That day should have been just like any other football night.
The small roadside cafe near Kōfu Station where my father and I always watched J-League games was bustling as usual. The TV commentator's voice, the smell of fried chicken, and the cheers of the fans blended together to create an atmosphere that felt like a second home.
But that night was different.
The seat next to me was empty.
The seat that was usually occupied by my father, with his coffee-scented work jacket and tired smile after work, was now filled only by an empty coaster. He was on assignment in Sendai for a long-term business project, with no sign of it ending.
I kept staring at the seat until suddenly someone tapped my shoulder.
"Excuse me, young man, is this seat empty?"
I turned and saw a middle-aged man with black hair that was starting to turn gray, an upright posture, and sharp eyes like someone who was used to leading a locker room. He was holding a beer, looking tired but strangely excited, like a child waiting for kickoff.
"Yes, please," I replied.
He sat down. Without looking at me, he immediately commented on the team's formation.
"The opposing team is playing with a narrow 4-4-2 formation. If our wings push too far forward, the midfield will be exposed. The coach should have realized this from the start."
I replied without thinking.
"Actually, it's not the formation that's wrong. Their left back is pushing too far forward. He needs to be more patient and wait for the cutback moment. If they rush, the second ball always falls to the opponent."
The man turned to me slowly, as if just realizing that the high school kid in a worn hoodie my hair messy because I couldn't be bothered to fix it was analyzing the game like a professional commentator.
"...You're still in high school, right?" he asked flatly.
"I think so," I replied.
He laughed loudly.
"How dare you say that, but you're absolutely right."
Once the game started, we were both completely focused discussing formations, predicting patterns, pointing out mistakes as if we were two commentators who had forgotten to drink their beverages. Strangely, I found myself talking freely, without the social awkwardness or fear of being misunderstood like at school.
Here, I wasn't Amakawa Tomoya, the quiet student.
Here, I was just a soccer lover just like my father.
And the man sitting in my father's seat somehow fit that role perfectly.
When the final whistle blew, he picked up his bag and stood up.
"My name is Todoroki Shigeru. I'm the coach of Yatsugatake FC," he said, extending his hand.
A small smile played on his lips. "We play in the Yamanashi Prefectural League."
"You have a good soccer brain. Come to practice tomorrow. I want to see how far your tactical instincts go."
I stared at his hand for a few seconds, hesitating.
Then I took it.
And that night born from an empty seat and an unexpected encounter my life took a turn I never could have imagined.