The gym smelled of polished wood, sweat, and the faint, lingering scent of someone's burnt toast from earlier in the cafeteria. Haruto adjusted his grip on the racket for the third time that morning and surveyed the court. The sun streamed in through high windows, cutting through the dust motes that floated lazily in the air.
Kenta was already at the net, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a rubber band. "Watch and learn, first-years!" he shouted, brandishing his racket like a sword. He swung at a shuttlecock someone had lobbed toward him and missed spectacularly, the bird clattering to the floor with a soft, pathetic thud.
"You've got the precision of a cannonball," Haruto muttered, picking up the shuttlecock.
"Ha! That's offensive!" Kenta replied, brandishing the racket again. "It's not my fault the shuttlecock betrayed me."
Mei rolled her eyes from the other court. "It's always the shuttlecock's fault with you, Kenta. Always."
Saki, sitting on the bench with a clipboard in her lap, didn't look up. She was busy scribbling notes, occasionally glancing at Haruto to see if he'd made any progress on his footwork.
"Ready?" Haruto asked quietly, stepping to the baseline. His palms felt slightly sweaty despite the fan overhead, and the familiar hum of the gym was both comforting and distracting.
"Always," Kenta said, grinning. "I'll give you a warm-up rally. If you survive, you get bonus points."
Haruto rolled his eyes but readied himself. Kenta served a weak shuttle that barely cleared the net. Haruto returned it, a soft tap that barely traveled two meters. Kenta lunged dramatically, missed, and ended up sprawled on the floor.
"Victory!" Kenta declared, lying flat. "This court is mine!"
"You are a menace," Haruto muttered, helping him up.
"Artistic menace," Kenta corrected. "Big difference."
Mei called from across the gym, "You two are ridiculous. Try practicing for real once in your life."
Haruto and Kenta groaned in unison but began to warm up properly. Haruto's shots weren't perfect, but each one felt a little sharper, a little more controlled. He adjusted his swing, his footwork, and his timing, trying to keep up with the rhythm of the game.
Then came the first drill that day: continuous clears. Back and forth, no pause, no mercy. Haruto's arms burned quickly, a dull ache that spread down to his shoulders. He missed a shot. Missed another. Kenta didn't miss the opportunity to point it out.
"Look at that form," he said, squinting at Haruto like a coach with the patience of a saint. "Like you're trying to invent a new sport called 'awkward badminton.'"
"Shut up," Haruto muttered, red-faced.
Saki glanced up from her clipboard, lips twitching. "You're improving, though."
"That's just bias," Mei added sharply, tossing a shuttlecock back toward Haruto. "I see every mistake you make."
Haruto gritted his teeth and focused harder. The shuttlecock flew, faster now, his feet moving almost automatically. He felt the familiar rhythm settle in: feet, swing, watch, react.
Then he heard it—his name.
"…if he's still on Court Three, he might beat last week's record."
"…yeah, Aoyama Riku never misses a set."
Haruto froze mid-swing, racket in hand. Court Three? Aoyama Riku? The name brushed past him like a feather and somehow stuck.
He didn't look up, didn't ask, but the words echoed in his mind. Untouchable. Precise. Someone everyone respected, someone he hadn't seen yet.
"Earth to Haruto!" Kenta shouted, waving a hand in front of his face. "You gonna play or just daydream about some mystery senior?"
Haruto shook his head quickly. "Just… thinking about my swing."
"Uh-huh," Kenta said, smirking. "Sure. Keep telling yourself that."
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By mid-practice, the drill had evolved into a friendly but competitive match. Haruto's arms ached. His legs felt like lead. And still, he felt alive in a way that only practice could give him.
"Ready for a match?" Mei asked, setting up the net.
"You go first," Haruto said, wiping his forehead.
"Too late," Mei replied. She launched a powerful serve, the shuttlecock snapping sharply through the air. Haruto returned it, barely keeping it in play. His feet moved instinctively, reacting faster than he expected. He felt small victories: a smooth return, a correctly timed smash, a rally that lasted three volleys.
Kenta stood nearby, giving unsolicited commentary. "Nice! That was almost a point! Well… almost counts in my book!"
Haruto laughed despite himself, shaking his head. "You're impossible."
Saki walked closer during a short break, holding a bottle of water. "You're sweating a lot today," she said.
"I'm working hard," Haruto replied, taking the water.
"You're working, but you're also improving," she added quietly.
Haruto felt a faint warmth in his chest. Not pride. Not embarrassment. Just… acknowledgment. Something small, but important.
Kenta tripped over a shuttle tube nearby. "My career ends here," he shouted dramatically. Everyone laughed.
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After practice, the drama subtly increased.
Haruto stayed behind to practice smashes, trying to get just one perfect hit. His shoulder ached, and every swing sent a dull throb through his arm. Sweat soaked his shirt, the gym lights reflected off the polished floor, and for a moment, the world felt like it had narrowed down to him, the shuttlecock, and the net.
Then, from the other side of the gym, Mei's sharp voice: "Your angle's off! Step closer!"
Haruto stepped. Another swing. Better, but not perfect. He gritted his teeth and tried again.
"You're improving, but slowly," Kenta said, arms crossed like a critic. "You're like a snail climbing a ladder. But hey… cute snail."
"Shut up," Haruto said again, laughing despite himself.
Saki watched silently from the bench, her notebook in her lap. Occasionally, she'd glance over, her expression calm but attentive. She didn't comment, just observed. Somehow, that was motivating.
Haruto felt fatigue and a quiet tension coexisting. He liked it. Practice had become a place where he could measure himself, where improvement felt tangible even when progress was tiny.
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Then came the small drama that left him unsettled.
During a short break, Haruto overheard some upperclassmen talking in the hallway outside the gym.
"…Aoyama Riku is practicing extra hours again," one said. "He's probably going to sweep regionals like usual."
"Three years in a row, right?" another replied.
Haruto paused, the words sinking in. The senior wasn't a rumor. He was real. He had a name, a reputation, and unknowable skill. And somehow, hearing it felt like a challenge—even though the senior wasn't even here.
Kenta leaned over him. "Who are you thinking about now? Someone cute in the bleachers?"
"Shut up," Haruto muttered, heart pounding for no reason related to romance.
Saki, still sitting quietly on the bench, looked up. "You heard something?"
Haruto hesitated. "…Yeah. Aoyama Riku."
Her expression didn't change much. "He's in badminton too?"
Haruto nodded. "Apparently. Everyone talks about him like he's untouchable."
Saki's lips curved slightly. "Then maybe you have someone to watch."
Haruto blinked. She didn't mean anything by it. But somehow, it made the gym feel bigger and smaller at the same time.
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After practice ended, everyone left the gym slowly. Kenta dragged his feet dramatically, Mei rolled her eyes, and Haruto packed up, muscles sore but satisfied.
Outside, the sky was already tinged with orange. The streets smelled like wet asphalt from a morning drizzle that hadn't quite dried. The air felt heavy but promising.
Haruto passed Court Three on his way out. A few faint shoe marks were visible on the polished floor. A shuttlecock lay forgotten near the sideline.
He stopped. Just for a second.
"Not yet," he whispered to himself.
He didn't know why, but somewhere along the way, the name Aoyama Riku had etched itself into his mind. A quiet benchmark. A challenge that wasn't given. A path that existed, waiting for him to take it.
And Haruto walked on, bag slung over his shoulder, ready for the next day, the next practice, and the next chance to improve.
The gym hummed behind him, quiet now, holding its secrets. Somewhere along the way, life kept moving. And Haruto was moving with it.