"What do you think you were doing?"
Nanjirou, angry and confused.
Ryoma shrugs, with no regret on his face.
Infuriating. He wants to shake the brat until he makes sense.
"You could have won. Isn't that what you've always wanted?"
Calloused fingers pack up the racket with ease born of long practice.
The rest of that team waits and walks away, wanting to comfort and trying not to cast blame.
He might have said, "I'm tired of always winning."
Nanjirou stares at shattered dreams, at the wish to have a rival who could play with him. Someone who is there, with him, at that place where they know.
It doesn't matter anymore.
"Just tell me one thing, Ryoma. Why?"
The child in question adjusts his cap and walks away.
Seigaku stands apart, disappointed. Their last chance to win as a team – gone.
The board proclaims 7-6 in favor of Yukimura. Rikkaidai's child of god won, as expected.
Is there really such a thing as a last-second miracle?
There are few cheers for Rikkaidai.
The winner played to win; the loser played for the sake of playing.
Maybe Ryoma whispers, "I wanted to play for myself."
Rikkaidai is a team of winners.
Seigaku might have been a family.
Love is not enough, and there's only one place to go from the top.