The next day, The sensei's monotonous voice mingles with the hum of the air conditioner, creating a soporific lullaby. I keep checking my phone for the tenth time in five minutes, how much longer until this torture is over?
Finally, the bell rings, relieved to have been able to hit the "Skip" button in my head. I leave class in a hurry and change into my sports uniform.
I head to the track near the soccer field, which is tucked by the school auditorium and just behind the baseball field. My mind can't help but wonder if I'm really just going with the flow.
"Shiroi-kun!" Hirata's cheerful voice cuts through my thoughts.
"This way!" he calls, beaming as he waves from afar. Next to him, some backpacks lie on the grass and a ball bounces lazily in the breeze setting the scene for a perfect summer. Several students are already on the field, practicing free kicks. The afternoon sun bathes the field in golden light as I make my way over.
The soccer field emerges ahead, surprisingly well-maintained compared to other school facilities, with several players already scattered across forming small practice circles, their faces unfamiliar to me. The humidity clings to my skin uncomfortably as I approach, my new cleats pinching slightly at the heels feeling a small discomfort I hadn't anticipated when purchasing them.
"Ugh... This heat is brutal. I'm already sweating and practice hasn't even started. How do you stay so composed?" I say, grumbling like usual.
"Heat is part of the workout, right? Imagine that every drop of sweat is one step closer to improvement. Plus, afterward, a cold shower is like heaven on earth!" Hirata replies, stretching his legs with a relaxed smile.
Just then, a loud whistle pierces the air. Vice-captain senpai steps in, whistling and calling out.
"Kohais! Circle up! Today we're starting with basic exercises. You all look so weak, I don't want anyone passing out before the warm-up!"
About ten first-year students quickly form a shaky circle. I position myself behind Hirata, purposely avoiding eye contact with the vice-captain.
"Hello, everyone! As I mentioned when you signed up, my name is Hayama Aoshi. As your team's vice-captain, I expect nothing less than perfection from drills to game strategy. The coach will fill you in on the rest of his philosophy shortly."
Vice-captain... Since when does that exist in football? There's only one captain. What does this mean?
I frown as I surreptitiously look at Hirata, searching his expression for some clue. He, oblivious to my inner turmoil, nods enthusiastically, as if the idea of a "vice-captain" is the most normal thing in the world. Had I missed something? Or does this Senpai think he's more important than he is? Vice-captain senpai's gaze sweeps over everyone present, a friendly but firm smile on his face. His athletic demeanor and the confidence he radiates is undeniable, but that small inconsistency makes me doubt his true intentions. Something's not right here... I'll have to keep an eye on him.
After the brief introduction of vice-captain senpai, a heavyset man with a booming voice, sporting a pot belly that strains against his polo shirt, with permanent sweat stains under his arms and a clipboard always in hand steps forward.
"Ahem. Greetings, everyone. I am the coach and my name is Akihiro Hatake. Whether you've been here before or are joining us for the first time, I have a single request to share with you..."
He grabs a ball and holds it up.
"This..." He pauses, tapping the ball thoughtfully.
"Regardless of strategies, tactics, or positions, I want you to remember that the ball is the most important, the most beautiful thing. Do you understand? I want to see my team play so beautifully that my eyes light up every time I watch you." He casually tosses the ball on the floor and steps on it.
"Our main goal is the intercollegiate league so remember, attendance at training is mandatory. We can't expect to have a good level in top shape if we don't train hardly, I don't marry anyone so only those who I see have the best physical form and technique will play, I don't give false expectations. I demand fluid play, with precise passing and constant movement. We'll focus on short, quick plays, forming triangles to break free and advance. If we manage to master the basics nobody will stop us. We work to win the way we can, representing this school and everything you know how to do. Play hard and enjoy it, because football is the best thing ever."
He scans the field, his gaze sweeping over every freshman.
"That said, I hope we can all get along as a team. Nice to meet you."
Triangles all the time ha... bro thinks he's Guardiola. Let's see how long it takes him to start yelling at us.
I stifle a yawn.
Also... intercollegiate league? Does that mean I can leave the school grounds? Interesting... I'm almost in for that. I glance at Hirata, who is diligently jotting down the coach's words in a small notebook. This guy really takes things seriously.
The coach, frowning but with a vibrant energy that permeates the atmosphere, clapps loudly to capture everyone's attention. "Come on, boys! There's no room for slacking today. You didn't come here to make friends. You came to become warriors. Every practice will be a battle, every game a war. I want to see blood, sweat, and tears on this field. Do you want to get a place in the starter team? Do you want to prove your worth? Then stop wasting my time with a sleepy face and get moving. Talent is nothing without discipline."
He walks around the perimeter of the field, gesturing broadly with his arms to emphasize each word.
"Run until your lungs burn, pass the ball like it's your last possession, and fight until you collapse! Do you hear me? MOVE!!" The coach, his gaze stern but encouraging, set the pace as his players lines up and begins to jog.
"Triangles, war, sacrifice... Now this guy thinks he's the Sun Tzu of football?" I mutter under my breath as I reluctantly start jogging.
If he loves war so much, he might as well enlist for military service. I just want to get out of this school once in a while.
I glance around at my clubmates. One of them, a guy with blue hair and purple eyes, who looks energetic is running at full speed, outstripping the rest with a grin from ear to ear.
Looks like someone's taking this "war" thing pretty seriously. Why the excitement? Are we in a team race and you have to carry a disabled person or something?
Meanwhile, a skinny kid with a beetroot-colored face struggles to keep up, coughing and clutching his side.
He's going to die before he even reaches midfield. That one's probably doomed to be a benchwarmer, just a ghost member used as an excuse for more budget. Cruel, but that's reality.
I, for one, will try not to stand out either above or below. Mediocrity is my forte, besides playing as a starter every time would be bothersome for me.
After five minutes of light jogging, which feels like an eternity to me under the relentless sun, the coach orders a stop for muscle activation. A series of stretches and mobility exercises, led by the enthusiastic vice-captain senpai, testing the flexibility (or lack thereof) of the new recruits.
I, with my usual reluctance, mimics the movements with the minimum amount of energy necessary, making sure not to stand out for my enthusiasm or my clumsiness. The skinny boy's groans of pain and Vice-captain's senpai shouts of encouragement create a tragicomic soundtrack that accompanies the routine.
The coach, sweat glistening on his forehead, claps his hands, and his voice booms across the field.
"All right, listen up! The first drill is simple, but no less important." He gestures toward the center of the field.
"You'll line up in pairs, about twenty meters apart. The person with the ball passes it to their teammate and sprints back to their original position. The person receiving the ball dribbles it back to the starting spot and passes it back to the other teammate and so on. Understood? I want to see movement, precision, and above all, WILL!"
A murmur ripples through the group. I feel relieved that this exercise isn't too physically demanding, I look around for Hirata. Better with someone I know, rather than end up with the overzealous runner or the walking corpse.
Hirata catches my eye and nods with a friendly smile as we head toward one end of the field together.
With the ball at his feet, Hirata turns to me. "Alright, Shiroi, you ready?" he asks with his trademark angelic smile.
I roll my eyes. As if there was any other choice, I simply nod. Hirata passes the ball to me with precision. I control it with the inside of my foot, without much enthusiasm, and I drive the ball to where Hirata had been. Then we exchange roles and while I run, I surreptitiously watch my teammate. Hirata handles the ball with elegance, his movements fluid and controlled, if you look at him it's hard to believe he's just a first-year. He might even snag a starter spot this year.
The following exercises moves on without incident: sprints, jumps, and other movements designed to strengthen muscles and improve endurance. I simply follow instructions, blending into the crowd and avoiding any unnecessary effort. My mind, however, remains preoccupied, pondering the enigmatic figure of Hirata.
Then, Coach announces the "rondo," an exercise where we form groups of five. Four players pass the ball around with one touch, while one in the middle tries to intercept. I stand in a group with Hirata and three other boys, to whom I pay little attention. Unfortunately for me, I start in the middle.
For four grueling minutes, I am a mere spectator to the fluid exchange of passes between my teammates. I run from side to side, stretching my legs and arms like a desperate scarecrow, but the ball always seems to find a way to escape my awkward interventions. The coach's whistle, announcing the end of the rondo, is music to my ears. Zero interceptions.
A new record, I think, with a mixture of resignation and ironic pride.
I slump onto the grass, breathing hard. "Ugh... I think I'm gonna die," I gasp, clutching my chest. "I need... a new lung... or something."
Hirata, who had barely broken a sweat during the exercise, approaches me with a bottle of water.
"Here, Shiroi-kun," he offers, with his smile. "You should hydrate. It's really hot today."
I gratefully accept the bottle, trembling as I bring it to my lips. After taking a long drink, I look at Hirata with admiration.
"Hey, Hirata," I say, my voice cracking, "have you always been this good at soccer?"
"Well, it's just practice, really. I've been playing since I was a kid." Hirata replies, with a humble smile. I can't imagine him struggling in any aspect of his life, much less sports.
Too perfect. There has to be something more.
Sigh I need to stop comparing myself to others, but here I am, stuck. Still, at least I can enjoy this moment—even if it's just a bit of exercise under the brutal sun.
The small talk cuts short as Coach's abrupt whistle pierces the air. "Let's see!" he bellows, pressing his notebook against his sweaty chest. "One, two..." His index finger points at each of the first-timers as he counts them out.
"Ten. Ten new recruits. Good. Do any of you... know how to stop a ball other than with your face?" His tone drips with sarcasm. Not a single one of us nods. The coach rolls his eyes and lets out a theatrical sigh.
"How strange," he mutters. "In a soccer club, no one wants to be a goalkeeper. Unbelievable."
He turns to the group of veterans. "Oi, Tanaka!" he shouts. "Get over here! It's your turn to play the potato sack." A tall, thin third-year boy wearing goalie gloves reluctantly approaches.
The coach grins, showing a row of yellowed teeth. "Now for the most important part! FULLBOLL!" The coach pronounces the word with almost religious emphasis, as if it were a sacred mantra.
"Eleven against eleven. Rookies versus veterans. A friendly game... so I can see what you're truly made of."
He rubs his hands together. "So, where do you feel most comfortable on the pitch?" Asks the coach, using his usual mocking tone.
"Don't tell me you all want to be forwards... That would be too predictable." he adds with a smirk.
The blue-haired boy, brimming with energy, raises his hand enthusiastically. "I want to be a left midfielder, Coach!" he exclaims, flashing a toothy grin.
"I prefer playing as a number 5. Midfield is where I'm at my best." Hirata says more restrained.
One by one, the new recruits choose their positions. In the end, it comes down to me and the skinny kid, both left standing, panting after the warm-up.
The coach steps right up to me, arms akimbo, his gaze searching.
Suddenly, he reaches out and touches my chest, then my abdomen, examining me as if I am a piece of cattle. For a moment, his expression turns serious, almost intent, as if he detected something unexpected under my shirt. But the sarcastic smug look returns to his face in the blink of an eye.
"A lot of shirt for so little meat," he comments with a mocking smile.
"You look... like a Fullback."
"Could you stop touching me?" I ask, pulling away with a gesture of disgust.
"Bah, quit your whining. You should be thankful I didn't put you as a goalie. With that frame, any ball you get hit with would send you straight to the infirmary," The coach replies with a laugh.
Before I can protest that I've never even played football, he cuts in.
"If you've got the body of a full-back, then you'll be a full-back. Don't make my life difficult."
He points at the skinny kid, and adds: "And you, the other stick, will be a right-back. That completes the team."
I shrug, resigning myself.
Left back. Great. At least I can watch Hirata without anyone getting suspicious.
The coach then takes one last look at the two teams lines up on the field. The veterans, clad in immaculate uniforms and oozing confidence, starkly contrast with us rookies who look like freshly hatched chicks.
"Get in your positions!" he roars. "And no excuses. I want to see some blood out there!"
This guy should be a theater major.
I take up my position at left back, deliberately as far away from the ball as possible. Too much drama for a simple friendly match.
The skinny kid, who looks like he's about to faint at the thought of running, is positioned to his right, at right back. I give him a look of pity. Poor guy. This game is going to be his funeral.
Hirata, on the other hand, moves around midfield with astonishing confidence, giving instructions to his teammates and pointing out open spaces.
Then, suddenly, the coach's whistle shrills again, and the game begins. The first-years kick off from the middle, initiating a confusing tangle of legs and loose balls. True to my plan, I stick to the sidelines, trying to avoid contact with the ball as much as possible.
The first five minutes pass uneventfully. Both teams study each other, with a few attempts at the box and a rather tight game. The veterans, despite their greater experience, are unable to break down our surprising (albeit disorganized) defense. A deflected shot sails over the crossbar, the only real chance of danger in those first minutes. Goal kick for the first-year players.
The goalkeeper passes the ball to the center back.
The defender fakes as if he is going to pass it to the skinny kid, only to, at the last second, give the ball to me.
"Ehh..?" I murmur, surprised to find the ball at my feet.
My feet dig into the grass, feeling the sweat trickle down my neck like a spider escaping its web.
What I have to do? I don't know!!
"Shiroi, CLEAR!" someone yells, snapping me out of my daze.
But I'm already in full panic mode. In what universe is this funny? I freeze, looking up to see two upperclassmen charge toward me like zombies looking for fresh meat. Their shadows lengthen in the 3 PM sun, turning the field into a grassy horror theater.
I scramble and with a desperate swing, I try to hit the ball into infinity.
Critical mistake.
My kick is so bad that the ball sails wide, missing the field entirely and rolling into the touchline.
A thick silence spreads across the court until the coach breaks the spell.
"HA!"—his laughter is like a diesel engine stifling itself.
"That wasn't the fullback I asked for, brat! Did you try to send the ball to the cafeteria?"
The upperclassmen burst out laughing, some clutching their ribs.
Hirata, the blessed saint of optimists, slaps me on the shoulder with a punch that resonates like a gunshot.
"Nice try, Shiroi-kun! Better luck next time."
I tie my shoelaces, shrug, and slump down onto the grass, half laughing and half shaking my head at my own clumsiness.
Next time, huh? Yeah, sure, next time I do this, I'll get a proper kick in the ass.
The game resumes with a throw-in for the veterans. I, still cringing over my failed clearance, stand a few feet away from the opposing player, not quite sure what to do.
Am I supposed to be closer? Meh, whatever. All in all, I don't think that idiot can do much damage anyway.
A stocky upperclassman with burgundy hair gets the ball without any pressure. With one swift move, he controls it and, before I can react, launches a long forward pass across the field. The ball arcs perfectly through the air, landing at the feet of Vice-captain senpai, who dashes toward the other side, dribbling past the skinny kid.
Senpai advances, slicing through the field like it's a training course, dodging past first-year players as if they were nothing more than training cones, and reaches the penalty area with ease.
One defender tries to slide-tackle him but the senpai is going to shoot at goal.
"I got you..!"
"Huh!?"
Time slows down as the Vice captain stops abruptly, leaving the defender sliding past him before swiftly passing the ball to the forward, who is now left alone in front of the goal. The goalie, caught off guard by the sudden change of events, desperately tries to block the shot.
The upperclassman forward smiles, anticipating the moment that has been drawn out before him. The goalie is off his line, the net wide open, and the upperclassman is in perfect position for the shot.
The veteran striker, still grinning confidently, lines up his shot. Everything sounds to scream that the first goal is inevitable. Resigned, I close my eyes, bracing for the sound of the ball hitting the net.
But then, nothing happens.
I open my eyes in disbelief as silence falls over the field.The veteran striker stands there, hands on his head, looking stunned. The ball, incredibly, soars over the crossbar, despite being practically right under the goal.
The senpai, in a fit of frustration, slams his fist into the turf, cursing under his breath. A murmur of astonishment runs through the stands. Not even I, with my utter lack of football skill, would miss such an easy shot like that.
Coach Hatake's smile vanishes in an instant. His look shifts from disbelief to grim disgust, but he holds back his words. Instead, he signals to the goalkeeper to restart the game with a goal kick.
The match drags on for another fifteen minutes, with both teams stuck in a goalless tie. The intensity of the game, however, decreases considerably following the veteran striker's blunder. The seniors, visibly affected by the missed opportunity, play with less precision and enthusiasm. Meanwhile, the rookies fumble their way through the game, their initial shock replaced by a tentative, almost surprised, sense of confidence.
With ten minutes left in the first half, Hirata, sensing the opposing team's slump in spirit, takes the initiative. With a firm voice and energetic gestures, he encourages his teammates.
"Come on, guys!" he shouts, pointing toward the opposing half.
"Let's push! We can't let this chance slip by!" His words inject a rush of adrenaline into our ranks, we push forward and pursue the ball more persistently.
Encouraged by Hirata's words, we press more intensely, forcing errors from the veterans. The midfield becomes a zone of constant contest, where every divided ball is played as if it is the last.
I find myself reluctantly joining in, running around more than usual. Honestly, I just want this to end so I can really go for a shower and take a long nap right now.
Out of nowhere, the energetic blue-haired boy, having recovered a ball in midfield, passes it to me. "Hey, you!" he yells.
The ball rolls to my feet, and I stare at it with a mixture of horror and resignation. A chill runs down my spine.
A thousand thoughts race through my head. What do I do now? What am I supposed to do? Do I pass it? Do I clear it? Do I keep it and juggle until practice is over? I feel the gazes of my teammates, and especially Coach's, fixed on me, waiting for my next move. My mind blanks. Shit this wasn't part of the plan.
I feel paralyzed by indecision, as time stands still around me. Sweat trickles down my forehead, blurring my vision. The shouts of my companions mingle with the thunderous beat of my own heart. Suddenly, an idea crosses my mind. I can't just stand here like an idiot. I have to do something, anything.
I take a deep breath, closing my eyes for a moment, and when I open them again, a spark of cunning shines in my pupils. I fix my gaze on a player who's trying to steal the ball from me, a thin young man with strong legs who approaches at full speed.
"Fast type, huh?"
With a subtle movement of my hips, I fake a pass backward toward my own defender. The thin player, fooled by the feint, stops dead in his tracks, waiting for the pass to intercept it.
But the pass never arrives. In a swift and unexpected gesture, I spin around, shielding the ball with my body. The boy, thrown off balance, tries to regain his position, but it's too late. I, with surprising agility for someone who minutes before seemed on the verge of collapse, begin dribbling with the ball, close to the touchline, leaving my pursuers in the dust. A wry smile spreads across my face. Let's see what I can do.
"Son of a bitch!" the thin player shouts, desperately chasing after me.
But I already expected that.
Suddenly, I slow my pace and change direction toward the center of the field, and taking advantage of his lack of balance, I give him a gentle shove with my shoulder, sending him sprawling. The coach watches, torn between blowing the whistle for a foul and letting the play continue. In the end, he lets it slide.
Yes, that was a 'foult'... but of the boy's proteins.
Let's stop with the word games.
Adrenaline courses through my veins as I speed ahead, the ball seemingly glued to my foot. The wind whips against my face, the voices of my teammates and opponents becoming an indistinguishable murmur. For a moment, I feel a sense of... freedom. This isn't so bad.
I smile, though it doesn't quite reach my eyes.
I look up and see the blue-haired boy running down the sideline, calling for the ball. An idea pops into my mind.
With a technical gesture, I attempt a three-finger pass, a trivela so to speak, hoping the ball curves and reaches my teammates' feet. The execution, however, leaves much to be desired. The ball, although it takes the desired curve, shoots out with too much force, moving out of my receiver's reach.
"What did you do?!" one of my teammates shouts in frustration. "You were doing great!"
"You ruined it!" another adds.
Amidst the grumbling, one voice stands out. The energetic blue-haired boy, with a radiant smile, looks at me and shouts,
"Nice pass!" And, without a moment of hesitation, he sprints off like a greyhound after the ball.
The defenders, convinced the ball is going out of bounds, watch in dismay, but before they can react, the blue-haired boy reaches the ball with tremendous effort and controls it with surprising ease. With a series of quick and precise dribbles, he sheds two opponents and, reaching the edge of the box, unleashes a powerful cross that flies into the top corner of the goal, leaving the goalkeeper no chance to react.
"GOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAALLL!!," The rookies shouts euphorically at the unexpected goal.
At least that energy was worth something. The first-year team takes the lead, against all odds.
The thunder of the goal echoes around the field as the coach, with his face flushed with fury, storms onto the pitch. "What the fuck is that?!" he roars, pointing his finger at the veteran defenders.
"Do you just stand there and gawk at each other like you're in a museum?! That lack of concentration is unforgivable!" His voice becomes a thunderclap that echoes in the players' ears.
"I can't believe you concede a goal like that! One damn change of front and it turns you all into statues!" He spits contemptuously on the ground. "First half is over!" he shouts, with a swipe that seems to split the air in two. "You worthless bastards! Don't you ever show me such a spectacle of mediocrity again!"
As the whistle blows to signal the end of the first half, we collapse onto the bench, exhausted and thirsty, greedily clutching our water bottles. Across the field, Coach's shouts still echoes, an indistinguishable mix of insults and rebukes directed at the veterans.
"Phew... at least we're winning," pants the skinny kid, his face flushed from exertion.
"Yeah, but let's not celebrate too early," the goalkeeper mutters, brushing off the dust from his pants.
I surreptitiously watch Hirata, who's chatting animatedly with the blue-haired boy. What are they talking about? I wonder, intrigued. Could Hirata be plotting something? I need to find out.
Sitting on the bench, I casually pretend to tie my shoelaces while sneaking glances at Hirata and the blue-haired guy, who are deep in conversation near the water irrigation fountain. I wonder what they're chatting about, could Hirata be dishing out something about me?
Out of nowhere, the blue-haired guy catches my eye. He pats Hirata on the back and strolls over with a beaming smile.
"Hey, you! Nice job out there!" he exclaims, his voice buzzing with excitement. "That pass was killer! Thanks to you, I scored that goal! Haha, you really came through."
I give a sheepish smile and reply, a bit too formally, "Uh, thanks. I'm glad my pass helped the team. You played well too."
He tilts his head, "Don't be so formal. We're the same age." he says with a laugh. "By the way, since we're on the same side of the field, shouldn't we know each other's names? I'm... Sō Shibata." He extends his hand in a friendly gesture.
"Uh, thanks." I say, shaking his hand.
Shibata, huh? He's so nice.
"I'm Shiroi." The moment our hands touch, his smile widens into a bright, almost blinding expression.
"Nice to meet you, Shiroi-kun."
He's got that similar vibe to Hirata, charming and down-to-earth and, not to mention, pretty attractive. A riajuu like Hirata, but even more cheerful and lively.
"So, how'd you end up in the soccer club? You don't exactly seem like the super enthusiastic type," he asks.
I shrug casually, glancing at Hirata for reassurance. "Let's just say I wanted to try something new," I reply.
"Have you met him before? You guys seem to click pretty well." I add, glancing at Hirata.
The blue haired guy shakes his head. "Actually, I don't know him very well. I only spoke to him after the first half, and we got along pretty well." He scratches his cheek and grins.
"Why do you ask?"
"So Hirata didn't told you huh? Actually we're classmates from class D."
The blue haired boy's eyes widen, with a look of surprise crossing his face.
"Oh, really? So you're in the same class as him? That's really cool." He smiles, not delving too much into the question.
He then turns to me with a look that I can't quite place.
"It must be nice to join up with someone you already know. I joined with a bunch of my classmates. It's exciting, it gives me the chance to socialize with folks from different classes. How about you? How's your class?"
I shrug, giving a casual answer. "My class? Uh, it's only the third day, so I don't really know everyone that well."
I pause for a moment. "I'd say it's a normal class, nothing too special."
Just then, one of the rookies points toward the field's entrance, his eyes wide.
"Hey, what's with that guy?" he exclaims, sounding astonished.
We all turn our heads in the direction the guy is pointing. A young blond man, wearing sunglasses and an air of arrogant indifference, approaches the group of veterans. He's dressing the club's sports uniform, but he exudes an aura of authority that distinguishes him from the rest.
As I observe the newcomer, I notice Hirata approaching our spot. Seeing my chance, I decide to ask him. "Hey, do you know who that is?"
Hirata shakes his head, looking curious. "Nope, haven't seen him before."
The goalkeeper senpai, nearby, goes pale. "No... it can't be..." he mumbles, clearly rattled. "We're doomed..."
"What? What are you talking about, geezer?" snaps a tall center back with sharp teeth, clearly irritated.
The goalkeeper is still speechless, his eyes fixed on the newcomer. His mouth is dry, and he seems to be sweating bullets.
"That... that guy..." he begins, his voice faint.
"What's so special about that guy?"
Other students are gathering to ask the senpai. Having aroused the curiosity of many people, he has no other choice.
"H-He's Nagumo Miyabi. The vice president of the student council... and the team captain... and the star of the team." he pauses, as if struggling to get the words out. "He rarely shows up because of his council duties... but when he does..." Goalkeeper senpai shakes his head with a grimace of resignation.
"Let's just say... things get... complicated."
A few worried glances ripple through the group.
The defender, visibly upset, shouts, "Dammit, geezer! So what if he's the captain? Quit killing our momentum! We're winning—don't feed us this crap!" He grabs the goalkeeper by the collar of the shirt.
Before things spiral, the senpai slaps the defender's hand away and barks. "Let go! And don't talk to me like we're buddies. You know nothing! You're all just a bunch of foolish brats who don't even remotely understand what we're up against!"
The complaints erupt from the team like a wave. "Stop scaring us on purpose! We were doing fine until you came along with this foolishness!"
The players start arguing, voices rising like a tidal wave.
Trying my best to hold back a chuckle, I turn to Hirata and Shibata, commenting on the ridiculous scene unfolding before us. "Man, they're worse than toddlers in a bouncy castle."
Shibata nods in agreement, a slight frown on his face. "Yeah... totally."
Hirata, upon seeing the arguments, sighs.
The argument between the defender and the goalkeeper threatens to escalate. We watch the scene with a mixture of discomfort and curiosity. Suddenly, Hirata steps between them, surprisingly calm.
"Enough!" he says, his voice firm but calm. "We're not getting anywhere by fighting among ourselves."
"Shut the fuck up!"
Seeing that they are ignoring him, he continues in a more conciliatory tone.
"Listen, if Tanaka-senpai really knows Nagumo, his info could be very valuable. He might even share some tips on how to defend against him."
"That's..."
Hirata's words has an almost instant effect. The defender stops his grip on the goalkeeper's collar. The tension in the air dissipates and the players calms down. A relieved Tanaka takes advantage of the lull to share information about Nagumo's playing style, his favorite moves, and his weaknesses.
"Words without feats are pure bullshit, if that Nagumo is so good, I'll find out by myself." the defender grumbles, with a defiant look at the goalkeeper.
Just then, Coach Hatake, still fired up from the first half, roars, "Enough chatter!" Pointing at a skinny, strong-legged boy, he orders, "You, get out. Nagumo will take your place." The teams swap sides, and soon after, the coach blows his whistle to start of the second half.
The veterans take the kick-off, but contrary to expectations, the veterans aren't launching themselves into attack with the fury of a wounded lion. Instead, they begin circulating the ball with almost exasperating patience, passing it between the defenders with the calmness of a meditating Buddhist monk.
We watch with confusion. But the coach is not reacting, rather, he is as calm as the rest of the players. What are they up to? Aren't they supposed to be going to tie the score?
My eyes wander to a small group of second or third-year girls gathered in the stands, where did these girls come from?
But the question quickly dissipates when I realize the true reason for their presence. Every single one of them, without exception, are fixing their eyes on Nagumo, who moves with casual elegance around midfield, as if the match is merely an entertainment for him.
At first glance, his slender frame appears delicate, but up close you can tell he's got toned muscles from his arms and legs, looking at him you can intuit that he has also a developed lower-body.
I now understand the scandal. The way his blond hair sways every time he moves, and the composed expression on his face, catches the eye. He is so beautiful that you can almost mistake him for an illusion, an image flickering on a screen or even a Character AI bot.
No wonder the girls are completely smitten. In simple terms, if Hirata is a 10, Nagumo would be a 100.
Meanwhile, the veterans continue their possession strategy, moving the ball back and forth with a precision that drives us rookies nuts. Hirata tirelessly tries to win the ball back, pressuring Hayama. But Hirata is not alone, he's going with a teammate for a 2v1 confrontation. For a moment, they seem to have him cornered, trapped between the two, leaving him with no way out.
Hayama, with a surprising technical move, performs an inward reverse bicycle with his left leg, stunning Hirata and his teammate and leaving them off balance. Without missing a beat, he executes a "croquette," a fluid switch of the ball from one foot to the other, and with another fluid movement, he delivers a forward crossball from side to side of the pitch toward Nagumo.
His pinpoint pass slices across the field like an arrow, landing right at Nagumo's feet, without any rookie being able to intercept it.
Watching the play from my position, I suppress a disdainful smile.
A handsome boy, popular with the girls, and student council vice president... typical 'Ikemen'.
I bet he thinks he's all high and mighty just because he is pretty.
But guess what, you are just a fancy Porsche parked in the garage, looks great but doesn't really go anywhere without an engine. I'll bring him back to reality in a heartbeat.
While I'm busy cracking jokes, Nagumo receives the pass with alarming ease. Instead of controlling the ball in mid-air, he waits for it to bounce on the grass and, right at the moment of impact, crushes it with the sole of his right foot, as if fusing it to the ground. The ball, docile, remains glued to his foot, without bouncing a single bit, as if magnetized by an invisible force.
I freeze, holding my breath.
"What the hell was that?" I whisper, stunned. I have never seen such a flawless ball control like that before.
The swagger I had earlier quickly evaporates, replaced by a nagging uncertainty.
Just as the blond guy starts advancing toward me, a wave of high-pitched cheers erupt from the stands. "Kyaaa! Nagumo, you're the best!" a voice shouts.
"Break that bratty nobody's ass!" another adds.
My blood starts boiling as I hear the shouts from the stands.
Ugh! Why is everyone so obsessed with him?! 'Nagumo,' 'Nagumo?' What's so special about him? He's just a pretty boy with a bit of talent. I'm going to make mincemeat out of him!!
Determined to put an end to his overblown reputation and humble him in front of all his female fans, I gather my courage and go to meet him, with my teeth clenched, and my eyes fixing on the ball.
But Nagumo doesn't flinch. Instead, he flashes an arrogant grin and starts pulling off a series of bicycle moves at breakneck speed.
Still, I'm not intimidated. I watch him closely. He dribbles the ball with his right leg... which tells me he's right-dominant, just like Tanaka senpai said.
We humans have two cerebral hemispheres with specialized functions, but they work altogether and are not opposites contrary to what most people believe. Although many people show a preference for one side of the body such as using their right hand for writing, this reflects their motor laterality, which is related to brain organization and practice.
So, if a person is using their right foot to dribble the ball, like Nagumo is doing now, there's a good chance that he's right-dominant.
And if he's right-dominant, that means his left side has less training. I have to force him to use his left foot since his coordination on that side might be less precise.
With a quick step, I move forward with my right foot, blocking the ball's path, and place my left foot slightly behind, pointing toward the stands.
The intention is clear: to force this guy to use his left leg to avoid me and force him into a mistake.
Now, move, don't be shy, use your left, but of course your movements won't be as fluid, eh?
Nagumo gives me a half-smile and locks eyes with me. "Heh... Pitiful," he mutters, his tone dripping with mockery. Then, with a subtle touch, he steps on the ball with the inside of his right foot, making it spin inward.
I let out a smirk. Idiot, you walked straight into the trap.
But before I can relish it, in the next instant. With lightning-quick agility, he feints left-footed by nudging the ball with the outside of his left, then swiftly circles that same foot around to push the ball toward his right side, executing a perfect nutmeg that sends the ball sliding right under my legs.
An ambidextrous player!?
He keeps moving as if nothing happened, leaving my mouth agape while a chorus of "Whoa, incredible!" erupts from the girls in the stands.
I spin on my heels, trying to chase after that blond wonder, but it is too late—he's already charging forward with the ball glued to his foot, leaving me trailing behind like a forgotten goalpost.
Crap he just got past me.
"Sorry guys, he's heading your way!" I shout, hoping someone can stop him and clear the ball.
"Don't fret babe, I've got your back." A tall, slender defender with delicate features and brown hair tied back in a low ponytail steps forward with determination. His movements are graceful, almost effeminate, but they exude a restrained, intimidating strength. With an elegant and powerful movement, he dives to the ground in a perfectly executed tackle, aiming to snatch the ball from the blond guy just as he's speeding past.
But then, as if anticipating the move, Nagumo freezes mid-stride and cuts inside, abruptly changing direction. With a swift leap, he flicks the ball with the inside of his right foot, knocking it out of the defender's reach and leaving him sprawling on the turf.
Having shaken off the first defender, he heads towards the box, his eyes fixed on the goal. The shark-toothed defender, with a cocky grin, approaches the blond guy with a provocative comment. "Is that all you've got, pretty boy?" he snaps, standing between him and the goal.
Undeterred, the blond guy prepares a powerful shot. The defender throws himself to the ground in a desperate attempt to block it.
But the star player, with an almost imperceptible smile and an astonishing coolness, shifts his momentum by advancing another step, leaving the defender lying on the grass. The shot was nothing more than a feint. With the angle wide open, he unleashes a powerful and placed shot, the ball which flies in a terrifying curve that exceeds the keeper's prediction and quickly enough, he scores a goal into the top right corner of the goal, impossible for Tanaka to reach.
"GOOOOOOOAL!" shout the veterans, celebrating the tie with euphoria.
He's fast, he dribbles like a dream, and his shots are deadly accurate... And, to top it off, he's ambidextrous? Where did this guy even come from? This is just plain unfair!
As the crowd's cheers still echo, Nagumo puffs out his chest and fixes us all with a cold, commanding stare. "Listen up, you incompetent rookies," he speaks, his voice cutting through the lingering noise and grabbing everyone's attention.
"Did you think this was a kid's game?" His razor-sharp gaze sweeps over the faces of the first-year players as he sneers. "Did you come here to have fun? To make friends?" A disdainful smile spread across his lips. "Too bad, this isn't a kindergarten. This is ANHS, the top high school in the country. Here, talent and ability are everything."
He pauses, letting his words hang in the thick silence.
"Losers, mediocre people, those who settle for the vulgarity of fun... you're all destined to fail. No matter how frustrated or discouraged you get, there's no future for people like you..." His eyes lock onto mine as I frown. "Because I'll personally weed out all the unskilled trash."
Standing tall with an air of crushing superiority, he continues. "So save yourselves the trouble and just surrender. You don't belong here."
A heavy hush falls over the onlookers, everyone watching with bated breath.
"Don't you think that's a bit harsh?" Hayama-senpai laughs, breaking the tension.
But the blond guy cuts in sharply, "I don't like sweet lies. It's better to face the truth."
Hayama nods with a small chuckle, "Yeah, I guess you're right. Captain."
As the group of first-year players are left reeling from Nagumo's harsh words, the shark-toothed defender locks his gaze on me and scoffs.
"Oi, left-back. How could you let him get away so easily? Do something!" With nothing better to do, the defender tries to take his frustration out on me.
"Ha? It's my first time playing. What am I supposed to do?"
The defender's anger intensifies. "You have one job, to defend! You should've at least tried to stop him!"
I shoot back with a hint of sarcasm. "If you think it's so easy, why don't you try switching positions and go mark him yourself?"
"It's not my job, it's yours!" he retorts.
Hirata, sensing things escalating, steps in and claps his hands to quiet us. "Hey, it's just a goal, guys. Let's calm down." His tone is cool and steady.
After a while, we trudge back to our positions, the weight of Nagumo's words hanging heavy in the air. I shuffle toward left back, when suddenly, a cheerful voice calls out from the sidelines.
"Hey, Shiroi-kun!"
Shibata jogs over, his blue hair bouncing with each stride, his bright smile still there, even if a bit subdued.
"Are you scared?" He asks, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
I scoff and straighten up. "Scared? Of him? Please. I'm more worried about getting a sunburn than I am of that preening peacock." I roll my eyes dramatically. "Besides, even if we lose, it's not like the world's going to end, right? It's just a game."
Shibata laughs, throwing his head back. "Let's have fun. If we don't, we'll lose. That's football."
"Yeah, sure."
The whistle shrieks, and the second half kicks off. We first-years take possession, with Hirata making the opening pass. He works to build a play, handing off the ball smoothly, but the veterans, stung by Nagumo's words and their earlier complacency, are a different beast now. They press with a ferocity they hadn't shown when they were losing, swarming our midfielders like angry wasps.
The ball pings back and forth across the pitch, a chaotic blur of cleats and desperate tackles. One of our defenders, trapped near the sideline, panics and hoofs the ball back towards Tanaka, our goalkeeper, who barely manages to control it before an onrushing veteran smothers him.
Tanaka looks up, searching for an outlet pass. His eyes land on me, standing near the left sideline. He yells something, probably my name, but I subtly duck behind Nagumo, using the golden boy as a convenient shield. No way am I getting involved in this mess again. Not with that level of intensity swirling around.
Clearly annoyed by my evasiveness, Tanaka lets out a frustrated grunt and passes the ball to our right back, the skinny kid with asthma. The poor guy looks like a rabbit caught in headlights as the ball bobbles towards him. He fumbles the reception, the ball bouncing awkwardly off his shin.
"Itadakimasu~"
Before he can regain control, Hayama, the vice-captain, is on him like a flash, snatching the ball with a clean tackle.
Hayama doesn't hesitate. With a powerful swing of his left leg, he sends a cross arcing towards the penalty area. Their center forward leaps, trying to connect with a header, but just misses.
Then, out of nowhere, Nagumo appears. He had completely ghosted me earlier, vanishing from my peripheral vision while I was busy avoiding the ball. With an almost predatory grace, he meets the airborne ball with a perfectly timed volley. The ball rockets towards the goal, a blur of white against the azure sky. Tanaka dives desperately, but there's nothing he can do.
The net ripples.
"GOOOOOOAL!!"
"Good!"
"That's two!"
The veterans erupt in a roar, their earlier frustration replaced by a surge of triumphant energy. Just like that, in a blink of an eye, they take the lead, 2-1. The momentum has dramatically shifted. We first years stand stunned, the wind knocked out of us. The stands, filled with Nagumo's admirers, erupt in cheers, their voices a deafening wave crashing over the field.
"Hey, Don't hog all the goals for yourself!" Hayama playfully calls out to Nagumo.
Nagumo responds with a dismissive chuckle. "Hmph. Let's wrap this up quickly and head to the showers. But for now..."
He throws a toothy grin, causing a chorus of cheers among the admiring girls. Raising his hand, he places it on his hair.
"Let's keep raining down the wrath of God on these maggots."
I watch the blond guy for a moment.
They looked so discouraged on the first half... until he changed them. Since he arrived, all the team's insecurities vanished. But it's not only him.
"We'll pass it on to Nagumo and support him. The other team is in shambles, and the full-backs are their biggest weak-links. We have to organize ourselves as a team and use the information we gathered." Two senpais huddle together, discussing some strategies.
They are much, much more organized than the first half, as if they weren't giving their all when we were at the advantage. What's the meaning of this? They were measuring us? Why the sudden change in their performance levels?
Is Nagumo really the catalyst? Yes, but at the point where you can say it was 100% due to him? It doesn't seem like that, everyone are playing with much more intensity. If he wasn't here I think they would have made another strategy in order to crush us.
I change my gaze towards the coach, who's silently grinning from ear to ear.
What kind of speech he made on the halftime?
Either way, they're applying the high-pressure strategy. Normally, these guys would tire themselves out with that kind of pressure but there are one-no. Several problems.
Firstly, most of us are total rookies who don't have any playing experience, so our level and technique are rough. We're going to make unforced errors when passing and receiving the ball, which leaves us exposed once we lose the ball.
Second, the age difference. With the exception of the goalkeeper, all of us are first-year kids against second- and third-year kids. The difference in physicality is noticeable and evident, specially at these years where our bodies are in constant development, even one year is a huge gap due to this same reason, we won't be able to mimic the strategy of the senpais to pressure constantly for the ball.
Third, they're not attacking the fullbacks just because Nagumo and Hayama play there, but because they've already pinned the skinny kid and me as the weak links.
I can't help but grin, those guys really are taking me for granted.
Then, as I watch Shibata, an idea begins to form in my mind.
The whistle blows again, and we take the kickoff. Once more, Hirata fires a precise pass to a teammate, and we set the play in motion. The seniors start pressing aggressively again.
"Argh! So annoying!"
We pull off our signature trick, avoiding passing to the fullbacks and instead channeling the ball to our goalkeeper, who sends it soaring as far as he can.
I watch as Tanaka's cleats tap the ball rhythmically against the turf, sending it high into the afternoon sky. For a moment, the ball hangs there, a tiny white dot against the vast blue before it begins its slow descent.
Hirata, with a burst of speed and a perfectly timed jump, outleaps a veteran midfielder and connects with a solid header. The ball arcs gracefully towards our right midfielder, who attempts a flashy bit of juggling control but the ball slips away and is scooped up by the left back.
A rapid-fire exchange of passes ensues, the ball zipping between the veterans' feet with an almost hypnotic speed, before inevitably landing at Nagumo's feet once more.
"Hirata!" I bark, "Double-team!"
Hirata nods, and together we close in on Nagumo, trying to box him in to steal the ball away. But the blond guy, with a dizzying array of feints and shimmies, dances between us, with the ball still on his feet. He slips past Hirata with a deft nutmeg, leaving me to face him alone. I lunge, but he's already gone, almost as though dandling a baby, he ends up splendidly passing me by.
The ball flicks away with the outside of his boot. He looks up, surveying the field, and prepares to deliver a cross.
Pum!
A sharp, resounding thud echoes through the air. The expected cross never materializes. Instead, Shibata, seemingly out of nowhere, intercepts the pass with a powerful header, sending the ball soaring towards the lime line. He lands lightly on his feet, then flashes a thumbs-up, first to Hirata, then to me, a wide grin splitting his face.
A satisfied smirk creeps onto my face. It had worked. The seemingly chaotic series of events had, in fact, been carefully orchestrated. Knowing I couldn't stop Nagumo alone, I asked Shibata to go down to my area in case Nagumo has the ball and I subtly directed him towards Shibata's zone, cutting off his other passing lanes and forcing him into a predictable play. Shibata, with his explosive speed and aerial prowess, had been the perfect counter. He'd baited Nagumo into the cross, knowing he could intercept it while waiting for the moment to appear right when the cross was about to come.
It was a risky gamble, relying on split-second timing and precise positioning, but it had paid off beautifully. Nagumo, for the first time since entering the field, looks genuinely surprised.
A flicker of memory, sharp and cold, cuts through the heat and the cheers. The alleyway, slick with rain, the glint of steel, the hushed whispers of instructions. Target acquired. Eliminate. One day it was tailing a mark through crowded streets, learning the rhythms of their life, their routines, their vulnerabilities. The next, it was deciphering coded messages, piecing together fragmented information like a jigsaw puzzle.
There was no logic, no pattern, no training. Just a relentless series of demands, each one more unpredictable than the last. Sink or swim. Adapt or die. That was the motto etched into the very fabric of the organization. They threw you into the deep end, and if you managed to claw your way back to the surface, gasping for air, you were rewarded with another, even more daunting task. It was a twisted form of education, a crucible that forged adaptability out of necessity.
That's why, despite my clumsiness earlier, I'm not worried. I might look like a clueless newbie, fumbling passes and tripping over my own feet. But beneath the surface of incompetence, something else is stirring. The same instincts honed in the unforgiving world of shadows are starting to kick in.
I am observing, analyzing, calculating. Learning the flow of the game, the strengths and weaknesses of my teammates and opponents. Nagumo might have the flashy skills and the adoring fans, but I've got something else, something more valuable: the ability to adapt. To become whatever I need to be to survive. And in this game, just like in the life I'd left behind, survival is just the first step. Domination is the ultimate goal. Give me time. Give me a chance to learn the rules, to understand the players, to exploit the weaknesses. And I'll dismantle him piece by piece.
Sorry Nagumo, but you've piqued my interest and now... I'm not going to let you get away so easily.
"Hey left-back, man-to man, man-to-man! It's a corner, you have to stick to an opposing player!"
Oh my god, shut it for a minute. At this rate, I am going to rip out those sharky teeth of yours, shove them on your ass and lick out all your body fluids until you end up screaming like a fucking baby.
Since it has come down to a corner kick, the folks in the soccer club including myself, while calmly walking, are vying for our positions. It won't be long before the match resumes.
Nagumo strolls towards the corner flag, an almost bored expression on his face. He places the ball carefully, takes a few steps back, and then, with a smooth, practiced motion, sends a curling ball arcing towards the penalty area. The ball hangs in the air, a spinning sphere of white against the blue sky, seemingly suspended in time.
The veteran striker, the same one who had missed that sitter in the first half, rises above the throng of players, his jump impossibly high. He hangs in the air for a moment, a hawk poised to strike, before connecting with a powerful header.
"Stop it, geezer!"
The ball, a blur of white, rockets past Tanaka's outstretched hands and into the back of the net.
"GOOOOOAL!!"
Three-one. The veterans roar their approval, their cheers echoing across the field.
The initial shock and awe of Nagumo's skill wears off, replaced by a creeping sense of despair. We scramble, disorganized, our earlier flashes of competence extinguished like candles in a storm.
Desperate to contain the star player, we start throwing players at him, double-teaming, even triple-teaming him at times. But it is like trying to catch smoke. He slips through our defenses with infuriating ease, his passes slice through our lines like scalpels. And each time we overcommit to stopping him, it leaves gaping holes in our formation. The veterans exploit these weaknesses ruthlessly, their quick, precise passing carves us apart.
The fourth goal comes from a swift counterattack, Hayama threads a perfect through-ball to their striker, who slots it past our goalkeeper with precision.
The fifth is a textbook example of teamwork, a series of short, sharp passes culminating in a tap-in at the far post. Our defense becomes a sieve, our midfield a wasteland, our attack nonexistent. The skinny kid gasps for breath, his face a mask of exhaustion and defeat. Even Shibata's boundless energy seems to flag. The weight of the score, the relentless pressure, the sheer inevitability of our defeat, crushes us. We are a broken team, our spirits shatter, our resistance crumbles.
Minutes tick by, each one a small eternity of humiliation. Then, inevitably, the ball finds its way back to Nagumo's feet. The ceaseless chanting of his name from the stands grates on my nerves, a constant reminder of my own inadequacy. Nagumo! Nagumo! Nagumo! Enough is enough.
Something snaps inside me. Ignoring any semblance of strategy or teamwork, I charge towards him, fueled by pure, unadulterated rage. He doesn't even seem surprised. With a casual flick of his ankle, he executes a roulette, the ball spinning away from my outstretched foot, leaving me lunging at air. The mocking cheers from the stands are growing louder and louder.
My pride, already bruised and battered, can't take any more. Screw the "beautiful game." Screw sportsmanship. I'll take him down with me.
I change my trajectory, abandoning any pretense of playing the ball. My target now isn't the sphere of leather at his feet; it's his ankle. I aim for a spot just above his boot, a point I know from painful experience is vulnerable to a crippling injury. The ball may pass but not the player!
A flicker of... amusement? Some expression crosses Nagumo's face as he sees my intent. He smiles, a predatory grin.
"Hey, newbie," he says, his voice laced with condescension, "let me give you a tip. If you're going to try and steal the ball from someone..."
He casually lifts the ball into the air with a deft touch and leaps, his body soaring over my outstretched leg like I'm nothing more than a minor obstacle. The crowd gasps. I stumble, my momentum carrying me forward, my face inches from the turf. The sting of humiliation burns hotter than any pain.
"...don't attack without thinking."
He lands gracefully, the ball still under his control, and without breaking stride, unleashes a thunderous shot that rockets past Tanaka and into the top corner of the net. 6-1.
I collapse on the grass, my face buried in my hands, while the crowd's roaring becomes a mocking symphony of defeat.
Who is this guy? He's not just good; he's... in a whole different league, almost otherworldly.
And a disturbing realization begins to dawn, a thrill of excitement mixed with a chilling sense of dread: This isn't just a game anymore. This is a hunt. And I, the predator turned prey, am starting to feel a strange, unsettling... admiration for the hunter.
My inner demon, the one I thought I'd buried long ago, stirs, awakened by the challenge, by the sheer, undeniable superiority of my opponent.
First that glasses prick who ignored me as if I'm just a bug. And now this guy humiliating me... The student council... They're collecting quite the menagerie of monsters, aren't they? This could be... fun.
Then Coach Hatake's laughter booms across the field, harsh and grating, echoing off the empty stomachs and shattered spirits around us. He claps his hands sharply, his tone mocking.
"Well, well, well," he drawls, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "Look at our magnificent rookies. Absolutely brilliant performance, lads. Truly inspiring." He pauses, letting the silence weigh on us before continuing, his tone shifting from mocking to something colder, sharper.
"Did you really think you could win? Did you ever believe, even for a second, that you stood a chance against a team like this? You're playing in the big leagues now, boys. This isn't some playground kickabout. This is the Advance Nurturing High School. And here, mediocrity is a sin punishable by oblivion." He paces back and forth in front of us, his eyes scanning our faces, lingering on each downcast expression.
"I saw that pathetic display earlier. That... strategy of avoiding the ball, of hiding behind your opponents. You think that's clever? You think that's how you earn a place on this team? You call yourselves soccer players? You're an embarrassment. A disgrace to the very jersey you wear." He spits on the ground, his disgust plain for all to see.
"I get discouraged if I think that Japan's future is in your hands."
Then, his voice softens, almost gentle. "I let you win that first half. You know why? I wanted to see what you were made of. I wanted to know if you had any fight, any pride, any potential. And what did I see? Nothing. Absolutely nothing."
Leaning in close, his eyes burn with intensity that makes me flinch. "You think Nagumo's arrival is what changed the game? You're wrong. He just exposed your weakness. Your inadequacy. Your utter lack of... everything. I set that first half to lull you into a false sense of security. And you fell for it. Hook, line, and sinker. You were so busy celebrating your fluke goal that you didn't even realize you were being played."
Straightening up, his voice hardens once more. "This isn't about talent. It's about mentality. It's about the will to win. The desire to be the best. And you," he sweeps his arm across the line of dejected rookies, "you don't have it. Not a single one of you."
Coach Hatake's voice drops, losing some of its harshness but gaining a chilling intensity. "This... this feeling right now," he gestures toward the scoreboard and our slumped figures, "this crushing despair, this utter humiliation... remember it. Burn it into your memories. Because this," he raises his voice again, "this is what defeat tastes like. This is the price of weakness."
He pauses "So, what are you going to do about it? Are you going to wallow in self-pity? Pack your bags and crawl back to your comfortable little lives? Or are you going to fight?"
His eyes bore into us, challenging, daring us to defy him. "Because let me tell you something, this isn't the end. This is just the beginning. You rookies have a long, hard road ahead. You'll be competing against those veterans for a spot on this team. And let me tell you, it won't be fair. Not even close."
A grim smile twists his lips. "Life isn't fair. Never has been, never will be. Some of you were born with natural talent, others only with sheer grit. Some have supportive families, others have to fight for every scrap. Some of you will be given opportunities handed to you on a silver platter, while others have to break down doors. That's the reality. The sooner you accept it, the better."
He steps closer, his voice dropping to a low growl. "I'll ask again, are you going to let life, this game, chew you up and spit you out? Or are you going to fight back? Are you going to make yourselves so damn good that this... this feeling of helplessness... becomes impossible to repeat?"
He turns and walks away, leaving us to grapple with his words.
The coach's speech lingers like a suffocating weight. Our heads droop, our shoulders slump. The silence was broken only by the occasional sniffle and the distant cheers of the veterans. Then, Hirata steps forward.
His voice, though quiet, carries an unexpected strength. "He's right," he says, his gaze sweeping over our dejected faces. "This game is not fair. But that doesn't mean we should give up. We may not win today, but we can still fight. We can still show them what we're made of and earn our place on this team."
His words doesn't ignite a fiery passion in the others, but I see a flicker of determination in Shibata's eyes. He nods, his blue hair bobbing, a small smile returning to his face.
Then, the referee blows the whistle.
Hirata places the ball carefully on the center spot and takes a deep breath, then, with a look of steely resolve, he passes it to Shibata, their eyes locking in a silent exchange.
Shibata, with a spark of defiance in his usually cheerful demeanor, receives the pass with a crisp touch and immediately sets off. He accelerates past a lumbering midfielder, with the ball sticking on his feet as he weaves effortlessly through the stunned veterans.
A shout rings out from the sidelines. It's Hayama, recognizing the threat and sprinting towards Shibata, determined to shut down the play. But Shibata anticipates the challenge, with a quick flick using the outside of his boot, he sends a perfectly weighted pass flying straight into Hirata's path.
Hirata, always able to read the game like an open book, catches the ball with a burst of speed. His first touch propels him past Hayama, who ends up sprawling on the turf, his overeagerness betraying his momentum.
Now, Hirata finds himself in open space, charging toward the goal. Two defenders converge on him, one from the left, one from the right, their tackles aimed at the ball. Yet, with a deft touch and a subtle shift of his hips, Hirata slips right between them, leaving them grasping at air. He steps inside the penalty area and readies himself to shoot.
Just as he's about to unleash his shot, a desperate defender lunges from behind. His outstretched leg clips Hirata's heels, and Hirata goes down. The referee's whistle pierces the air, his arm pointing towards the penalty spot.
Hirata and Shibata had done it. Through skill, teamwork, and a shared determination, they had carved out a chance.
However...
"Back off, fools! This one's mine!" roars the shark-toothed defender as he shoves his way to the front. He glares at everyone, his eyes burning with a predatory intensity. "Anyone who tries to take this from me will be picking their teeth off the ground!"
The moment his voice cuts through the tension, the penalty kick scene erupts into chaos. The fragile unity that Hirata had tried to build shatters like thin ice. Suddenly, every rookie wants to be the hero, each one clamoring for the glory of scoring, even if it's just a consolation goal in the midst of our humiliation.
"What the hell, man? Why you?" someone protests, but the challenge is weak, more nervousness than real defiance.
With a cruel, self-serving grin, the defender retorts, "Because if I score this, Coach will finally notice me. I'll get more playing time, and that means more glory for me." He makes no effort to hide his ambition; to him, the team means nothing compared to his own shine.
He then carefully places the ball on the penalty spot, takes a few exaggerated steps back, and with a grunt of exertion, launches a powerful shot toward the bottom left corner of the goalpost. The goalkeeper, reacts in a split second, diving full length and repelling the ball with a strong, determined hand. The ball ricochets off the post and bounces back into play, where a veteran midfielder pounces on it, igniting a swift counterattack.
In that instant, our brief spark of hope is snuffed out, replaced by a cold, sinking dread.
The veteran midfielder seizes the opportunity and threads a perfect pass to Hayama, who is streaking down the right flank. Hayama collects the ball with a smooth touch, his eyes immediately locking onto his next target: the skinny, asthmatic right back, who is desperately trying to fall back into defense.
The skinny kid's face goes pale as he looks up at the approaching Hayama, a look of pure terror replacing any trace of his earlier friendly demeanor. The vice-captain we once knew has vanished, replaced by a colder, more predatory version of himself.
"Aww, don't give me those puppy-dog eyes," Hayama purrs with a wicked grin, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "It just makes me want to devour you even more."
With a quick flick of his heel, he lifts the ball high over the skinny kid's head, executing a humiliating rainbow flick that sends the poor guy stumbling and disoriented. Hayama then accelerates, charging toward the penalty area. Nagumo, running near the top of the box, shouts for the pass.
"Sorry, Nagumo," he calls back, his voice laced with arrogant ease, "but this one's mine."
Tanaka rushes out to close down the angle, but Hayama is already ready. With a delicate touch, he chips the ball over the onrushing goalkeeper.
"Bastard! Don't screw with...!"
The ball floats in a graceful arc over Tanaka's outstretched hands, dipping under the crossbar and nestling into the back of the net.
7-1. The stadium roars. Tanaka, frustrated, slams his fist into the turf. A dull thud that barely cuts through the jubilant cheers of the veterans. The humiliation is complete.
The final whistle blows, a merciful end to what feels like a brutal massacre. Our team is in shambles, and the air is thick with recriminations and blame.
As the match ends, the players start to disperse for break. The shark-toothed defender, his earlier bravado now vanished, grabs the skinny kid by the front of his shirt and lifts him slightly off the ground.
"You useless piece of crap!" he snarls, venom dripping from every word. "It's all your fault! You lost the ball every single time! You cost us at least three goals! You didn't contribute a damn thing!"
The skinny kid, eyes red and brimming with tears, stammers, "I-I'm sorry..."
The defender's grip tightens. "Sorry? What good is sorry? What the hell is a useless waste of space like you even doing here? You should just quit! Go home and cry to your mommy!"
Tears spill down the skinny kid's cheeks as his thin frame trembles. Instead of sympathy, the defender's words only fuel his anger further.
"Stop your sniveling, you pathetic worm!" He raises his hand as if to strike the already cowering boy.
"That's enough!" Coach Hatake's voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and commanding. He strides toward the pair, his face dark as a storm cloud. "I won't tolerate bullying on my team. Lay a hand on him, and you're off this field permanently. Do I make myself clear?"
The defender, his face twisted in anger and resentment, spits out a frustrated "Tch!" and shoves the skinny kid to the ground before stalking off.
I turn to Hirata and Shibata, planning to offer to walk back to the dorms with them as a small gesture of solidarity against our shared defeat. But as I approach, Coach Hatake calls their names and gestures for them to follow him. They exchange a confused glance before heading off, leaving me alone amidst the wreckage of our loss.
"What a hassle of a day... I wanna rest."
With a heavy sigh of resignation, I start the long walk back to the dorms. The setting sun casts long, melancholy shadows that seem to mirror the darkness settling in my heart. The cheers of the celebrating veterans fade away, replaced by the dull ache of disappointment and the gnawing uncertainty of what tomorrow will bring.