"There's nothing worse than watching the game move on without you."
It used to be his name.
On every lineup sheet.
On the armband.
On the lips of teachers, fans, girls leaning over the railings.
Jordan Kaito. Captain. Starter. Lock.
Now?
He sat on the bench, watching a kid with cold eyes and a notebook walk past him like he didn't exist.
Kyrie Barnes.
And maybe that was the part that stung the most.
Not the system.
Not the wins.
Not even the fact that Coach benched him.
No—it was the way Kyrie never looked at him like a rival.
Just... a variable.
Something that could be subbed out. Calculated. Replaced.
Jordan sat on the bus, forehead pressed to the window, the cold glass fogging with every exhale.
The Clausten game was over. They'd won.
2–0.
But he'd lost. Again.
Not just minutes on the pitch.
But something deeper.
The respect.
The voice.
The weight.
He remembered what it used to feel like.
Last season.
First name on the sheet.
Coach yelling, "Run it through Kaito!"
The team trusting him. Listening. Joking. Looking up to him.
Now they looked at Kyrie.
A kid who didn't even seem to like football.
Who didn't bleed for it.
Didn't laugh after games. Didn't scream after goals.
Didn't feel anything.
And yet... they followed him like he was some kind of prophet.
Even Dante, who never listened to anyone.
Even Taylor, who only respected players with muscle.
Even Ren.
Ren, who moved like a ghost, and somehow still bowed his head slightly when Kyrie spoke.
Jordan clenched his jaw.
What the hell am I doing here?
Back home, he didn't talk during dinner. His mom noticed, of course. She always did.
"You okay?" she asked, pushing vegetables across her plate.
"I'm good."
"You don't sound good."
"I said I'm good."
She gave him a look. The kind that says I raised you better than to lie like that.
But she didn't push.
He went to bed early. Lay in the dark with his phone lighting up his face, watching old clips of himself.
Goals from last season.
Headers. Sprints. Crosses that curled like they were guided by faith.
He was good. Still is.
So why does it feel like everyone's already moved on?
Flashback
Summer tryouts.
Back when Kyrie showed up in torn cleats and didn't say a word.
Jordan had laughed when he saw him.
"Library kid wandered onto the field," someone joked.
Then Kyrie moved.
And every assumption shattered like glass.
Clean passes. No tricks. No ego.
Just... dominance.
By the end of the session, Coach was already watching him different.
Jordan had felt it.
In his gut.
In the cold way Coach said, "He's in."
Back to the present.
Jordan tossed his phone aside and stared at the ceiling.
He hated this feeling.
Not because he was jealous.
No.
It was because he knew he was being erased.
One game at a time.
And part of him wanted to fight.
To claw his way back.
But another part—deeper, quieter—kept whispering the question he didn't want to answer:
What if they're better without me?
The next morning, practice came too early.
He showed up second.
Kyrie was already there.
Alone. Hoodie on. Notebook out. Watching film like he was solving a murder.
Jordan didn't say a word.
Just started jogging laps.
Ren passed him during warm-ups. Didn't speak either.
Taylor gave him a nod. Half-hearted.
Even Dante kept his distance.
He'd been captain.
Now he was a ghost.
During drills, Coach didn't call his name until the end.
"Jordan. Defensive B squad. Right side."
Not even the main group.
He jogged over. Did what he was told.
But he didn't feel anything.
Until the ball came loose. Midfield scramble.
He saw Kyrie sprinting toward it.
Jordan got there first.
He shielded. Turned. Sent a long ball down the flank.
Perfect weight.
Clean curve.
Kyrie didn't say anything.
But Jordan saw the way his eyes followed the ball.
Measured it.
Like he was logging it. Accepting it.
Not praising.
Not impressed.
Just noting: Usable again.
And maybe that's all he needed.
After practice, he stayed back.
Sat in the locker room while the others filtered out.
Just him.
And Kyrie.
"Why are you like that?" Jordan asked finally.
Kyrie didn't look up from his notes. "Like what?"
"Emotionless. Cold. Like none of this matters to you."
Kyrie clicked his pen closed.
"It matters," he said.
Jordan scoffed. "You sure? You act like you're playing chess while the rest of us are bleeding out on the field."
Kyrie looked at him then.
Direct. Not unkind. Just… honest.
"I don't need to feel it to love it."
A pause.
"And you don't need to hate me to matter."
Jordan froze.
Kyrie stood. Walked past him.
Right before he left the room, he added:
"Play better. Be undeniable. You don't need their memory. Just make them remember."
Then he was gone.
Jordan sat there a long time.
Didn't smile.
Didn't speak.
But for the first time in weeks, he felt the burn return behind his ribs.
Not rage.
Not jealousy.
Just heat.
Drive.
Jordan thought to himself:
"You took my spotlight."
"You rewrote the system."
"Fine."
"But this isn't over."
"I'm not done."
"And if I can't break your Code—"
"Then I'll become the glitch that tears it apart."