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They’re holding an info session for members of Team Japan.
They’re holding several, actually, on account of the impossibility of coordinating the schedules of over four hundred different athletes, but Kokoro is going to this one, alone, because Momona is busy with a PT appointment and she would rather just get this over with than wait. She slips into the gymnasium and takes a seat in the very back. No one pays her any mind.
With so many people in the room, the atmosphere is thick with an excited buzz. Kokoro, however, doesn’t quite share in the anticipation. It’s been a long time since she had an opportunity like this, since she was last faced with the feeling of something so momentous.
It’s strange.
Someone taps on the chair next to her, interrupting her thoughts. “Is someone sitting here?”
Kokoro looks up to find a woman staring back, inquisitive. She’s small and lithe, with a delicate heart-shaped face that sends a wave of tremors through Kokoro’s chest.
“Uh, yes. I mean no—” Kokoro’s tongue is thick in her mouth. “As in, no, no one’s sitting here. But yes, it’s free.”
The woman offers her a small smile, warm but hesitant. She takes a seat.
“What’s your name?” asks Kokoro after a moment, hoping to impress. Her pulse is still pounding like she’s just made a close dig. “I’m Kato Kokoro, from Aichi prefecture.”
“Ah, really?” The woman blinks. “I’m from Aichi, too. Sakurai Miu,” she says of herself. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
“Miu. The pleasure’s all mine.” Kokoro barrels forward, putting forth the question before she can think better of it. “I’m curious, so if you don’t mind me asking — how do you write your name?”
There’s a sound that might be a laugh. “With the kanji for ‘beautiful’ and ‘feather’,” explains Miu, drawing the characters in the air.
Kokoro follows the invisible strokes left by Miu’s finger, retracing them on the skin of her own knee. “That’s gorgeous,” she says.
“It’s a little embarrassing,” deflects Miu. “And you?”
“Oh, mine’s easy. Just one big heart.” Kokoro curls her hands into one for good measure, smiling her big, cheesy smile because she can’t help that, either.
Jeez. Imagine if Momona were here to see this.
“It suits you,” says Miu, finally.
Kokoro is a little too happy about that, and she knows it’s not just because Miu is pretty. She tries not to think about how eager to please has never left her dictionary, not once in all these years.
“So what are you here for?” asks Kokoro. “What sport do you play?”
Miu, it turns out, has a mischievous streak underneath all that poised politeness. “Guess,” she says, eyes glittering.
“Well, with all due respect,” says Kokoro, "it’s not volleyball.”
“Is that yours?” When Kokoro nods, Miu says, “Hmph. You’re not so tall yourself.”
“No, but I can jump. You don’t have a jumper’s legs.”
“Then,” asks Miu, “what kind of legs do I have?”
Kokoro hazards a look at Miu’s thighs and calves, hidden but only just by the fabric of her pants. They’re strong, muscled, though not in the same way as Kokoro’s. They’re meant to go forward, and not up.
“Track and field,” tries Kokoro. “Running.”
The lights dim, and the projector screen at the end of the gymnasium lights up with a presentation. Miu smiles at Kokoro, face shadowed in blue.
“Not quite,” she says. “I suppose, Kokoro, that you’ll just have to wait and see.”
Kokoro and Miu meet again before the flight to Paris.
The JAL check-in counters are slightly overrun by all manner of Olympic athletes, declaring their equipment, hauling oversize bags, and generally causing what would be chaos if not for the determined efficiency of the airline staff. There’s a small kerfuffle with one of the golfers, but it’s quickly smoothed over, and the line keeps moving.
Kokoro realizes that, in this department, she and Momona are lucky. They each have a suitcase containing nothing much more than their uniforms, athletic tape, sunscreen, and a volleyball — carefully deflated beforehand — for on-site practice, plus personal effects. She watches a sport shooter go through a mountain of paperwork and decides that, yes, she’s done well with her choice of specialty.
Their turn comes soon enough. Bags. Passports. Boarding passes. Easy.
“That was nice,” says Momona, as they’re walking away, “but I just hope security is as much of a breeze. Remember last time, when I—”
Kokoro stops short. Momona doesn’t, and runs face-first into her back.
Miu is there at the end of the counter area, watching the monitor with careful scrutiny, eyes following the path of what must be her bag down the conveyor belt.
Momona re-enters Kokoro’s field of view, clutching her forehead in mock pain. “Hey, what was that?”
“I — I know her,” says Kokoro. Hardly an explanation at all, but she doesn’t have the cognizance to piece together a better one. “I’ll just be a second. I’m going to go say hi.”
“Well, don’t let me stop you,” grumbles Momona, though Kokoro is already on her way.
She jogs up to Miu’s side. “Hey there,” she says with a wave, the smile slipping through on its own.
“Oh.” Miu looks surprised, if only for a moment. “I remember. Kokoro, right?”
“Sure am. I’d ask what you’re doing here, but…” Kokoro laughs. “I think I have a pretty good hunch.”
Miu nods. “Paris,” she says, almost to herself, like she’s testing out the name. “I can’t really believe it. I’ve never been.”
“Me neither. Not even fifteen hours and we’re there, huh?”
“We’re there,” Miu agrees. She angles her attention to Kokoro’s backpack. “You travel light.” It’s an observation, plainly devoid of compliment or insult.
“And you,” says Kokoro, eyeing the heavy duffel over Miu’s shoulder, “have a lot to take along.”
“You should have seen the bag I checked.”
Kokoro whips her head to the monitor, but of course Miu’s bag is long gone. She looks back, and Miu has a hand over her mouth, hiding a giggle.
“Archery,” guesses Kokoro, mostly for the hell of it.
“That would be cool, but no.” A short beep comes from Miu’s pocket, and she jumps. The phone she produces thereafter gets silenced with an apologetic look. “Ah, sorry, but I’m supposed to meet some teammates for lunch and I’m already running late. We’ll see each other around, okay?”
“Right, of course,” says Kokoro, both relieved and disappointed. “See you.”
As soon as Miu is out of sight, Momona is upon her in seconds like a persistent, gossip-feeding shark.
“Who was that?” she asks. She’s wiggling her eyebrows, an insufferable smirk plastered across her face.
“We met at the info session,” says Kokoro, hastily. “We just hit it off, that’s all.”
“Wow. All I did was leave you alone for one night, and you’ve already found yourself a crush.” Momona pinches the bridge of her nose, but it’s clear that her suffering is as fake as her loyalty is true. “Kokoro, Kokoro, Kokoro. What on earth am I going to do with you?”
“You really want the answer to that?” Kokoro leans into the joke. “Coach Rino’s always saying you should tighten up your setting…”
Momona’s mouth drops open in exaggerated shock. “Oh, you did not.”
“Love you, too.” Kokoro tugs on Momona’s hand. “Now come on, the plane’s waiting!”
Arrival is a series of vivid, if unconnected, images. Kokoro stumbles through both the unfamiliar setting and the time difference, but her eyes remain wide, each new experience searing its way into her memory.
I’m here, she thinks. I’m really, really here.
Once at the Olympic Village, the little group that she and Momona drift into company with is an unexpected yet comforting presence. Even if they’ve never met before, their common hunger and the shared excitement of being top competitors on a world stage helps to bring them close in no time. There are some real characters, like Keiko, the proudly theatrical shot putter, or Tsuzumi, the young skateboarder, or Ayane, the equestrian who isn’t nearly as shy as she looks.
And, of course — Miu.
On the first night, Kokoro has to coax her over to their table in the athlete restaurant, standing up to get her attention from across the hall.
Miu looks embarrassed as she approaches. “Thank you,” she says, settling into the chair that Kokoro holds out for her.
Kokoro nods, ignoring the way Momona makes kissy faces from the next seat over. There’s a paleness to Miu’s cheeks, and so she asks, “Are you all right?”
“I don’t like flying,” admits Miu. “Or… planes. In general.”
Sympathy twinges in Kokoro’s ribs. “Motion sickness?”
“Not that, at least.” Miu makes a face. “I think it might have been the temperature, or the dryness. I couldn’t sleep at all.”
“I packed some electrolyte drink mix in my suitcase,” says Kokoro. “I hear it helps. If you want, you can stop by my room later, and I’d be happy to share.”
Miu’s eyes widen. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly—”
“You’d be doing her a favor,” interjects Momona. She lightly elbows Kokoro in the side as she chooses this moment to enter the conversation, leaning forward so she can make eye contact with Miu. “If we don’t finish it by the time we have to leave, she’ll get another overweight bag charge. And trust me, we don’t get nearly enough sponsorships for that.”
If that isn’t the most ridiculous lie Kokoro has ever heard. She almost objects, but she can recognize a bone being thrown to her almost as well as she can recognize a good pass, and no one passes like Momona.
Teammates, Kokoro thinks in fond resignation. What would she do without them?
“If that’s the case, I’d really appreciate it,” says Miu.
“Great,” says Kokoro. “We’ll go after dinner.”
Miu just smiles her gracious, closed-mouth smile, and starts on her meal. Her lips are deft around the spoon she eats from, and Kokoro does not stare.
You’re welcome, mouths Momona, out of Miu’s line of sight.
Kokoro blushes, and hopes no one else can see it.
The drink mix handover becomes something else entirely. There’s a door to the rooftop of their housing building, and Kokoro pushes it open with a finger pressed to her lips, winking so Miu knows she gets to be in on it, too.
“I’m not sure about this,” says Miu, still.
“But look.” Through the doorframe, the night sky gleams, not so much with stars as it does with the golden lights of the city. Kokoro watches that same gold reflect in waves off the curve of Miu’s collarbone — in, out; in, out. “Once in a lifetime, right?”
After a pause, Miu acquiesces. “Right,” she says, and follows Kokoro out onto the roof.
They tear open the Pocari sachets and pour the powder into water-filled paper cups, courtesy of the sink in Kokoro’s room. Kokoro swirls and Miu stirs. They drink.
“Nice view,” says Kokoro, stating the obvious.
“It really is,” says Miu.
Off in the distance, the Eiffel Tower shines proudly, displaying the five interlocking Olympic rings just above its first platform, and a little further away winds the Seine, whose waters they’ll soon be ferried along for the Parade of Nations.
“It’s my first time seeing anything like it.” Kokoro takes another sip of the Pocari Sweat, letting the salty-sweet taste coat her tongue. “Have you ever been before?”
Miu nods. “A few times, for competitions. Not that I saw much outside of the venues.”
“I know what you mean. I almost wish we had the time for sightseeing here,” says Kokoro, “but I know we’re going down to the wire. I’d love to see the Arc de Triomphe, the Louvre…”
She trails off into silence, hoping Miu will feel encouraged to offer her own two cents. No such luck. The quiet stays quiet, and the arm’s length, ever there, remains.
Kokoro glances over and tries not to stare too openly at the side of Miu’s face. “How about you? Anything you’d want to visit?”
Miu’s answer is blunt, though not rude. “No,” she says. Instead, the candlelight glow of streetlamps and windows fills her eyes with fire. “I’m only here for one thing — victory.”
The night is warm. Still, Kokoro feels the chill of a shiver run along her bare forearms and down her back.
“You asked me what sport I play,” says Miu. Not a question, nor an elaboration.
“Yes,” says Kokoro, “I did.”
The answer leaves Miu’s tongue, inherent as breath. “Fencing. Foil. I’ve been competing for so long that I can’t remember what it’s like not to.”
It’s only then that Kokoro sees the musculature of Miu’s right bicep, the small bruises dotted along her skin. Further up, the hard set of her jaw doesn’t quite hide a deep and weighty sadness, etched in the lines around her mouth.
Perfect pieces fall into place — Miu, a fighter. Miu, a disciple of honor and steel.
“I want this,” says Miu. Her expression is bare with desire. “Is that stupid to say?”
And yet Kokoro, too, is an Olympian. “No,” she says, her heart pumping its own four and a half liters of blood through the instrument of her body, “of course not.”
Miu looks at her with a flicker of hope. “Then you must know, right?”
The hardship of training? The complexity of having? Kokoro can only imagine it to be this.
But instead, Miu says, “Japan has never taken home a medal in women’s fencing. In any weapon, team or individual.”
Ah, thinks Kokoro.
“I could be the first,” is what Miu says. What she leaves unspoken is, I have to.
Kokoro nods slowly. She understands, if only because ambition is a given for any athlete, and because it is all the more essential for those here. She herself, though, has learned to temper it time and time again. A first is something she’s long since given up on. To be given the chance at all must, for her, be more than enough.
Privately, she wonders who is in the right — her, or Miu.
“This,” says Miu, “is my dream.”
And a dream, of course, is something Kokoro knows all too well.
Kokoro dreamed once, too.
More than anything, her sport was her first love. There’s a photo in the back of one of her mother’s scrapbooks of her three-month-old self gnawing on a miniature volleyball, and the moment Kokoro was old enough to play, she played. There are other photos of her in kid-sized kneepads and jerseys. She was on the team in school, went to training camps over winters and summers. For a long time, she loved it, and she was good at it.
She wasn’t just good, as it turned out. She turned heads, in her neighborhood, in places far beyond.
And so Kokoro was just a teenager when she left home for Korea, scouted to play indoor volleyball on a team of ten. One beautiful year passed as she shed sweat and tears with those women. One beautiful year made it seem as if all her greatest wishes had come true.
Kokoro should have known, always, that it was too good to last.
Because it didn’t. Because then health got in the way, and then school couldn’t wait, and then, and then, and then — and so she let her dream go like sand between her fingers. So cruel, how something all too difficult to earn was just as easy to surrender. Slipped away in a shape that never was.
And yet, like that same sand, it became something impossible to shake off completely. It went through her fingers, out of her grasp, to come to rest underneath the soles of her feet.
Kokoro may have stopped playing indoor volleyball, and she may have nearly stopped playing altogether, but one Kasahara Momona had other ideas.
“It only takes two,” she’d said, at their first meeting. She had left her own team not long after Kokoro had left hers, but she’d held onto the hunger that Kokoro didn’t. “Beach volleyball. It’d be perfect for us, don’t you think?”
Time hadn’t yet done anything for Kokoro, still wounded and wary. “I don’t think I can. I’m not…”
“No, I know you’re something else.” Momona’s hands, firm around Kokoro’s own. “I want you to be my partner.”
Momona was convincing enough to get Kokoro to take the chance, and together, they were good — and weren’t just good. Kokoro learned to work again, to train again, to play again. Kokoro went with Momona to the qualifying tournament and, after the ten months between the preliminaries and the finals, scored that sweet and cathartic deciding point.
The heart is a muscle. So, too, is trust.
These days, Kokoro is much better than she used to be, but despite her namesake and despite her empirical success, it doesn’t take much to remind her that she still hasn’t quite gotten the hang of either.
“Will you be coming to my matches?”
Miu asks this with nothing short of earnestness, and Kokoro swallows.
Over the past few days, they’ve settled into an easy friendship. They sat together at the opening ceremony, have gotten meals together when time allows. (Momona chaperones with a sharp eye and a knowing grin.) They’re different from each other — Miu’s flat-lipped solemnity to Kokoro’s instinctive smile — but they meet on matters of, well, the heart.
So Kokoro knew they were getting along. She just didn’t know they had gotten here yet.
“Um,” she says, fighting a sudden rush of giddy nerves, “I’d love to, as long as I’m not playing. When are they?”
Miu tells her. The individual tournament falls on the same date as Kokoro’s first match, so she’d barely even be able to catch the first round or so, but for the team tournament, she’s free all day.
“I’ll come to everything I can,” Kokoro promises.
“Okay,” says Miu. It might just be Kokoro’s imagination, but past the calm surface of her features, she looks just as happy. “I want to watch yours, too.”
Kokoro’s competition will run for much longer — victory willing, of course. “If we even make it far enough,” she jokes.
“You will.”
“We’re the underdogs,” Kokoro supplies. She winces. “Or, not even. More like, under, under, underdogs.”
“You will,” says Miu. The other day, Kokoro revealed to her that, just as in fencing, Japan had never won in beach volleyball before, either — and although Miu treats her just as usual, it feels like something’s shifted in the way they talk about sport.
“You’ve never even seen me play,” says Kokoro, not unappreciatively.
Miu is silent for a long moment.
“Would you say we’re the same?” she asks, then.
Kokoro is surprised into a laugh. “What makes you say that?”
“Because—” Miu makes a pained face, apparently finding herself out of her element. “Because… you just get me, Kokoro,” she says, “and I feel like I get you, too.”
Perhaps this is as close to a confession as Kokoro will get. Something hiccups inside her chest as she says, “Yes, you do.”
“So,” says Miu, “I’m not going anywhere that you aren’t. When I see you, something tells me that you can do it, and it makes me feel like I can, too.” She gazes at Kokoro, the look in her eyes soft and fervent all at once. “We’re both going to win.”
Kokoro wants to believe that, she really does. But more than anything, she can’t bear to let Miu down, so it doesn’t matter what she believes. She reaches out to brush a strand of hair from Miu’s eyes.
“Okay,” says Kokoro, “let’s win. Together.”
And when Kokoro moves to draw her hand away, Miu takes her by the wrist and lingers, lingers, lingers.
Making it to the Olympics is one thing. The road between setting foot in Paris and sinking teeth into a gold medal is something else entirely.
Kokoro and Momona are one of twenty-four teams that will be sorted into four-team pools, playing the three others in a round-robin-style gauntlet. They’ll either do well enough to advance directly, cross their fingers for a chance in the “lucky loser” round, or be eliminated outright. Then the real bracket will begin, where the remaining sixteen teams will be whittled down to eight, to four, and ultimately to a bronze and a gold medal match. Seven games in two weeks, then, for the ones who can go all the way.
Piece of cake. Really.
Japan gets shuffled into Pool E, against the Netherlands, Lithuania, and one of the two Brazilian teams.
Kokoro doesn’t have much hope after that. Or, as Momona puts so succinctly: “Well — damn.”
Of course, bad odds or no, Coach Rino isn’t having any of it. “Why the long faces, girls?” she barks, the day the matchup list is revealed. “You’re Olympians, aren’t you? They haven’t even started, so don’t give up now.” She makes her emphasis in English, as she always does. “Anything can happen!”
“But Coach,” protests Momona, “it’s Brazil.”
“So what? What do I always say?”
Kokoro recites it like second nature. “The team that loses is the team that stops chasing.”
“The team that loses is the team that stops chasing,” repeats Coach Rino. “So never stop. Chase, and fight, and win. And never forget to be proud of yourselves, okay? You’re already some of the best in the world!”
There’s nothing quite like the Olympics to make clear that “best” is relative, though. It’s that first morning, the tail end of July, when Brazil crushes them, two to zero.
To their credit, Kokoro and Momona really don’t ever stop chasing. In fact, that seems to be all they do, because they hardly get a chance to land anything of their own. It’s another thing Kokoro knows all too well — that chasing doesn’t guarantee the destination. She falls short, every single time.
And as the last kill hits the sand, the crowd rises with a howl. Kokoro turns her face away from the sun. She does not see, in a stadium several streets away, Miu take her opponent’s winning attack and fall to her knees.
That night, they go to Miu’s room to lick their metaphorical wounds.
“Chocolate muffin?” Kokoro asks, holding one out, courtesy of the athlete restaurant. “People are saying they’re to die for.”
“Um, maybe later,” says Miu. She blinks, then goes right for it. “So… I lost.”
“I heard,” says Kokoro, as delicately as she can. She sets the muffin down on the bedside table. She doesn’t have much of a stomach for it right now, either.
“And I didn’t even get close,” continues Miu. “I was out in my first one.” She’s clearly upset but trying not to show it, her face blotchy with held-back tears.
“I’m really sorry.” Kokoro hates seeing Miu so hurt, but all she has to offer is these words, and such plain ones, at that. She considers reaching out again, just as she did a few nights ago, but decides otherwise — it’s not the time. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“It was all my fault.” Miu’s hands curl into bitter fists. “I — took too many risks. Left myself open. Saw her coming, so many times, and wouldn’t do anything about it.”
“We all have bad days,” says Kokoro.
“But here? But now?” On the last word, Miu’s expression crumples. “It’s over. The team tournament is my last chance.”
The feeling that swallows Miu now is something Kokoro is so painfully, intimately acquainted with. One look and she’s eighteen in a foreign country again, but she pushes past her own ghosts to say, “Don’t think that. Fencing is a lifelong sport, right? You can be competitive well into your thirties.”
“No,” says Miu. “Have I told you?”
“Told me what?”
Miu sucks in a breath. “This is my third time trying, and I’ve made up my mind. After this, if I can’t make it, I don’t want to do it anymore.”
That gets Kokoro more than it should. “Third?”
“They say it’s the charm,” says Miu, allowing herself a wan tilt of the mouth.
“I didn’t know,” says Kokoro. “But,” she adds, trying to salvage emotions for the both of them, “isn’t that an accomplishment in and of itself? Not everyone can say the same.”
“I don’t feel like I can think of it that way. It’s… I’m exhausted.” The tremble in Miu’s voice makes it clear: she’s been torn from, chunks at a time, until it’s by no small miracle that she has anything left to stand on. “I thought I’d always wanted to medal, but after everything, do I? This badly?”
It’s like a match has been lit. Kokoro all but trips over herself to say it, as if she’s extending a hand, building a bridge. Casting a life ring into the water. “Me too. It’s another chance for me, too,” she says. “Second, not third, but… I know. I really do, Miu.”
Miu stares, then ducks her head. “Aha. I knew you were too good to be a first-timer.”
“No, not at all.” Kokoro waves her hands in denial, but flushes all the same. “I’m not.”
“We’ll see about that. Your next round is the day after tomorrow, isn’t it?”
“It is,” says Kokoro.
“I’ll be there.” As with everything else, Miu does not make promises in halves. The declaration is simple, but Kokoro can already tell she means what she says.
“Okay.” Kokoro breaks into a smile. “I’d love that.”
“My coach likes to say that a second chance is the same as any other.” Miu, then, places a hesitant hand on Kokoro’s arm, and Kokoro lets her. “I’ll be cheering for you, Kokoro. Best of luck.”
Another day. Another game. The Netherlands, this time, but all that awaits Kokoro and Momona is still a big fat zero on the scoreboard, and defeat.
“Brutal,” says Momona afterwards in the locker room, dragging a towel across her sweaty forehead. “Couldn’t keep up with their serves at all.”
“Yeah,” says Kokoro, quietly, “tell me about it.”
Momona picks up on her mood right away. “Hey.” She lobs the towel at Kokoro. “I know that face. That’s the ‘I’m beating myself up for no reason’ face.”
Kokoro dodges, both in the metaphorical and physical sense. “Yuck, come on.”
“You’re only one half of this team, okay? So don’t start going and getting a giant head about how much you kept us from winning.”
Oh, she’s good. This isn’t anything new, though, because Momona can read Kokoro like an open book.
Still, Kokoro tries to put a more palatable spin on it. “I’m just — frustrated, is all.”
“I’m frustrated, too,” says Momona, “but blaming ourselves isn’t going to help.”
Easy for Momona to say. Kokoro’s seen the ranking sites, the press handbooks — she lags behind Momona in every possible stat. If someone is dragging the team down, it won’t be any surprise who.
“Well,” says Kokoro, “better hope the next one’s an improvement.”
The joke here being that, if they lose the next match and make it three whiffs in a row, they’re out for good. No pressure or anything.
Kokoro goes through the motions of packing her stuff, changing out of uniform, and showering up. She feels a little better once she’s tossed on a t-shirt and shorts, but not by much. When she steps out, Momona is already waiting by the entrance to the locker room.
“Took you long enough,” she says, nodding her head towards the door. “Someone’s here to see you.”
The melancholy is replaced with an overexcited little lurch, tugging at the inside of Kokoro’s chest. She pushes her way through.
It’s Miu. Of course it’s Miu, and she’s waiting with flowers — an honest-to-god full bouquet, wrapped in newspaper and secured with a length of twine. Cute and thoughtful and earnest, exactly the same as its bearer.
Kokoro’s mouth drops open. “Oh, wow.”
“Um.” Miu turns the same color as the roses. “I saw a stand on the way here, and it was the least I could do. Congratulations.”
“These are too nice.” Kokoro accepts graciously, but she’s not so gracious as to stop herself from saying, “We lost, though.”
Miu shakes her head. “You kept fighting until the end, and anyway, it was wonderful just to see you compete.” Her gaze drifts down, then shakily away. “You… have a beautiful playing style.”
Suddenly, Kokoro is very, very aware that her hair is still wet, and that her t-shirt is white. The damp splotches where the ends meet the fabric stick to her shoulders and leave little to the imagination.
She feels more naked than she’s ever been in her entire life, and she quite literally plays a sport where two-piece swimsuits aren’t optional.
“Thank you for coming,” she murmurs.
“Of course.” Miu won’t meet her eyes. “I wanted to, so I should be thanking you.”
“See you soon?” Kokoro is hasty to add, “For your tournament, that is.”
“Yes,” says Miu. She finds it in herself to look up and offer Kokoro a brave smile. “That would mean a lot to me.”
Kokoro beams back. “And I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Well, how about it?” says Momona. “She definitely likes you.”
Kokoro laughs nervously. “What are you talking about?”
They’re enjoying their rest day on the Olympic Village’s connecting footbridge, watching the Seine go by underneath. Occasionally, other athletes pass through, either alone or engaged in their own conversations, but for the most part the place is empty. Everyone’s busy keeping up with the commotion of the Games.
“Miu,” answers Momona. “Who else?”
“No chance. Don’t be silly,” says Kokoro.
“The only thing that’s silly is how obvious you two are around each other.” Momona crosses her forearms over the railing, leaning further into the summer sun. “Really. Every time we’re at the athlete restaurant, it’s like dinner and a show.”
That’s undeniable. Mealtimes are what Kokoro finds herself both looking forward to and dreading the most, because, well, Miu — but the tension has gotten so thick that even a knife wouldn’t do much of anything anymore.
Kokoro buries her face in her hands. “I like her.”
“Oh, I know,” says Momona.
“And I want this,” Kokoro says slowly, peeking through her fingers at Momona, “but I don’t know if I — if we — can make it work.”
“Yeah?” Momona’s upper lip curls into her trademark smirk. “Hit me.”
What else is there for Kokoro to say? “We’re athletes, we’re busy, we might not even live anywhere near each other back home. I like what we have here, and I guess she likes it, too, but that doesn’t—” Kokoro’s voice dies on the way out. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
The whole thing must sound all too pathetic, because Momona goes from teasing to grave in no time at all. “Hey,” she says, “it’s going to be okay.”
And now she had to go and drag Momona into it. Nice one, Kokoro thinks to herself. “I’m sorry. I know there’s more important things to be worrying about.”
“More important than you? My one and only teammate?” Momona fake-slugs Kokoro in the shoulder. “I don’t play ball by myself, you know. At this point, I’d follow you anywhere.”
Kokoro shakes her head. “You trust me too much.”
“And you don’t trust yourself enough,” replies Momona, “which means I’ll just have to do it for the both of us.”
A lump forms in Kokoro’s throat. Here Momona is, faith personified. She’s taken chances on Kokoro’s skill and history. She’s taking more, now, on Kokoro’s cowardly heart.
“I’m so lucky to have you, you know that?”
“I do know,” says Momona, eyes crinkling to go along with her smile, “and yes, you are.”
The question, though, remains. Kokoro looks down at her feet. “So what do I do about it?”
“Let yourself want, Kokoro. Whether it’s medals or love or both, I say, why not?” Momona holds out a fist. “If it’s really once in a lifetime, then you have to live it for all it’s worth.”
After years of so much unknown, and after all her hesitation, Kokoro, here, doesn’t think twice. She knocks her knuckles against Momona’s and says, “Okay. I will.”
The Grand Palais’ glass-domed ceilings and cavernous stairways have been transformed into a venue beyond Kokoro’s wildest imagination. Pale fabric billows above, deep blue mats stretch from one wall to the other. Soft lights take care not to throw shadows in the athletes’ eyes, and everything echoes — the shouts, the applause, and, seemingly, the hammer of her pulse as she watches Miu take the stage.
Kokoro stares out from the audience as the fencers enter from the stairs. Miu walks side-by-side with her teammates, Suzu and Hazuki, clad in the same practical white. They each carry their weapons in their hands. They each carry their bodies, grim and resolute.
She’s not the religious type, but still. Kokoro whispers up to anyone who will listen: Please, give them luck.
Miu’s team is quiet, all through the huddle right before their first match. They’re not only muted in comparison to their opponents, but eerily so, without so much as a rallying cry. A strong front, possibly — or maybe, more likely, fear.
Kokoro’s heart aches for them. Time and time again, she knows the feeling.
They assume their positions, and from up in the stands, Kokoro holds her breath. The rest of the crowd holds it with her, and everything is still, too still.
For a moment, it seems as if it is the end. But Miu is up first, and Kokoro should have known.
She hardly has time to process it. It is the allez and the flash of steel and blurred movement. A light, then Miu’s triumphant, stoic fist.
The crowd cries out, and Kokoro cries with them before she even knows what’s happened.
Miu, of Aichi, of Japan, of the enduring little spot between Kokoro’s dreams and Kokoro’s newfound resolution, has scored the first point of the team foil tournament. She scores many, many more as Kokoro looks on. One, and another, and another, as fluid as a fish in water.
To see Miu in action is a magnificent thing. She is decisive, clever. The lines of her body flatten like a spring before exploding, lunging into attack, the bright point of her weapon finding its place on her opponent’s torso. As the points tick up, again and again, something vital becomes clear.
In Kokoro’s sport, she is meant to fly. If an obstacle stands in her way, the way around it is to soar. Dodge the blockers, feint, go high. Avoid, and rise.
Meanwhile, height in fencing is no means of escape, and so Miu must drive ever forward. It is head-first, both in terms of the soul and the mind, dancing through the push and pull of an opponent’s advances.
What if, Kokoro thinks, she were also to let her ambitions take the lead? What if she could be brave like this, too?
In the same way, on the court, Kokoro is all skin and sand — and thus her emotions wear an armor beyond the cover of clothing. She is smiles and crowd-pleasers, personality and perfect grace, whereas Miu is covered head-to-toe, and in her actions, shows nothing other than her truest desires.
Another touch. Miu hits the target score for her team, and bows out.
Kokoro knows what she wants, now. Watching Miu, the certainty ignites her from within, and for the first time in her life, she isn’t scared at all.
Miu’s team wins against Poland, loses to Italy.
In less than four hours, they will enter the bronze medal bout against Canada.
Nothing else to do but wait.
“Feeling all right?”
Miu turns at the sound of Kokoro’s voice, startled. “Kokoro?” Her expression breaks into one of pure joy. “You came.”
“Of course. Such a great job out there,” says Kokoro, reaching out to give Miu’s hand a small squeeze. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“No, not at all,” says Miu. She holds onto Kokoro just a little longer than expected. “I mean, I’m sure you know, but we’re not on until after eight.”
“That’s fine, I’m staying,” says Kokoro. “How has it been?”
“The pressure’s been getting to everyone. I’m worried about Suzu, and even though Hazuki says she’s fine, I know she’s been beating herself up about scoring the least amount of points. They just need to remember that they’re good, and that I believe in them, and to keep their arms up, and…” Miu presses her eyelids shut, taking in a deep breath through her nose.
“And how are you,” Kokoro nudges, gently.
Silence, brief but heavy, settles around them.
“I’m terrified,” Miu eventually confesses, opening her eyes. “If we’d made it at least one more, we’d be guaranteed a medal, but now we might go home with nothing.” She looks at Kokoro, almost pleading. “What if I can’t do it?”
Kokoro swallows. “You’re already incredible. You’re more than enough of a champion,” she says, “at least to me.”
Miu colors. “You’re too much.”
“I mean it.”
“Then promise me this?” asks Miu. “Even if I don’t — even if I—”
She doesn’t have to finish that sentence for Kokoro to understand. She reaches for Miu again, and doesn’t let go.
“Thank you,” whispers Miu, leaning into the touch.
Kokoro nods. “No matter what happens,” she says, “I’m here.”
Last bout. It’s down to Miu and the final Canadian fencer. Point targets are out the window, and now it’s simply a battle against the clock. The only way to win is to stay on the defensive, to keep a cool head, to maintain the lead until time runs out.
Miu holds on by one point and fifty seconds.
Kokoro hasn’t breathed in what feels like hours.
Each time the other fencer tries to score, Miu turns the blade away with a deft wrist, dodging a touch by thinner and thinner margins each time. She has no space to widen the lead, not when she’s doing everything she can just to avoid a tie and time extension, or worse, a loss.
Fifty becomes twenty becomes six becomes two and a half seconds. Japan still stands at thirty-three points to Canada’s thirty-two.
For the last time, Miu and her opponent reset to their ends of the strip. And when the numbers tick down from two-point-five to zero, the world will finally know.
En garde, prêtes, allez.
The Canadian comes charging in — she has nothing to lose, after all, and everything to gain. There’s a clash of metal that Kokoro can’t quite see, and she prays, she prays—
Zero on the clock, and Miu whips off her mask. She is screaming, she is unscathed. Team Japan has won the bronze medal.
The stadium erupts, and Kokoro leaps to her feet and roars.
Moments later, the ceremony.
Music and camera shutters. Miu bends forward into a bow, letting the official place the bronze medal over her head. Its weight pulls the ribbon taught, and the medallion comes to rest against her chest as she straightens.
Kokoro could live in this moment forever, drinking in the podium, the flag, the absolute elation and relief on Miu’s face.
Miu looks up, finds Kokoro in the crowd, and smiles.
“Hey there, Miss Olympic Medalist.” Kokoro walks over to join Miu on the rooftop, passing her a cup of Pocari Sweat from a mix. “Nice night, isn’t it?”
Miu gives Kokoro a look, both amused and surprised. “How did you know I’d be up here?”
“Just a hunch.” Kokoro sips from her own cup and turns to face her. ”So, I haven’t had the chance to tell you properly. Congratulations.”
“Oh, stop.” Miu pretends to wave Kokoro away. “You’re making me blush.”
That might be true, but it’s too dark to make certain — and anyway, Kokoro is no longer afraid to admit to herself that that’s kind of the point. She cares about Miu, and that’s not something she has to hide.
“How has it been?” Kokoro asks. “You know, the attention, the celebrations, everything. I imagine it’s been a long day for you.”
Miu’s shoulders shake with a soft laugh. “No, I haven’t felt any of it. All I am is — happy. Really happy.”
Kokoro can tell. She feels a little flutter as she says, “You deserve it.”
“Not just me. I couldn’t have done this alone,” says Miu. “There’s my team, my coach…” She pauses, considering. “There’s you. Tomorrow it’ll be your turn, right?”
“Yeah.” Kokoro cracks a playful smile. “You’ll be coming to my game, I hope.”
“I can do you one better,” says Miu. “I’ll come to your game, and I’ll buy you dinner if you win.”
“Only if I win?”
“Yes, only,” Miu says, “but that’s because I know you can.”
Kokoro tips her head back and laughs. “You’re very confident in me.”
Miu is serious and tender at once, her brows furrowed together. “And why wouldn’t I be?”
The city is as beautiful as it was so many nights ago — unfolding, vibrant and alive, as far as sight allows. Kokoro can count the veinlike lines of the streets. She can see the cars and people traveling along them, like blood cells, like grains of sand.
“I’m glad we met,” she says, suddenly.
Miu narrows her eyes. “You say that like we’re not going to see each other again.”
“No, no,” laughs Kokoro, “I really am just glad, that’s all.” She’s feeling brave, so with a warmth spreading to every corner of her cheeks, she adds, “And I hope we keep meeting tomorrow, and next month, and next year — and every single one after that.”
Miu’s answer comes easily. “Me, too,” she says, reaching over to take Kokoro’s hand.
“So when can we…?”
The hand ghosts up Kokoro’s arm, searching until it comes to rest, until it becomes a cradle on the back of Kokoro’s neck. Miu looks up, eyes flecked with golden pinpricks. “How about right now?”
Kokoro’s pulse thuds in her ears. “Then hello,” she says. “I’m Kokoro.”
“One big heart?”
“One big heart.”
“It suits you,” replies Miu.
And in front of the evening Paris skyline, in front of Eiffel Tower and Olympic rings alike, Kokoro moves in and seals her greeting with a kiss.
Day three of preliminaries begins, and the stakes are, as ever, high. If Kokoro and Momona want a chance at entering the knockout round and therefore a chance at gold, they have to win this. Otherwise, it all ends here.
And yet — Kokoro finds herself oddly calm. She cares, of course, but no longer does she feel the vise grip around her lungs. What happens will happen, and the important part is that she has Momona at her side and Miu in the stands.
She makes eye contact with each of them as she readies herself on the sandy court. From the audience seating, Miu gives her a nod.
“Ready?” Kokoro calls.
“Ready,” says a grinning Momona over her shoulder, before turning back to face the net.
The stadium lights beat down overhead, and the air is warm with collective fever. The crowd demands a champion. If that’s what they want, then — Here I am, Kokoro answers.
She tosses the ball upwards, blotting out the lights, and lunges bold and headlong into her opening serve.