"So," Fuji said, walking over to the tree under which Ryoma was lounging. "You beat Tezuka."

"Yes," Ryoma agreed without looking up.

"And Tezuka beat me," Fuji continued. It wasn't a question, and Ryoma hadn't seen the match anyway, so he said nothing. "So then that means you're better than me."

Ryoma gave a little shrug which was a more polite way of saying yes. Fuji was silent for a moment, then asked, "Will you play a match with me? We've never played a full one."

Ryoma gave him a quizzical look. Why would he bother playing Fuji when he'd already beaten the best player on the team? But the older boy was smiling at him as though to say it would be fun, and he was a little scared of saying no to Fuji, so he gave another shrug and said, "Okay."

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"Out!" Fuji called. Ryoma stared at him in disbelief. "Game, set, match. I win, seven games to five."

There was silence from the audience they had acquired (except for Horio, who didn't know the meaning of the word). It was as though they were holding their breath, waiting to see what would happen now that the natural order of things (Ryoma is better than Tezuka is better than Fuji is better than everyone else) had been so disrupted.

To his credit, Ryoma didn't get angry. He didn't cry (not that anyone would have expected him to) or fall to his knees as though he'd just lost a battle and was about to be executed. He just pulled his hat a little further down over his eyes, and when he came forward to shake Fuji's hand, he said, "I don't understand. I beat Tezuka-buchou."

Fuji held onto the younger boy's hand for a moment. "There's something you have to understand if you ever want to go pro." He glanced over at Tezuka, watching them from behind the fence, then looked back at Ryoma. "The best player doesn't always win."

Ryoma opened his mouth to ask for clarification, but Fuji was already walking away. He stood there in puzzled silence and watched him go.