A/N: Hey, everyone out there who loves POT! This is my first attempt at a POT fic, and this idea just suddenly popped out of nowhere while I was watching T.V. I've always adored Ryoma (my god, if only he was real...) and well, Sakuno and him seem kind of cute, if you get what I mean. But really, Sakuno sometimes make me want to knock some sense into her..sheesh! Sooo, here goes nothing! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Nope, I do not own POT. Never had, and never will. Nope, nope.

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Chapter One: Reflecting and Dealing

The crowds up on the stadium stood up abruptly as they applauded and screamed their hearts away at the twenty-two-year-old Echizen Ryoma down on the grass court. With a smirk, the cat-eyed boy settled in a world famous stance of his, and in a blink of an eye, he finished his opponents six-four with his infamous twist serve. Again, hordes of screaming fans bounced up and down on the benches, announcing their love and ever-loyalty to the prince of tennis at his winning yet another Wimbledon Championship.

Ryoma only smirked and pulled his white cap down.

It was only another grand slam title – which meant more fame, more money, and more screaming girls. How many wins was this? Eighty? No, it might've been ninety.

Ryoma shrugged. He didn't particular care how many tournaments he won, as long as he could still continue his consecutive winning streak. Ever since his participant at the U.S Open at the age of twelve as the youngest person alive to compete, he'd never lost a game.

Sighing, the young tennis star trudged back to the lockers, hoping that this time, the media would hurry and shut up with all these nonsense about him hooking up with some Hollywood star. Somehow, he had a feeling that his Ponta would have to wait for quite some time.

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"I told you, you can't!"

"Why?" Ryoma asked with annoyance as he glared at his manager. It was after the interview, and dressed in a simple white bloused t-shirt along with matching black khakis, he was calmly lounging in his president suite, sipping on a Ponta.

That is, he was sipping on a Ponta until his rude agent refused his request.

"Because," his agent cried exasperatedly, "You need to train for the upcoming tournaments so that you'll be qualified for the U.S. Open. Not only that, you have a lot of photo shoots and advertisements coming up."

"Those can wait."

"No, they can't, because you already procrastinate it long enough. They're quite agitated with you."

Ryoma gave a rude snort as he took another chug at his grape soda. Hmm…there was nothing like a can of grape Ponta after a sweet victory..

His agent, a large and heavily built man with neat brown hair (which to Ryoma, looked as if he spent at least an hour styling every morning) and perfectly trimmed moustache in his late forties, sighed in impatience. Why he decided to spend his time dealing with an arrogant brat like this, he didn't know. Perhaps it was the affection built over these years, or perhaps it was the good pay. But whatever it was, he was balding and wrinkling too early from dealing with his stubborn mind.

"Look, unless you want all your contracts to be ripped away, I suggest you finish your jobs with the companies before you go off dallying in Disneyland or whatever place you want to go."

Ryoma turned his amber eyes towards him and blinked, as if he didn't have a clue, "I never said I wanted to go to Disneyland." He was rewarded with a frustrated grunt.

Oh yes, the Echizen family's rule number one to get what you want: frustrate the person being requested.

"You still have that endorsement to sign."

He widened his eyes surprise, "What endorsement?"

Rule number two: Act innocent and stupid.

His agent hopped around the room in annoyance.

Rule number three: Make sure the person being requested is annoyed and irritated to the point of tearing his-or-her hair out.

"Why, Mr. Cordac, you might pull a tendon from doing all that bunny hop. But I've got to say, it suits you quite well. Perhaps you should enroll as a host for some children's T.V.? Say…Teletubbies?" This phrase was completed with a sweet smile, though anything that was supposedly sweet coming out of Echizen Ryoma seemed more sinister and evil.

Matthew Cordac (aka, Ryoma's agent) was on the verge of tearing his hair out.

Very good, all going as planned.

Rule number four: always make a deal right before he-or-she explodes.

"Now, now, Mr. Coradc, let's make a deal then. You let me go to Japan, and I'll sign whatever endorsement you have there for me. I promise that when I get back, I'll do all those interviews and photo shoots."

Cordac looked up, "What about the Roger's Cup? The Cinnicati? The U.S. Open?"

Ryoma shrugged, "It won't hurt my ranks if I don't go."

"I suppose you think that you're way ahead of the others, don't you?" was the dry reply. "What kind of excuse are you going to come up?"

"I fell down the stairs and pulled a tendon."

"Why is it that I have a feeling that you're going to go to Japan no matter what?" he groaned as he ran his large hands through his neat, gel-combed hair.

Finally, rule number five: Smirk and give yourself a pat on the back for a job well done. Oh, don't forget, celebrate with a can of Ponta.

Echizen Ryoma's reply to his agent was the popping sound of a can being opened.

Mada mada dane.

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As soon as Ryoma left the hotel to go to some party hosted for the Wimbledon champion, Cordac slumped down on the sofa and rubbed his temples.

Echizen Ryoma, huh? For ten years, this boy – no, it would be young man now – had appeared out of nowhere, and dominated the entire tennis world with his skills, technique, and passion for this sport. Having never once dropped a game since his first grand slam title, the tennis star had become the center of attention, from both the sports and fashion media.

He had a heart and mind of a champion, the media had commented.

The teenage heartthrob, the teen vogue claimed.

But having been with him for the past ten years, none other than Cordac knew Echizen Ryoma better than he did. He was arrogant – always had been and always will be. He was self-centered, cocky, and ignorant to anything that didn't involve tennis. But he was still a boy all the same. He cared for his old man, even though he would never admit it even in the face of torture. He adored that blasted cat of his (who had found it amusing to litter on his documents). And there was always a fondness in the way he talked of his old childhood and senpais.

Lately, Ryoma had been getting unpredictable. He would come back late from partying smelling like beer and women. Sometimes, he would throw tantrums – not those childish kinds where one would toss priceless vases and wail like a banshee. No, he would smash his tennis balls so hard that it would break the hotel windows, which always ended up hitting someone on the head from the fiftieth floor. He would also play much more aggressively than usual, especially with that serve of his, and usually results to him winning by default because his opponent was either scared out of their wits, or too tired from chasing the ball.

Cordac only came up with one conclusion for his odd behaviour: too much tennis for the tennis star. Sounded ironic, but true enough. Yep, that was it. It has to be it, since that could be the only reason. When was it since he had a break? Shuffling through many important and unrelated thoughts in his mind, Cordac finally remembered that it was five years ago since young Ryoma had a vacation – to Siberia.

It wasn't a vacation, really. He was there to film some commercial which involved him in a bathing suit (no doubt, his fan girls would've fainted) in a minus forty degree temperature, and drinking some frozen sports drink alongside. Oh yes, like he predicted, he fell to a bad pneumonia the day after, and thus, had a month off. But afterwards, he went back to his routine of practicing tennis, media, tournament, media, party, tennis practice, media, tournament, media, party, tennis practice, yada yada yada….

Come to think of it, this vacation off to Japan would do him some good. Meet old friends like Momoshiro, Fuji, Kikumaru, and his old captain. Damn! What was his name again? Tezura? Tempura? Whatever. And maybe meeting that navigationally-challenged girl that Ryoma kept talking on about would help him with his weird mood swings.

As Cordac was lost in his deep thoughts, his blue eyes caught sight of a piece of A4 paper lying on top of Ryoma's coffee table. Picking it up, he scanned over the page.

To all the old members of the XXXX Seigaku Tennis Club:

A reunion is planned for all members on August 22, XXXX at the Kawamura Sushi Restaurant located on XXX Street, Tokyo, across from XXX. It will run from 6:30 p.m. to 12:00 a.m. Please bring whatever food and drinks suitable to you, as it will be an all-you-can-eat sushi party made especially by your old friend and senpai, Kawamura Takashi.

Please R.S.V.P. before the fifth of August. We hope to see you all!

Yours truly,

Ryuuzaki Sumire.

Well, that explained Ryoma's sudden odd request. Perhaps this break would do him some good, Cordac thought, as he tossed the piece of paper behind him, leaving the invitation fluttering in the air.

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A/N: R & R! Construtive critiscisms are always welcome!