IMPORTANT NOTE: PLEASE concept or comic artists, I know you just want to earn but stop spamming all of my stories and my inbox. I won't avail your services, I Don't have the money to pay for it.

Chapter Two:

The Fish Slap

If Sakuno had to describe fishing in one word, it would be: wet.

Maybe humiliating, but romantic definitely didn't make the list.

She had imagined standing gracefully by the lakeside, casting her line like a nature goddess, maybe catching a glimmering fish or two with Ryoma-kun watching, just a little impressed.

Instead, she had slipped on a mossy rock, fallen into the shallows twice, and squeaked every time a fish brushed past her ankle.

Ryoma-kun, on the other hand, was a picture of calm efficiency. He stood a few feet away, water up to his calves, his trusted fila hat on his head, and line held with practiced ease. Every few minutes, there'd be a tug, a flick of his wrist, and another fish landed in the bucket beside him.

Sakuno, meanwhile, had tangled her line in a tree. Twice.

At one point, she squeaked when a fish jumped and wiggled as she tried to put it in the bucket. A battle against the fish ensued, and unsurprisingly, Sakuno lost. The fish slapped her in the face before escaping completely, leaving her to tumble back into the water.

She wanted to disappear into the lake and live with the fish forever.

"...You're scaring them," Ryoma-kun said flatly, without looking up from his line.

Sakuno flushed from the roots of her hair to her soaked sneakers. "S-Sorry…"

Then she tripped again.

Ryoma-kun didn't laugh—because of course he didn't—but she felt the smirk radiating from him like heat from a grill.

By the time they returned to the cabin, Ryoma's bucket was brimming with fresh fish, while Sakuno carried… two. One of which had leapt out halfway up the hill and made a dramatic, flopping escape into the bushes.

Naturally.

Sakuno pointedly did not look in Ryoma's direction, but she definitely heard a couple of chuckles he tried (and failed) to hide with a cough.

Later that night, she and her best friend settled into their designated room on the second floor, tucked away from the guys' rooms.

Tomoka flopped dramatically onto the futon beside her and grinned.

"So?" she said, wiggling her eyebrows. "How was it? Catching fishes with Ryoma-sama~?"

Sakuno pulled her blanket up to her nose. "I-It was awful! I don't want to show my face in front of Ryoma-kun anymore!"

"What!? No way!" Tomoka gasped like she'd just been told the world ran out of chocolate. "You were with Ryoma-sama for hours! That's, like, peak camp romance!"

"No it's not!" Sakuno moaned. "All I did was fall in the water and embarrass myself. He probably thinks I'm useless…"

"That's adorable," Tomoka said, already rolling over dramatically with a pillow hugged to her chest. "It's like you're the clumsy heroine in a romantic fishing manga."

"That's not even a genre."

"It should be."

Sakuno pouted, curling tighter into her blanket burrito.

"That's it, Sakuno!" Tomoka suddenly jolted out of her blankets and started shaking her. "This is your chance to confess to him!"

Sakuno could only flail as the shaking commenced. "Wh-What!?" she managed to squeak.

"I'm serious!" Tomoka insisted, eyes gleaming with mischief. "This is the perfect chance! Summer training camp, spooky lake, bonding over slippery fish—this is destiny!"

Sakuno sat up and shook her head furiously. "N-No way! I can't just—just say something like that!"

"You totally can! Just walk up to him and go, Ryoma-sama, daisuki desu!" she declared, throwing her arms in the air with theatrical flair.

Sakuno whimpered, horrified. "Tomo-chan!"

"Fine, fine," Tomoka said with a wink. "But I'm not giving up. One of these nights, you'll give in."

And she meant it. Thus began the nightly campaign of confession-pressure.

"Did you tell him yet?" Tomoka whispered the next night under her blanket.

"No!"

"Coward."

Sakuno hid under her pillow, ears barely intact from all the teasing.

The third night was no different.

"Now?" Tomoka said, peering at her.

"Still no!" Sakuno yelled, red-faced.

Tomoka pouted. "Okay, but what if he's just waiting for you to make the first move?"

Sakuno gave her an incredulous look. "He doesn't even look at me!"

"He tolerated you falling into a river for two hours. That's true love, Sakuno!" Tomoka said with heart eyes, sighing dreamily.

Sakuno groaned into her futon. "I'm going to die."

That night, as the rest of the house quieted down, Sakuno finally let out a loud sigh.

"Fine…" she whispered.

Tomoka shot upright so fast her ponytail smacked the wall. "You'll do it!?"

"I-I'll try," Sakuno said, barely above a whisper.

Her cheeks burned. Her hands trembled. And she was 90% sure she would pass out before she got the words out.

But she'd made her decision.

And if she was going to humiliate herself in front of Ryoma-kun… she might as well go all in. She didn't have much expectation. It was either she found the courage to confess… or the fish would eat her whole.

Frankly, she wasn't sure which was more likely.

The morning air was crisp and filled with the scent of dew-soaked pine and early misery.

At least, that's what Ryoma called it.

By 5:30 a.m., the outdoor court behind the vacation house was already alive with movement. Surrounded by towering trees, the court was both paradise and prison—depending on how many agility ladders Coach Tanaka decided to unleash.

Coach Ryuzaki barked instructions from the baseline like a military commander in a sun visor.

"Split step, Echizen! Don't be lazy with your feet!"

Coach Tanaka, in contrast, was all serene terror—a soft voice and calm smile that somehow made push-ups feel like capital punishment.

"Again," he'd say gently. "One hundred more backhands. Precision."

The entire team was in pain. No one complained.

Ryoma, least of all.

The schedule was relentless.

Mornings: Dynamic warm-ups, footwork circuits, rallying drills.

Midday: Serve-and-return training, accuracy targets, and basket-feeding sessions while Coach Ryuzaki yelled,

"Faster, faster! That serve wouldn't scare your grandmother!"

Afternoons: Plyometrics, core work, endurance runs, and full-court match play until legs wobbled.

Ryoma wasn't sure if he was playing tennis or surviving it.

And yet, he welcomed the grind.

It kept his mind sharp. His hands steady. It filled the space where unwanted thoughts tried to sneak in.

But sometimes, around late afternoon—when his lungs felt like smoke and his calves threatened to file a complaint—something, or rather someone, gave him a strange second wind.

Because when the sun began to dip and orange light spilled through the trees, it was finally time to fish with Ryuzaki.

They weren't allowed to eat until they caught something.

Coach Tanaka called it a "motivational program."

Ryoma didn't need motivation. He could probably catch dinner with a shoestring and a stick. But apparently, fishing was a team-building activity.

And he wasn't allowed to fish alone.

Ryuzaki was already at the lakeside when he arrived, the sky now streaked with amber and gold. She stood with a fishing rod like it was a foreign object—and she had no idea what to do with it.

Ryoma took his usual spot nearby and cast his line with mechanical precision.

Ryuzaki? She immediately tangled hers in a branch.

Again.

He didn't say anything. Just listened.

To the gentle splash of the lake.

To the soft gasps every time she almost caught something.

To the tiny screams of betrayal when a fish slipped through her fingers.

He nearly choked holding back a laugh when she fell into the shallows. The look on her face—wide-eyed, dripping, a human tragedy in slow motion—was…

"…You okay?" he muttered, reeling in another fish without looking.

She puffed her cheeks. "I almost had it!"

He smirked. "Mada mada dane, Ryuzaki."

She pouted. "Mou… I'm trying, okay!?"

He was trying not to laugh. Seriously.

But she made it so damn hard.

Every time she squeaked, flailed, or got slapped in the face by a rebellious fish, it was like the tension from training melted away. His muscles still ached, but he didn't mind it as much.

She was ridiculous.

And yet… she was here. Trying.

He watched from the corner of his eye as she finally, miraculously, caught a tiny fish—barely bigger than his thumb—and raised it high like it was Excalibur.

Ryoma raised an eyebrow. "That's dinner?"

Her face turned red. "Ryoma-kun!"

He tugged his cap down to hide his smirk. "Just saying… you might want to catch seven more of those."

She made a sound that was half growl, half squeak, and stomped back to her spot—soaked, red-faced, and still determined.

Ryoma turned away, the corner of his mouth twitching.

By the time they returned to the house, Ryoma had caught ten. Sakuno… two and a half. The half being the one that escaped halfway up the hill.

He didn't say anything.

But when she tripped on the steps and nearly flung her catch into the bushes, he caught her by the arm without looking.

"…Careful," he said, letting go quickly.

She nodded, red as a boiled shrimp.

Later, as they handed off the fish to the camp cook, Ryoma watched her shuffle inside, muttering something about how "next time, she'll catch a big one."

And for some reason, he found himself looking forward to tomorrow's fishing more than the matches.

To be Continued…