noveltune Chapter 52 When My Heart Flutters, I'm There for You
Chapter 52 When My Heart Flutters, I'm There for You
At six o'clock in the evening, the whistle blew to signal the end of training for the Hyotei Tennis Club. Atobe stood on the sidelines and glanced at Mochizuki Ryo with his all-seeing eyes.
"Oh, your voice is completely hoarse?"
Wang Yueling didn't speak, but spread her wrists out to make a helpless gesture.
It's not that he doesn't want to talk, it's that he really can't. From eight o'clock in the morning until just now, his mouth hasn't stopped. He can't help but talk about every detail, from adjusting his stance and swinging the racket to his footwork and breathing.
Even though he'd only been a coach for a day, he acted like he'd been doing it for decades.
In the afternoon, Mochizuki Ryo secretly whispered to Oshitari that he was even more talkative than Atobe. Mochizuki Ryo overheard this and gave each of them a friendly "iron chestnut".
After 2 p.m., my voice completely gave out.
Later, he simply gave up speaking and relied solely on his eyes and gestures to command the atmosphere. The more than two hundred people at Hyotei were completely subdued and didn't even dare to breathe loudly.
Shinobu felt a chill run down his spine from being stared at, and had to adjust his hitting posture three times before he finally passed. Hiyoshi, on the other hand, wasn't afraid of being stared at, but after being stared at for a full ten minutes, he also showed a rare uneasy expression.
……
After the tennis club members dispersed, Mochizuki Ryo sat on the coach's bench writing a training summary, his pen scratching across the paper. Atobe walked over, holding a box of throat lozenges, placed it next to him, and without saying a word, simply raised an eyebrow.
He smiled, took it, peeled one, and popped it into his mouth. The coolness of the mint, mixed with the sweetness of the Malva nut, spread in his mouth, and the stinging sensation in his throat subsided a little.
"Tomorrow is the weekend, everyone will be training and competing. I'll take care of it."
"Hmm." Mochizuki Ryou didn't even look up.
"Your throat... try to speak less tomorrow."
Mochizuki Ryou smiled and glanced at him. Atobe's expression was calm, but his icy blue eyes held a hint of concern.
I will try my best.
"Keigo, I'll be taking Jiro to the hospital for a full check-up tomorrow morning. I also have some personal matters to attend to this afternoon, and there's school..."
His voice was still hoarse, but it was a little better than in the afternoon.
Atobe arrogantly raised his chin, turned around and walked out. After taking two steps, he stopped and turned his head to look at him.
"Ah, well~ leave this little thing to me! You should take good care of your voice first, or people will start saying Hyotei is exploiting you."
"Yes, sir, you are the most mighty! I understand."
"You look quite dashing today," Atobe said before leaving, his pace quicker than usual.
Watching his retreating figure, Mochizuki Ryou couldn't help but chuckle. This guy even puts on airs when showing concern for others; truly worthy of being Hyotei's most flamboyant captain.
As he walked out of the tennis club, he glanced down at his phone. The screen was clean; there were no new messages.
He put his phone back in his pocket.
When I got home, my grandmother was in the yard.
The light this evening was orange-red, shining in at an angle and turning the lily of the valley in the yard into a warm hue.
My grandmother was squatting by the flower bed, a small shovel in her hand, loosening the soil around the flowers. She always did this very slowly, one stroke at a time, as if she were negotiating something with the soil.
Wang Yueling walked over and sat down on the steps next to her.
With his tennis bag at his feet, he pulled out the box of throat lozenges Atobe had given him and peeled one off. His grandmother glanced up at him, her gaze lingering on his throat for a moment, before she continued fiddling with her flowers.
"Your voice is completely hoarse?!"
He grunted in response, his voice muffled.
Grandmother smiled and said nothing more. She gently patted the loosened soil flat and then lightly sprinkled water on it with a spray bottle. The water droplets landed on the lily of the valley leaves, rolled around, and seeped into the soil.
He sat on the steps watching, the minty taste in his mouth slowly fading.
The yard was quiet, with only the soft rustling of water from the sprayer and the occasional car horn in the distance.
"How was your first day as a coach?" Grandma put down the watering can and patted the dirt off her hands.
Wang Yueling paused for a moment, then smiled. Her grandmother was always like that; she never asked anything, yet she knew everything.
"Hmm, not bad, but it's a bit tiring on the voice."
"That's good enough." Grandma stood up, picked up his tennis bag, and walked into the house. "Your grandfather was a coach when he was young, teaching people how to grow flowers. He would come back and complain to me every day that his students were stupid and couldn't remember no matter how many times he told them."
"and then?"
"Then they went happily again the next day."
Wang Yueling laughed out loud, his voice hoarse and his laughter sounding like a duck's quack. This time, his grandmother didn't laugh at him; she just turned and glanced at him with gentle eyes.
What do you want to eat tonight?
"Grandma, I'll do it."
"Your voice is like this, why are you still doing it?"
"It's not like you're cooking with your voice."
Wang Yueling then stood up, washed her hands, and tied on an apron.
Sea bream and tofu soup, minced meat and egg custard, cold carrot salad, and rice.
The cooking time was perfect; the meat was soft and tender without being greasy. He's not very good at cooking Chinese food, only desserts and simple Japanese dishes. He's been learning from his grandmother these past few weeks and is gradually getting the hang of it.
He had just finished clearing the table when a cup of fruit tea was handed to him. The pear and apple slices were stewed until soft and tender, floating in the amber-colored tea, steaming hot.
"It's good for soothing the throat."
He picked up the cup and took a sip. It was sweet, with a fruity aroma mixed with the fragrance of tea. The pear slices were cooked until very soft, melting in his mouth.
"Drink slowly, don't rush," his grandmother said softly, sitting beside him.
Wang Yueling nodded, taking small sips from her cup, but her gaze involuntarily drifted to her phone on the corner of the table. The screen was silently black, no messages, no notifications, not even a vibration.
As the clock slowly ticked past eight, his fingertips unconsciously rubbed the rim of the cup, his heart inexplicably heavy.
His grandmother, leaning back in her rocking chair, noticed his unease, sighed softly, and moved closer to him.
"You're worried about Seishi, aren't you?"
Wang Yueling raised her eyes, her azure pupils reflecting a hint of helplessness at having her secrets exposed. Her throat was hoarse, and every word she uttered carried a rough, abrasive quality.
"Um……"
Wang Yueling held her teacup, the tea swirling slightly inside. The sweetness of the pear slices still lingered in her mouth, her throat was still hoarse, and each swallow hurt.
From the moment the German medical team became involved, he never inquired about the specific medical progress. It wasn't that he didn't care, but rather that it was Yukimura's privacy. He only did one thing: with Yukimura's consent, he spoke with the attending physician once.
The German doctor, Laurent, explained every piece of data very clearly, every step of the surgical plan, and every stage of postoperative recovery.
At the end, he even took off his glasses, wiped them, and said one sentence.
"This surgery is unlikely to go wrong."
It's not "it should be fine," it's not "it's highly likely to succeed," it's "it won't go wrong."
Germans don't say things like that lightly; when they do, it means they're very confident.
So he really wasn't afraid.
Or rather, he wasn't afraid of the surgery outcome itself. The medical team was top-notch, the pre-operative examinations were thorough, the rehabilitation plan was comprehensive, and a nutritionist and a psychologist were both available.
He did everything he could; all that was left was to wait.
But he... felt panicked.
His anxiety wasn't due to the surgery, but rather because he feared Yukimura would panic.
Yukimura Seiichi is not afraid.
That boy had carried the Rikkai University tennis team on his shoulders since he was thirteen, and he wasn't afraid even after he fell ill. At least, he never showed any fear in front of anyone. He accepted all the examinations and treatments, including surgery, as calmly as if he were dealing with someone else's problem.
But that doesn't mean they're not afraid.
That means not allowing yourself to be afraid.
Tennis was like life to Yukimura Seiichi.
The surgery has only two outcomes: success or failure. If successful, he can return to the court. If unsuccessful, he might lose everything. Anyone would be afraid of something like that.
But Yukimura wouldn't allow himself to be afraid, because admitting fear is tantamount to admitting the possibility of failure.
Therefore, he is not afraid.
But he will... panic.
When faced with the most important thing, people may not admit to being afraid, but it's hard to control panic. Panic is a physiological reaction, unrelated to courage or willpower. It can suddenly surge up in a moment, rising from the stomach, making one restless and wanting to be alone, saying nothing, just staying still.
He was panicked because he feared that Yukimura was experiencing such a moment that night, and he... wasn't there.
He didn't tell his grandmother these things.
He couldn't put it into words, nor did he know how to express it. He simply leaned back on the sofa, looking at the teacup in his hand, and said, "It's just... I can't calm down."
Grandmother stopped knitting and looked up at him.
After a while, she lowered her head and continued knitting the scarf. Her fingers were steady, and the yarn circled around the needle tip, the off-white pattern extending little by little.
The rocking chair swayed gently, making a soft creaking sound.
She didn't say "Don't panic," "Everything will be alright," or "You have to believe him." She didn't say anything, just sat there, knitting a scarf, stroke by stroke.
The living room was quiet.
The clock on the wall ticked away, the steam from the tea gradually dissipated, and the sweetness of the pear slices faded as well.
About half an hour later, Grandma folded the scarf, placed it on her lap, and slowly stood up.
"Your maternal grandfather, that man," she said calmly as she put her knitting needles back into the box, "once I casually remarked that it would be nice to have some lily of the valley in the yard."
Wang Yueling looked up at her.
"That night, he disappeared after dinner. I went out to look for him and found him moving bricks in the corner of the yard. It was late at night, and he was building a flower bed with a flashlight. I said, 'What's the rush? Can't you do it tomorrow?' He said, 'Since you mentioned it, I just want to get started.'"
She placed the box on the small table next to the rocking chair.
"It didn't bloom the first year it was planted, and he was so anxious that he squatted there every day to watch it. The following spring, it bloomed, and he picked a bunch and put it by my pillow. When I woke up, my pillow was full of that scent."
After saying this, Grandmother turned and walked towards the bedroom. As she reached the door, she glanced back at him, smiled, and pushed the door open before going inside.
Wang Yueling was the only one left in the living room.
He sat on the sofa, looking down at the teacup in his hand. The tea had gone cold, and the pear slices had sunk to the bottom, no longer floating.
The lily of the valley in the yard...
He put down his cup, stood up, pushed open the living room door, and went out.
He carried the small wooden chair that his grandfather used to teach him to plant flowers when he was a child, placed it next to the lily of the valley flower bed, and sat down.
The evening breeze swept through the flowers, and any soft sound was clearly audible in the night.
He took out his phone, opened his chat with Yukimura, and hovered his fingers over the keyboard. He wanted to say something, but didn't know what to say.
"Try harder tomorrow" is too lenient.
"Don't panic," that sounds too fake.
I can't bring myself to say "I am here".
The screen went dark, then he turned it back on. It went dark again, then he turned it back on. At exactly nine o'clock, a line of small text suddenly popped up at the top of the chat window.
Typing...