Maybe You’ll Be the One

Midorino Mizu

Disclaimer: Tennis no Ohjisama and all associated characters are the property of Konomi Takeshi.

Author’s Notes: I was bad. I wrote most of this without reference to episode 54. I did watch it last week, while I was on vacation, but since I’m writing this at work, and didn’t have my Tenipuri cds handy, I didn’t watch it again. So it’s not precisely the way it happened in the anime, and probably considerably different from the manga as well. I didn’t start reading the manga until Rikkai, so no clue.

Also, Taki was difficult to write. Probably because no one knows anything about him.

Chapter 3

Intellectually speaking, of course, Atobe Keigo had known that Shishido and Ohtori weren’t playing normal, regulation games of tennis after hours.

Normal tennis didn’t have one of the players coming to class covered in bruises from head to toe, day after day. It had been perfectly obvious, to Atobe Keigo at least, what those bruises stemmed from. Especially considering Shishido’s newfound relationship with Ohtori.

Still, it was a completely different thing to see it in person.

Atobe barely suppressed a wince as another ball flew across the net and smacked into the senior tennis player. He knew how fast Ohtori’s serve was, how powerful. It would have been enough to knock most players out completely.

Shishido Ryoh, on the other hand, was down but definitely not out.

He watched as the boy in question sat up and shoved his hair out of his eyes. Shishido pulled himself to his feet.

“Again.”

“But, Shishido-san…” began Ohtori. His brown eyes were wide with concern, and even Atobe, from his position in the shadows, could tell that the junior itched to vault over the net and pull the senior off the court.

Not that Shishido would ever allow that, Atobe thought. People often forgot that pride could be a strength, as well as a weakness. In some ways, it was Hyoutei’s greatest strength.

Their pride would not allow them to fall before anyone, and they worked doubly hard to make sure that they remained at the top.

Shishido glared across the court at Ohtori. “Hit the ball again, Choutarou,” he said firmly.

Ohtori’s fingers had the ball in an almost convulsive grip, and he set his teeth, intending to protest again, intending to refuse.

But there was no refusing Shishido Ryoh, not when he had that look in his eyes; the look that said he would chase his goals to hell, if necessary.

Ohtori couldn’t deny the senior’s stubborn determination. He tossed the ball up, and when it came back down, he slammed it across the net with his hardest serve.

He knew that Shishido would want nothing less.

Atobe watched impassively as the yellow blur jetted across the court in an erratic path; Ohtori’s serve, while powerful, was still very inaccurate.

It would hit Shishido again, he thought, and it would knock him to the ground. He would get up again, and it would start all over again, a quest to improve the senior’s speed and reactions.

Shishido was fast; his speed had always been impressive, but he wasn’t fast enough. His natural ability had made him lazy, and his reaction time had always been much slower than it should have been.

But Shishido Ryoh hadn’t been particularly good at listening to criticism.

Now, he knew what his weakness was, reflected Atobe, and he was learning to isolate it. He would be an even better tennis player, eventually. But there was no way he could have improved enough to catch Ohtori’s scud serve yet. By his own calculations, the junior doubles player had only been practicing with Shishido for less than a week.

There was, quite simply, no way that Shishido could have improved that quickly, no matter how hard he had worked, how many hours he had spent on the tennis courts.

Atobe’s eyes flared wide, and his fingers gripped at his warm-up jacket as the sound of a ball smacking into flesh echoed across the courts.

And yet, he thought as he stared out on the court, where the longhaired player still stood, somehow Shishido had done just that.

His eyes narrowed. This was worth…special consideration, he mused as he turned and walked back towards his dormitory. He would have to keep an eye on the two of them, the next day at practice.

It would surely be interesting.

***

Later, Taki would remember the sun burning down on the courts, most of all.

It had begun like any other afternoon practice of warm-ups and swinging practice, but when it came time to actually play tennis, his doubles partner had disappeared.

That was unusual; Ohtori had not earned his place on the regulars by pulling disappearing acts. But there wasn’t much Taki could do about it. If his partner were missing, he’d have to play singles.

He had been looking around for a likely opponent when he felt the presence behind him.

He hadn’t heard Shishido; he hadn’t even seen the other senior. But there had been a change in the shadows and light that had made him turn his head.

“Shishido,” he said, a faint smile twisting his lips. “Is there something I can do for you?”

The former regular tilted his head and nodded at Taki. “Play me,” he said, before turning and stalking out to an empty court.

Taki only nodded and followed.

He was curious to see what Shishido Ryoh was planning, and what he thought he could prove.

In his opinion, a fallen regular wouldn’t make it back on the team until the moon fell out of the sky. That was simply the way things worked at Hyoutei Gakuen. And Shishido, while talented, was probably out of practice. He’d skipped club activities until the middle of the previous week, and after that, he’d been relegated to non-regular practice.

It wasn’t a circumstance that would have allowed the other senior to improve greatly, in Taki’s opinion. The Hyoutei pre-regulars were talented, of course; it was Hyoutei. All the same, they didn’t play the way the regulars did. They didn’t have as much to lose.

In his three years in junior high, Taki had observed that the very best teams were the ones whose players fought to keep their positions.

He had also observed that of those players who did lose their regular spots, most did not rebound from the fall.

Taki didn’t see that Shishido would be any different, and that was his first error.

Twenty minutes later, when he found himself kneeling exhausted on the hot clay court, his usually sleek brown hair hanging in wet strands, hiding his sweat-drenched face, Taki remembered two important things.

Shishido Ryoh rarely did exactly what one could expect, and Shishido Ryoh was strong.

Even those things shouldn’t have had that sort of effect, though. Shishido had always been those things, thought Taki with some frustration. They hadn’t been so important, before.

Before, Taki had been able to play Shishido without being totally destroyed by him, and now he couldn’t.

He shoved his brown hair out of his face and watched with narrowed eyes as his doubles partner chased after the longhaired senior and Sakaki.

It was something else, then, Taki realized as he pulled himself to his feet. Something else that Shishido had always had, but never recognized.

It seemed that Shishido recognized it, now. And it seemed that Taki hadn’t been paying enough attention to what had been going on around him; now, he could see that Shishido had been changing and growing for over a week now, and he could see that Ohtori had changed a little, too. But he hadn’t noticed that, either.

Taki doubted that most of the others had noticed any changes in the two tennis players – even Oshitari looked slightly surprised by it, and it was rare that something surprised their tensai.

Taki sat down heavily, and watched as Atobe followed Ohtori out of the courts. The captain had known as well, then. He supposed that he shouldn’t have been very surprised.

It was Atobe Keigo, after all.

***

“Kantoku!”

Sakaki turned his head and lifted an eyebrow at Shishido. The senior player was covered in dark bruises, as he had been for the past week.

Sakaki admitted to himself he had been curious about the origin of those marks, but given the murmurings about Shishido’s newfound speed, he thought he knew what had caused them now.

He was certain of it, he thought, as Ohtori ran up from behind the senior. He supposed that he should have suspected that, considering the junior’s strange attachment to Shishido.

Sakaki’s mouth twisted slightly. “You haven’t shown me a reason to reinstate you, Shishido,” he said.

Shishido sank to his knees, staring down at the hard ground silently for a long moment, before finally looking up again. “Kantoku,” he said again. “Please. I’m – I’m much better than I was.”

It was more difficult than he thought it would be, he thought as his mouth narrowed into a grim line. He’d known that simply defeating a regular wouldn’t be enough to convince Sakaki that he was worthy of the Hyoutei first team. He’d known that he would have to surrender his pride, as well.

Shishido’s pride had been a part of him for a long time now, and he was still afraid, deep down, that he wouldn’t have anything left if he tossed it aside.

“That may be,” conceded Hyoutei’s coach. “But that doesn’t mean you deserve to return to the regular team.” He flicked his gaze over Shishido’s bent figure. “Your weakness is less obvious now, but it’s still there.”

Shishido’s fingers flexed convulsively, as if he itched to grab something and throw it; as if he itched to prove, somehow, that he was a far better player than he had been before.

Sakaki didn’t think he was good enough, yet.

“He is much better,” started Ohtori. He paused for a moment when the coach turned his icy stare on him. Sakaki was always intimidating, but he was even more so now. “I know he is; I’ve been practicing with him every night.

“I think he should return to the regulars,” he finished.

Sakaki raised his eyebrows. “Are you willing to give up your position for him?”

Ohtori didn’t speak, staring at his coach for a moment.

It was a question he had never thought that he would have to answer, but it was also a question he knew the answer to.

Ohtori had always known there were more important things than tennis.

He glanced down before looking back at Sakaki, all of his inner strength shining through his eyes. “I wouldn’t mind that,” he returned. “Not if that is what’s necessary.”

Shishido jolted at Ohtori’s words, and squeezed his eyes shut.

He didn’t want this; Ohtori had already given him too much, and he didn’t want him to sacrifice his position on the tennis team for his sake.

But at the same time, Ohtori’s words made something leap deep within him. He remembered that even if he stripped himself of his protective shield, he would have something.

Or someone.

“Kantoku,” he said again as he stood, an edge of stubborn determination lacing his voice. “I’m not the same as I was two weeks ago.” He pulled something out of his pocket – professional hair shears that glinted in the harsh afternoon sun for a moment.

Shishido held Sakaki’s gaze as he slashed the blades savagely through his hair. Not a single emotion showed on his face.

“I only ask for the opportunity to prove that.”

“I ask this as well, Kantoku,” came a familiar voice from behind them. Atobe Keigo stood behind Shishido’s left shoulder.

Sakaki stood silently for a moment, staring at the three teenagers before him. They were undoubtedly talented players, among the country’s best. He hated to break his own rules – and he normally wouldn’t even consider it.

But, he thought as his gaze met that of his captain, Atobe Keigo never asked for anything. So, perhaps there was some merit in bending the rules, just this once.

“Very well,” he said, finally. “Do as you like.” He started to walk away, back towards his office, before he stopped. “Shishido,” he said, keeping his back turned.

“Don’t disappoint me.”

“I won’t,” Shishido returned softly to Sakaki’s retreating back, the same thread of determination still running through his voice.

He sighed, and ran a hand through the jagged strands of brown hair on his head. It would take getting used to; he’d had long hair for as long as he could remember. It had been part of him.

A part of him that had needed to change, along with the rest. Eventually, he would learn how to deal with this more visible change in himself, just has he had learned to deal with the less obvious ones.

Shishido turned his head with a scowl when he heard a faint snort behind him. “What?” he asked irritably.

Atobe shook his head. “You planned this, didn’t you?” he said. “Obviously, your sense of drama hasn’t disappeared entirely.”

Shishido’s eyebrow twitched slightly. “What’s your point, Atobe?” he asked.

Atobe was making it very difficult to be grateful. Shishido could swear he was doing it on purpose.

The captain lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “Nothing at all, Shishido,” he said.

The other senior looked like he wanted to growl at him, but managed to restrain himself.

“Well, I have to break the bad news to Hiyoshi,” he said, turning back towards the courts, “and you both should go practice.” He turned his head, smirking slightly. “I expect that both of you will make certain I don’t regret my actions here today.”

Neither Shishido nor Ohtori spoke until well after Atobe had disappeared from sight.

“Shishido-san?” said Ohtori hesitantly. He reached out a hand to touch his senpai’s choppy brown locks before pulling back again. He’d always loved Shishido’s hair, and he knew that it had been extremely important to the senior, as well.

“It’ll be fine, Choutarou,” said Shishido. “Don’t worry about it.”

He looked up at the junior, who still looked worried. But he was getting used to that now.

He was getting used to the fact that someone was worried about him.

“Let’s go play,” he said. He had a familiar glint in his eyes, one that Ohtori had seen many times before, at every single nighttime practice they had had.

“Yes, Shishido-san,” returned Ohtori with a bright smile that almost disguised a matching gleam in his own eyes.

There would be never be anything either regretful or disappointing about their matches; neither one of them would ever allow that, ever again.

~fin