I lay on my back in the middle of the room, staring up into the blank white ceiling. My chest heaved as sweat poured down my face, and every breath stung the aching muscles that had become part of my daily routine.

Gritting my teeth, I pushed myself up against the protest of my exhausted body, and reached for the twenty pound dumbbells once more.

1…2…3…4…

A wave of scorching pain seared through my right arm—instinctively, I grabbed it, gasping at the sudden, piercing agony. The dumbbells fell to the ground with a thundering thud.

A few seconds later, the pain slowly ebbed away to a dull throbbing in my right wrist. I massaged it slowly, praying that it wouldn't have any effect on my game tomorrow in the district preliminaries.

"Takashi?"

I turned and saw my dad standing hesitantly at my door, his lined face heavy with worry. "I heard some noise…" His gaze fell to my right arm, which I was still holding, and then to the dumbbells that lay on the ground.

"Did you hurt yourself?" he asked softly.

"It's nothing," I reassured him quickly, "just a little overexertion, that's all."

My dad eyed me apprehensively, almost as if he was deciding whether or not to believe me. Finally, he gave a little sigh.

"I'll get you some ice." Then he turned and disappeared down the stairs.

Sighing, I sank down onto my bed and rubbed my sore muscles, hating that they had made my dad worry about me—but at the same time, proud of them. With each weight lifted, each push-up, I knew that I was getting stronger.

I thought about Fuji and his ingenious triple counters; Tezuka buchou's zero-shiki drop shot; Inui's data, Kikumaru's acrobatics—and even the new first year Echizen's twist serve. How could I let myself fall behind all of them, even with their extra talents and abilities?

I looked down at my arm: contoured with rolling muscles and thick, heavy veins that ran down its length.

Without this, what do I have?

I heard my dad's sandals clanking up the steps again as he reappeared. He handed me an ice pack wrapped in a thin towel, and placed a new bottle of water on my desk.

"Thanks, oyaji." I pressed the ice pack against my right wrist, noticing that it had a slight fishy smell to it. "Did you have this in with the fish?"

"Uh…" My dad gave a sheepish grin and nervously scratched the back of his head. "Yeah…sorry about that, kid."

"It's fine," I chuckled.

I glanced at the alarm clock at the head of my bed—it was already 10:45.

"You should really go to bed, oyaji," I told him. Normally at this time, he was already fast asleep and snoring the roof down.

"Well, I—uh, actually…" he cleared his throat nervously. I hadn't seen him this jumpy in a long time. "…I actually wanted to talk to you."

He sat down on my bed, twisting the corner of his apron anxiously with his tanned, calloused hands. I waited, tense.

"OK," he finally sighed, letting go of the apron. "I just wanted to say that I notice things too, you know…I see how much you're training and pushing yourself. I can hear you swinging your racket for hours on end, and doing push-ups every night…and how you accidentally cut yourself making sushi the other day—I know that wasn't just a careless mistake."

I threw a glance down at my bandaged finger, recalling how the overworked muscles in my hand just gave out while I was cutting sashimi.

I'm sorry, oyaji. I'm so sorry for making you worry.

"I'm not gonna beat around the bush with you, Takashi."

About what? As I looked up, the corners of his eyes crinkled.

"I just wanted to tell you that you don't have to quit tennis. I don't want you to have to give up anything for your old man's sushi shop."

The two of us sat there, looking at each other, one putting a lifetime of hard work on the line so that the other could have the option to choose. No matter how much I looked at it, no matter how much I knew I loved tennis and playing tennis and living it—I loved my father more. I couldn't be so selfish as to let myself chase a dream that was never meant to be in the first place.

I stared down at the dumbbells on the ground, and then to my tennis racket leaning against the wall. I knew my answer, had been preparing to give it for such a long time—but why couldn't I say it?

Finally, I took a breath and slid the ice pack off of my wrist. It felt numb now, but I wasn't sure how much it would hurt later on.

"No, dad."

How could I? I wanted to tell him, but instead I just smiled.

"This'll be my last year of tennis."

"The doubles two match between Seishun Gakuen and Fudomine will now begin! Players please step onto the court!"

Fuji turned to me with his ever-present smile, radiating his usual confident composure.

"I still don't think this is a very good idea…" I mumbled to him nervously. I wanted him to agree—wanted his smile to falter, and for him to nod his head and suggest that we talk to Ryuzaki sensei.

But I knew that I might as well could have wished for the Earth to stop being round.

Not uttering a word, Fuji stooped down, unzipped my tennis bag, and thrust a racket into my hand. His smile grew wider as he watched me and nodded contently.

"That's much better."

. . . . .

"Game point, Seigaku!"

"Come on!" I pumped my fist euphorically, and high-fived Fuji. I was sure that we could win this—I could feel it in my very bones.

"I'm counting on you, partner."

I looked sideways at the tennis prodigy, face covered in a sheen of sweat but radiating excitement and anticipation.

"GREAT!" I grinned at him. "We are going to win!"

On the other side of the court, Ishida rolled up one of his sleeves and mumbled something to his partner.

Is he plotting something…?

I shook it off and leaned down to a ready position. The serve was hit, and then a sharp crosscourt angle, and then—

It happened all at once.

Ishida pulled his arm back, his feet wide apart—

I could see the triumphant glow of his eyes—

"HADOUKYUU!"

Without knowing how, I knew Fuji was going to try and hit it—giving up wasn't something we were good at.

"Fuji, move!"

Without thinking, reaction and instincts jumbling together with logic—I jumped in front of the hadoukyuu…

"AAH…GREAT!"

The spot in my right wrist burst into flames…but I returned it.

"Seigaku, five games to three!"

"YEAH!"

Adrenaline pumping through my body, I whirled around to give Fuji a high-five; but instead found him walking towards me with a grave expression. "Wha—?"

Before I could react, he reached out and grabbed my right wrist, holding it tightly.

I gasped and hunched over at the intensified, burning pain—but I could continue the match, we were so close, don't stop the match Fuji!

"You blocked it for me." His blue eyes were piercing and calm, and in a louder voice, he called to the referee, "This match—"

"No!"

"—we forfeit."

"Fuji!" I grabbed his arm desperately. "What are you doing? I can still play! You know how much this first match means to us…!"

But as I looked at his face, my better judgment resurfaced, and I knew it was useless. I hung my head as disappointment engulfed me like a cold draft.

I felt Fuji's hand on my shoulder, supportive and reassuring.

"It'll be alright."

But everyone…I glanced over at the players' bench towards my teammates, and noticed something sparkle in their eyes: Kikumaru gave me a "Good job" wink; Tezuka buchou nodded his head once, as if in approval of something; and Echizen's normally bored expression had turned to one of almost excitement.

Well, I tried. I smiled back to everyone sheepishly.

And now, all I could do was have trust in my teammates.