I’m in the top thirty already. Should be fine.”

“Brag much?” Yuta teases.

“Would you be cool with that?” Toge asks Yuta. “Me crashing for a few days, playing doubles with these insane college prodigies you found? I wanna see Gojo anyway.”

“You know Gojo, too?” Maki groans. “Why does he know everyone?”

Toge just grins and says, “My secrets shall never be revealed.”

“You should, though,” Yuta says. “Come back with us. It’ll be good. Keep us sharp before the US Open, get you guys ready for that invitational.” He directs this last part at you and Maki.

“He knows your schedule,” Maki notes, low enough that only you can hear. “Interesting.”

“Yeah, because he’s training me,” you mutter heatedly.

“Yeah, that’s why.” She snorts.

Yuta and Toge are talking travel plans now, calling up Gojo to see if Toge can crash for a few nights, and so you turn back to Maki and desperately whisper, “Help me.”

“This, I’m afraid, is a you problem,” she says, and for what it’s worth, there’s some genuine sympathy in her voice as she puts a hand on your shoulder. “Just talk to him. Bite the bullet.”

“Horrible advice.” But you turn and look at Yuta again, right as he laughs, bright and loud and open, at something Gojo said on the phone.

Damn it.

You have to talk to him.

—

Your room is directly across the hall from Yuta’s. He booked a single, Toge on the floor below because apparently he snores like an elephant. Maki’s already knocked out on the bed, and you find yourself pacing back and forth, back and forth, just thinking.

He is just feet away, if you’d get your head out of your ass and knock on his door.

For maybe two full minutes, you stand with your hand on your own doorknob, willing yourself to open it.

What’s the worst that can happen? Maki’s voice says in your head.

Well, he could say no. No, he doesn’t have feelings for you, everything was purely physical, a distraction, a convenience, and why would you think that and now it’s weird and actually I have to go train alone for the rest of the summer and I’m never coming back and—

“Shut up,” you hiss, and then clap a hand over your mouth, looking back over your shoulder to see if Maki heard. She doesn’t stir, and you let out an unsteady breath.

Fuck it.

You open the door.

You’re staring directly at Yuta.

“Oh,” he says. “Sorry. I, uh… I guess we had…”

You almost blurt out some stupid lie like oh, I was just going to the ice machine! But you bite your tongue, because something in Yuta’s eyes mirrors yours right now. You’re pretty sure you opened your doors for the same reason.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Um…”

“Do you…” He laughs sheepishly, glancing behind you to see Maki already occupying your room. “Do you want to come in?”

You nod mutely, quietly closing your own door behind you and padding across the hall. Yuta’s room is neat, just an open suitcase on the floor in the corner with all his clothes tidy and folded, his tennis stuff leaning against the wall near the door. Not enough to pretend to look at, to avert your gaze from his.

He shuts the door, and before you can say anything, he takes a deep breath and says, “Look, I’m sorry.”

Your heart plummets.

He crosses in front of you on his way to the bed and pats the space beside him. You hesitate for a second before moving toward him, perching on the edge.

“I know we should have talked about this sooner and it’s… it’s entirely my fault that it’s taken so long. I just—I guess I had some reservations about…”

“You don’t need to do this,” you say in a rush, and Yuta looks at you, surprised. “I—you don’t need to apologize, I mean. It’s fine, I get it, if it was just a one-time thing and you don’t feel that way, we can just keep on training like—”

“Wait, no! No,” Yuta blurts, seeming surprised by his own volume and sitting back a bit, stunned. “I mean… no, that’s not what I meant at all. God, I’m bad at this. Listen.” He pulls one leg up on the bed, turning to face you fully, and reaches out to take your hand in both of his.

You can feel your heartbeat in every part of your body.

“I don’t have reservations about you. I’ve never had reservations about you. Please know that.” He swallows, hard, and you find yourself following the line of his throat, his arms, his watch, anything but his eyes. “It’s more of… I told you about Rika, already. I don’t know if I told you I loved her like that, but it probably wasn’t hard to tell.” He sighs.

At that, you meet his gaze. His eyes are wide, earnest, dark. So many emotions contained in such little space. It’s just like he makes you feel, like your heart is too big for your skin.

“After she died, I didn’t feel… worthy, I guess. Of survival. Why her and not me, you know? Without her everything felt so pointless.” He laughs humorlessly. “It’s like I—I wasn’t needed by anyone, so was any of it worth it? It took me a long time to realize that people did care about me. I’m still figuring that out, actually. Finding the confidence to… to know it’s okay to live, even without her.”

Oh.

All the tension flows out of you, a broken damn. “Yuta,” you murmur. His cheeks go a little red at the sound of his name on your lips. “I’m proud of you.”

He goes still.

“I mean it.” You put your free hand on top of his. “It’s… that’s not easy. Letting yourself open up again. And we can take it—this, whatever this is—as slow as you need to.”

“Whatever this is,” he echoes, a faint smile on his face. “What is this?”

Somehow, you feel like the first time you went to the US Open as a kid. Sitting on the very edge of your seat, heart in your throat as the ball flew back and forth, scared to blink for fear of missing anything. Like somehow, everything hinges on this moment, right now.

"That’s what I wanted to ask,” you say quietly.

Yuta swallows, looks down like he’s steeling himself. “I know I said, just now, that I was learning to… to live, without her.” And then his eyes lock onto yours, dark, intense. “I meant that. But I also meant learning to love.”

The single syllable steals the breath right out of your lungs.

“I know that’s a big, stupid word with a lot of connotations,” he chuckles nervously. “And I know I can be… intense. And you don’t need to feel that way too, not now, not yet, I just—you said it’s a hard thing, opening up again. And it is, it should be. But that’s the thing. It’s not hard, with you. It’s like—god, I can’t even help myself. I can’t stop it.”

He lets go of one of your hands, his fingers floating up to your cheek, your jaw. “You’re incredible, Ace.”

“I…” You find yourself tilting your head, leaning to meet his touch. You want him near you in every way possible. “Yuta, you… you’re incredible, too. I mean that.” Your wrap your fingers around his wrist, pressing his hand against your face.

And you say, “I want this. I want you.”

There is one long, silent moment.

And then Yuta smiles and says, “Thank god.”

In a split second, he’s on you, his hand slipping down your jaw to your neck, your shoulder, and his lips are on yours again, and it’s like you never stopped kissing but also, somehow, like you’ve never felt this before. You don’t remember laying down. You don’t remember sliding your hands beneath the thin, white fabric of his shirt. “Yuta.”

He breathes against your cheekbone, so close the strands of his dark hair brush your forehead. “Hm?”

His hands are wide, strong, long fingers pressed against your collarbone, caressing the strands of your hair. Every one of your senses is amplified—your heartbeat is thunder, his uneven breaths a bassline, your skin and his hot against each other.

“You’re sure about this?” you breathe. “It’s not gonna… mess with your focus, you don’t need to—”

Yuta silences you by pressing his lips to yours, smirking as he pulls away. “I’m sure.” There’s a mischievous glint in his eye as he cages you in with his elbows on the mattress, his knee between your legs. “You know. Work-life balance.”

Well, you’re not going to argue with that.

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