Chapter 59
High school life has begun, and the days are filled with heavy schoolwork and family affairs.
There is a long distance of seven time zones between me and Atobe, and the only thing that keeps us connected is the glowing screen in my palm.
My daytime was often his nighttime, and our inverted sleep and sleep schedules had us pushing each other past two or three in the morning just to talk a few more words. But in the end, reason prevailed.
Prioritize studies and health—we reached a silent compromise.
Important information can be left on the phone and replied after the other person wakes up. This unwritten agreement has become a creed that spans day and night.
His time in the UK was obviously not easy either.
The academic pressure of a top public school, coupled with the gradual deepening of involvement in the family's core affairs in Europe, has made his schedule extremely tight.
Tennis became his most familiar anchor in this unfamiliar land. The breadth and depth of European tennis opened up a whole new perspective for him. It wasn't just about competition; it was also about cultural excitement and the refinement of his skills.
He joined the British youth team, and through more intense training and fiercer confrontations, he honed his already mature style of play to become sharper and more controlled.
From the few words he mentioned casually, I could feel the excitement that the vast world brought him, and his confidence in the unlimited future.
That evening, at 11:00 Beijing time.
I leaned against the headboard, the light from the tablet computer shining on my face. The screen was broadcasting the live final of a highly anticipated junior tennis tournament in the UK.
The intensity of the match was far beyond imagination, and every point felt like walking on the edge of a knife. Atobe's figure moved at high speed across the court, his hair soaked with sweat, and his tightly pursed lips revealed a concentration and fierceness.
His hitting angles became more and more tricky, and Ice World saw through his opponent's flaws at the critical moment. Every precise interception drew thunderous cheers from the audience.
After a long tug of war, as the opponent's last return ball flew out of the baseline, the scoreboard froze - Atobe won!
Atobe cheered to the heavens, then lowered his head to kiss the gold tennis necklace hanging around his neck. His handsome face and affectionate gesture instantly sent the livestream's comments swirling like a torrent of data across the screen.
Some marveled at his increasingly refined technical and tactical skills, some analyzed the evolution of the "Waltz Towards Destruction", and more were the overwhelming screams and confessions of admiration for that handsome face that resembled that of an aristocratic prince.
Looking at the scrolling words, a complex emotion of pride and possessiveness surged in my heart, which eventually turned into a proud smile on my lips.
Judging by the time, he should have just finished his post-match routine. I picked up my phone and, without hesitation, dialed the number I knew by heart.
The phone rang only twice before it was picked up. There seemed to be some noisy echo in the background. His voice came out with surprise and a hint of obvious fatigue: "Hello?"
"Congratulations to the champion." I got straight to the point, a smile in my voice.
His deep, pleasant laugh echoed through the receiver, carrying with it the familiar arrogance of a victor. "Oh, it's just the expected result. The opponent was quite interesting and caused me a bit of trouble."
"Well, Your Highness, your fighting style is indeed pleasing to the eye." I followed his words and teased.
"Of course." He agreed without any modesty, then changed the subject, his tone blaming, "It's late at night over there, isn't it? Why aren't you asleep yet?"
"I couldn't sleep," I deliberately drawled, "and was woken up by His Royal Highness's handsome performance on the court."
The obvious banter made him feel better, and his laughter became clearer.
After a brief silence, he casually asked, "Speaking of which, are there any decent-looking guys in your school... or around you?"
Here it comes.
Even though this guy is halfway around the world, his vigilance and radar for potential "rivals" are still as sharp as ever.
"Yes," I answered crisply, even with a hint of emphasis, "there really is one."
The background noise on the other end of the phone seemed to quiet down for a moment, and his voice immediately deepened, with a subtle tension: "...Who?"
"Xiao Kong." I stifled a laugh. "Our Xiao Kong is now tall, handsome, and awe-inspiring. The bitches in the neighborhood have been drooling over him lately!"
"..." There was silence for a few seconds on the other end of the phone, and then a helpless yet doting laugh broke out, "You..."
He was clearly defeated by my argument. After a smile, his tone turned serious again, "Go to bed. Staying up late is bad for your health and will give you wrinkles, okay?"
"I know, Atobe-dad." I deliberately replied.
"Be obedient." His last two words carried unquestionable force.
I woke up the next morning and touched my phone out of habit.
The screen lit up, and a new message popped up. I clicked it, and it was a photo.
The background of the photo is a green tennis court. Atobe is wearing the red and white British team uniform and is surrounded by a group of blond-haired and blue-eyed young players who are also wearing uniforms.
He raised his chin slightly, put one hand casually on the shoulder of his teammate next to him, and held the trophy in the other hand. His smile was filled with the confident light of a winner, more dazzling than the morning sun.
His sweat-soaked hair plastered to his forehead didn't look disheveled, but rather rather sharpened his spirit. Beneath the photo was his usual concise message: [Post-match photo].
I enlarged the photo and looked carefully at the spirited young man in the center of the picture.
When you slide your fingers across the screen, you can seem to feel the warmth coming through the screen.
In the reply box, with a light tap of the fingertip, lines of words flowed out:
【Congratulations.】
[Looks like he's grown taller again? Almost 5 feet 4 inches, right?]
[Tsk, why does it seem to be white again? Is it because of the overcast weather in the UK? Or did you secretly use American □□ Hua?]
My face looks a little thinner... Is British white food really that bad?
My fingertips paused for a moment, the lighthearted words of ridicule settled, and a more genuine emotion welled up in my heart. I deleted and retyped, leaving only the simplest exhortation:
Don't work too hard.
Someone will worry about you.
send.
As for who "that person" is... well, I won't tell you. He knows.
The smoke of the boardroom meeting seemed to still linger in the fibers of my suit jacket. When I walked out of the brightly lit building, all that greeted me was the heavy night.
The driver drove the car steadily towards the garden-style villa in the suburbs, the wheels rolling over the silent road.
After the master left, the place was so empty that only the sound of the wind blowing through the corridors could be heard. My family was quite large, but they were scattered across the map. On weekdays, I was the only one guarding this vast house. Only during the festive season did the bustle of the New Year and other holidays briefly dispel the loneliness.
The warm water washed away the fatigue on the skin, but it could not dispel the frown lingering between the brows.
After changing into comfortable home clothes, I sat under the lamp in the study. The project reports spread out in front of me looked like test papers full of difficult questions.
The financial investment business that my fifth brother was in charge of left in a hurry, leaving behind a vacancy that needed to be filled and a bunch of terms and models that I was not yet fully familiar with.
My fingers rubbed my temples unconsciously, and I felt a vague headache.
The phone screen lit up in the quiet night, it was a message from Atobe.
He posted several pictures of himself in a suit, standing in front of a mirror, with what appeared to be his home in England in the background. He was choosing his outfit for a visit to a royal castle next Wednesday.
Without much thought, I slid my fingertips across the screen and selected one of the suits with dark patterns and the most elegant cut.
"Good taste." He replied quickly, and then followed up with, "Are you still awake?"
"Well," I tapped away, "something's going on with the finances at home. My fifth brother went abroad temporarily, so I'm filling in for now. It's not going very smoothly."
There was silence on the other end of the screen for a moment, and at the top of the dialog box it said "The other party is typing...", then stopped and started again.
Finally, his message popped up: "Now, go to bed immediately. Don't think about anything. When you wake up, I'll tutor you."
The commanding tone, with unquestionable certainty, is the style of Keigo Atobe.
Strangely, my tense nerves actually relaxed a little because of this familiar "command".
I closed my computer and turned off the lights.
When the Saturday morning light shone through the gaps in the curtains, my biological clock woke me up on time.
After a quick wash, he went to the study. On the computer screen, Atobe's video call request was already lit up. He answered it, and his always confident face appeared on the screen.
"Quite punctual." He raised an eyebrow and went straight to the point without any unnecessary pleasantries. "Are you ready?"
His desktop was instantly shared on the screen, and a document with a clear structure, pictures and text unfolded.
That feeling was as if I was back in junior high school. In order to make me catch up with Hyotei's progress, he forced me to make up for the lessons I had missed in ten days - the same vigorous and decisive approach, the same thorough preparation.
He didn't directly ask about the specific details of my family's business, which was inconsistent with his usual sense of boundaries.
They just brought out a large number of "cases" and "exercises", hid all company names that might involve sensitive information, and retained only the core business logic and financial models.
He explained in detail the hedging strategies, risk assessment models, and the advantages and disadvantages of different financing channels. He even analyzed several recent market events and deduced the capital flows and response plans behind them.
His voice was steady and clear, with a calmness that seemed to be in control of the overall situation. He broke down the complex financial world into modules that I could understand and operate.
"Look here," he pointed to a fluctuating curve on the screen. "It's like solving a complex geometry problem. The key is finding the auxiliary lines. Market fluctuations are superficial, and the core driving factor is the line you want to draw."
His explanations were precise and efficient, always able to pinpoint any bottlenecks in my thinking. The numbers and terms that seemed cold and difficult on the spreadsheets gradually took on a new meaning and warmth under his analysis.
Finance is his kingdom and he is a natural king.
At this moment, the king is sparing no effort to patiently teach me the rules and weapons of his kingdom.
A good teacher produces good students. This saying is most directly demonstrated in him.
Thanks to his intensive instruction, the reports and decisions that once gave me such a headache seemed to have been given a clear path. In the days that followed, I applied the methodology and judgment logic he taught me, and handling family affairs became much smoother.
Potential crises were identified and resolved in advance, several key decisions were made steadily, and the chaos that might have occurred was quietly smoothed out.
When I signed the last document that needed to be handled urgently and there were no more urgent red-marked items in my mailbox, a feeling of relief and deep gratitude came over me at the same time.
I picked up my phone and sent a message to the "tutor" who was far away in London.
"Thank you so much this time." I paused, my fingertips hovering over the screen for a moment, and then typed solemnly, "Thank you for your hard work, Mr. Atobe. I'll think about it and give you a thank you gift."
The light from the screen reflected on my face. The night outside the window grew darker again. I was the only one in the study. The great silence enveloped the lighted desk.
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