One morning, grown-up Atobe Keigo woke up. Tezuka Kunimitsu was still asleep beside him. The rare off-season had let this world-class player lower all his guard. Atobe didn’t wake him. He walked alone to the floor-to-ceiling window and gazed at the snowy scenery in Munich.
The afternoon twenty years ago when he first met Tezuka suddenly came back to him with startling clarity.
The chestnut-haired boy, swinging his racket at the wall again and again.
The small hand that hesitated for a second before taking his own when he held it out.
