Soccer practice on Thursday ended the way it had all week. I'm tired, my head is spinning. Around Kai, and the question of why he's been so distant, yet still ordered food to my apartment last night. Or why he's been keeping track of my habits. The worst part is, I haven't confronted him yet. How could I? The problem is: he knows everything about me. All I've been craving is to be able to close the distance between us, but he won't let me in.
The locker room is humid and loud. Wet hair, lockers slamming, guys talking over each other like volume is a personality trait. Someone's laughing at a clip on their phone. I peel my shirt off, and my skin feels too sensitive where it's cooled, like the air is sharper than it should be.
Tomorrow sits in the back of everyone's mind. You can feel it. Even the first years who normally float through with wide eyes and jokes are quieter, moving like they don't want to be the one who does something stupid.
Coach Nakamura enters, and the energy in the room subtly changes. No one goes silent, but there's a shift—people sit up straighter, conversations quieten, and everyone's focus drifts his way.
He doesn't waste time. "We're at home tomorrow," he says, his tone even but firm. "Just because it's pre-season, don't think it's a free pass to slack off. This is your chance to set the tone—show everyone who we are before anyone else tries to define us. Meiji University are not a team to scoff at."
His gaze sweeps over us like he's counting who's present and who's actually here.
"Sleep tonight. Eat properly. Stop living on convenience store sugar. If you're carrying an injury, you tell me now, not five minutes into the match. If you get stupid tomorrow, you sit. I don't care who you are."
His eyes flick—brief and sharp—toward Riku. Then away again.
Riku's jaw tightens like he's swallowing a reply.
Coach claps once, decisive. "Shower. Go home. Be ready."
The tension eases as everyone gets moving again. Midfielders quietly discuss tactics, half-serious, half-banter, while a few first years hang back, listening in.
I've been playing for the club for almost two months, and I'm only just starting to put faces to names. When I first joined, the team seemed pretty normal. But the second years sit higher on the food chain, and there aren't many left. Riku, Tora and Kento make up the core of our defensive backline. Big egos. If Riku laughs, Tora and Kento laugh. Daichi's stuck as a right-back with them, and he acts like he's learned the trick already—keep your head down, do your job, don't get pulled into drama.
I'm towel-drying my hair when Yuujin flops onto the bench beside me with a dramatic sigh. "You still brooding over him?" He speaks quietly enough only for me to hear.
I hold my breath for a moment. "What the fuck, Yuyu?"
"Ace, you gotta stop playing coy with me. I know you're not just stressed about the game tomorrow."
My eyes widen, which only gives me away more.
"You were glowing on Tuesday. One recital and a drive home with Kai, and you've been sad ever since. What happened when he took you home? Did you guys—do anything?"
"No!" I snap too quickly, a few heads turn, and then I lower my voice again. "Nothing happened. I think that's the problem."
"Hmph. If you really want to get closer to Kai, I could always 'accidentally' lock you two in the storage closet together."
I can feel heat blooming in my cheeks. "Please don't. The last thing I need is you playing matchmaker."
He grins, completely unbothered. "No promises. I'm just saying, if you hear the door click behind you, it's probably for your own good."
Despite myself, I laugh—a sharp, unexpected sound that cuts through the heaviness in my chest. For a moment, the world feels lighter.
Yuujin nudges me with his elbow, eyes twinkling. "See? That's the spirit. If you need me to fake a fire drill or start a rumour that you two are secretly dating, just say the word. I live to serve."
I shake my head, but I can't stop smiling. "You're ridiculous."
He winks. "And you're hopeless. It's a good thing you've got me. Come on, he's probably waiting for you." He lifts his hand in a quick, beckoning gesture. "I'll walk you out."
Outside, the air is thick. Not raining yet, but heavy with it. The sky looks stuck.
Yuujin walks me to the end of the Hongo campus, then nudges me playfully when he clocks Kai's BMW by the FamilyMart.
Kai's in the driver's seat when I get there. Engine off. Window cracked.
He doesn't get out.
The lock clicks. That's it.
I get in, and the door shuts with a solid thud that makes everything outside feel farther away. It's like I can feel the shift, the contrast between having a normal friend and whatever this is.
He pulls away smoothly. The radio is low: weather reports, expected rain. No small talk. Just the hum of the road and the city passing by like it doesn't know I'm falling apart in increments around Kai Takato.
I keep my eyes on the window. If I look at him too long, my brain starts doing things I can't afford.
A few minutes from my building, Kai reaches into the back seat and sets a convenience store bag in my lap like he's handing me a schedule.
It's warm through the plastic.
"Eat," he says.
I stare at it. "What?"
Kai keeps his eyes on the road. "We have a match tomorrow."
That's the excuse. The shield. Cold care disguised as practicality.
I swallow, throat tight. "You didn't have to—"
"Yes, I did," he says, like it's obvious. Like it's not emotional. Like it's not intimate to hand someone food.
"So, it was you," I mutter under my breath before I have a chance to think it through.
"Hm?"
I swallow hard and scramble for a response, "Nothing—thank you. And for the curry last night, thanks."
"Don't," he says.
I blink. "Don't what?"
His jaw tightens; he doesn't look at me. "Don't thank me like that."
The silence stretches—heavy, almost brittle—before he finally speaks again.
"Just eat. We have a match."
The rest of the drive is quiet, making me acutely aware of my own breathing and every small sound—the rustle of my clothes, the click of my fingers when I flex them, even the involuntary swallow I can't hide.
He stops outside my building. Doesn't put it in park for long.
Kai doesn't even glance at the entrance.
"Sleep," he says. "Don't stay up."
My hand tightens on the bag.
Why do you get to keep me and still refuse me?
Kai gives me nothing.
I get out.
The door closes. The car pulls away before I'm even through the entrance.
By the time I'm upstairs, my phone starts buzzing, one message after another.
It's the team LINE chat.
Riku:
Tomorrow is home. No excuses.
Especially you @Ace. If you're going to drop again, tell Coach now.
Tora:
LMAOO
Did you see the way I folded him in practice today?
Kento:
He probably likes being manhandled
He acts like it
Tora:
@Kento YOU'RE A FREAK LOL
Riku:
Easy.
Don't start. You don't know who's watching.
Tora:
Who? His rich boyfriend?
Takato hasn't opened the chat for weeks
It's worse because it's not just Riku anymore. Riku being a bastard is consistent. But I've barely had words with Tora and Kento since joining. Polite, small, nothing. Background faces that I'm only just starting to recognise because I've been too stressed to do the normal "get to know you" part.
The chat buzzes again.
Yuujin:
We're on the same team.
You're second years. This is embarrassing.
Tora:
RELAX IT'S A JOKE
The rookies are so sensitive sheesh
For a second, there's nothing.
Then my phone buzzes again—a different notification.
A private message from Daichi.
I blink at the name. I've barely spoken to him outside of practice. He's the kind of guy who shows up, does his job, and goes home. Quiet. Reliable. Second year, but not… them.
Daichi:
Best to just ignore them. That's what I do.
I stare at the message longer than I should.
It isn't dramatic. It isn't brave. It's not even comforting.
But it's something. An acknowledgement that I'm not imagining it. That someone else sees it and has decided that surviving is the only way.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard.
I type:
Thanks
I delete it.
I don't know why. Pride, maybe. Or the stupid part of me that doesn't want "ignore them" to be the answer. I just leave a simple thumbs-up emoji and lock my phone.
I stare at the chat until my screen dims, then lock it, as if that can erase what I just read.
The kitchen light is too bright. My apartment feels smaller at night, like the walls lean in when I'm tired.
The convenience store bag is still sitting on the counter, its warmth seeping through the plastic and gently heating the air around it. There's something quietly homely about it—like the sort of thing you'd pick up for yourself on the way home.
I open it up.
Inside: chicken and rice. No extras, no fancy sauces. Just the basics—the kind of meal you choose when you're trying to be sensible, pretending that a bit of protein and routine might be enough to sort your life out.
I should be grateful. I am. I hate that I am.
I sit at the small table and peel back the lid. Steam hits my face, and for a second, it reminds me of something stupid—home, or school lunches, or being looked after without having to ask.
I scoff anyway.
Because this is what Kai does. He keeps his distance and still reaches into my life. He doesn't touch me, but he'll put food in my hands. He won't look at me for too long, but he knows everything that I need—well, almost everything.
I take a bite.
It's plain. It's good. It's exactly what it's supposed to be.
My throat tightens like I'm about to cry over chicken and rice, which is so humiliating I almost laugh.
I chew, swallow, and force myself to take another bite.
The chat buzzes again on the counter. I don't look. I don't want to see if they're still talking. I don't want to see if Yuujin is still fighting. I don't want to see Kai's name sitting there like a blank space.
I eat anyway, because if I don't, I'll end up facing tomorrow feeling empty—and I'm tired of that.
—
Friday doesn't feel like a normal day. It feels like a day the whole campus has been waiting for.
Even before I'm properly awake, my phone buzzes on the bedside table. I don't look. I flip it over and mute everything. I can't afford to let anyone crawl into my head today—not Riku, not Tora, not Kento, not even Yuujin's jokes. I need the inside of my skull to be quiet for once.
Outside, the sky is the same dull grey it's been threatening since Wednesday. The air tastes wet and humid.
No one talks on the train. Workers and students focus on themselves, absorbed in their phones or nodding off. I let the silence surround me. If I walk, I overthink. Here, I can just blend in and move with the crowd.
When I get to the University, it's different.
There's a buzz around the gates that shouldn't exist for a pre-season match, but it does anyway—little clusters of people in team colours, phones out, someone handing out flyers like it's a real event. You can hear the word match in the way people talk, in the way they move, like the day has an anchor point and everything else is just filler.
By the time the last class ends, the whole campus feels like it's leaning toward the stadium. Like everything is being pulled in that direction.
And I'm being pulled with it.
The locker room is too loud. Bags hit the floor, tape rips, music blares until someone tells them to turn it down. First years try to look relaxed. The air smells of deodorant, wet grass, and nerves.
I keep my head down, lacing my boots tighter than necessary just to keep my hands busy.
Riku stands by the centre bench, waiting for everyone to remember he's in charge.
"Alright," he says, his voice cutting through the noise—not loud, just commanding.
Conversations die out in uneven chunks. Heads turn. Someone clears their throat. The music gets shut off.
Riku rolls his shoulders once. "This is home. I don't care that it's pre-season. You play sloppy at home, you get remembered for it."
Tora, sitting a little behind him, grins like he's about to go to war for fun.
Riku's eyes sweep the room, and when they hit me, they don't linger—but I feel it anyway, like a spotlight catching me for just a second.
Yuujin's knee bumps mine beside me on the bench—light, like a reminder that I'm not alone. When I look up, he gives me a quick, tight look that says: don't take the bait.
Kai is across the room, pulling his jersey on with the same calm he always has. He doesn't join in. He doesn't hype anyone up. He doesn't even look like he's nervous.
If anything, he looks bored.
Which somehow makes the room orbit him anyway.
Coach Nakamura comes in a minute later, and the atmosphere shifts again—less ego, more focus.
He doesn't give speeches. He gives instructions.
"Keep your shape," he says. "Use the wings early. Don't force central balls into pressure. Takato, make the run. Wingers, don't hesitate."
His eyes move to Kai, then to me, and then away as if he's figuring out a strategy with us.
"Riku," Coach says firmly. "Lead with your head today. Not your mouth."
A few guys look down at their boots.
Riku nods once like he's swallowing something.
We stand. The room fills with the sounds of shin guards being strapped on, zippers, and breathing.
As we start to move out, Kai passes close enough that I catch the clean scent of him—it's enough to make me feel light-headed.
He doesn't look at me.
But his voice drops, just for a second, like he's speaking to the air beside my shoulder.
"Stay wide," he says. "Don't hesitate."
He rolls his shoulders once, calm as ever, then he's gone, moving ahead through the tunnel leading to the pitch.
I'm left standing there with my heart in my throat, like even the smallest instruction from him is a kind of contact.
Riku's captain armband flashes when he moves his arm, bright and irritating in the fluorescent light.
Then we start walking through the tunnel to the pitch.
The stadium is bigger than it looks from the outside. Enough seating that when you step out and see people filling it—clusters of students in dark jackets, a few banners, some cameras, a group of girls near the front row yelling somebody's name like they've been waiting all week—you feel it.
It's not a professional roar. It's students and staff, friends of friends and people who just wanted something to do on a Friday.
Across the field, Meiji students are already moving through their warm-up like they've done it a hundred times. Lines of players doing quick passes, short sprints, and stretches in sync.
Riku starts organising us before the warm-up even properly begins, clapping his hands, barking little adjustments like we're already defending. Yuujin jogs past me and bumps my shoulder, light, grounding. I nod like I'm fine.
Kai doesn't waste energy. He runs his sprints clean and sharp, touches the ball like it's a habit he can't turn off. He doesn't look at the stands. He doesn't look at anyone for long.
"Captains!"
Meiji's captain meets Riku at the centre circle, both of them doing that stiff, polite handshake that never reaches the eyes. The ref speaks quickly, holds up the coin.
It spins, flashes, and lands.
Riku calls it right. He points without hesitation, "We kick off first."
The ball gets placed on the centre spot. Players take their positions like pieces sliding into place. I backpedal toward the wing, eyes scanning the Meiji fullback already watching me.
Somewhere in the stands, a chant tries to start again. Someone yells "UTokyo!" like it's a dare.
The ref checks his watch, then his whistle snaps through the air.
We kick off, and it's immediately frantic in that first-minute way—everyone trying to make a statement with their body before the ball even settles. The other team presses high. Our midfield tries to keep it calm. Kai is already moving like he's restless, drifting between their centre-backs like he's testing which one will blink first.
Riku's voice travels from the back line. It always does.
"Shape. Don't get stretched. Ace, wider!"
I'm already wide. I don't respond. I just keep my head down and focus on the lines beneath my feet.
The first few minutes are all about survival—receive, turn, release. The ball moves faster than it should. It's not quite raining yet, but the air feels damp and heavy, like the sky has been threatening us all morning. Sweat forms too quickly. My shirt clings to my back as if it wants to hold me still.
A switch of play opens the wing for me, and I take the ball on the run, pushing it ahead with my first touch. Their fullback closes fast, shoulder low, eyes on my feet. I cut inside, and he bites, just enough that I can slip past him with a burst.
For half a second, it feels good. Clean. Like I'm actually here.
I lift my head. Kai is in the middle, already setting up his run, and I can see Yuujin on the far side holding his position, waiting.
Then the second defender arrives.
He doesn't go for the ball. He goes for my leg.
It's not a dramatic flying tackle. It's the kind of foul that looks normal until you're the one getting clipped mid-stride. A boot catches my shin, and my ankle twists just a bit too far. The shock shoots up my calf like a wire snapping.
I go down hard enough that the breath punches out of me.
The world narrows to grass in my mouth and the sting in my leg. I roll onto my back and stare up at the sky, blinking fast. My chest is heaving.
The referee's whistle cuts through the noise. There's a brief ripple of sound from the crowd, but it quickly dies down.
I push myself upright, almost automatically testing my ankle. It hurts—not the kind of pain that means I'm properly injured, but enough to make me pause. It's that sharp ache where your body just needs a moment to decide how annoyed it wants to be.
I grit my teeth. I hate being on the ground. I hate being seen like this.
"Oi, you alright?" Ren, our attacking midfielder asks, hovering, hand half-extended like he's not sure if he's allowed to touch me.
I nod because that's what you do. I nod because I don't want to look soft.
The opposing defender backs away, palms up, face innocent. Like he didn't just clip me on purpose.
Riku jogs over too, expression already annoyed.
"Get up," he says, not even checking properly. "We can't waste time."
My jaw tightens.
I shift my weight, and a sharp twinge catches in my calf. I hiss before I can stop myself.
Riku's eyes flick down, then back up like he's irritated at the inconvenience of my body. "Stop being dramatic," he mutters, but it's not loud enough for anyone else to pick up cleanly. It's for me.
I swallow it. I force my breathing to steady. I'm about to grab the offered hand from Ren when a shadow falls across me.
Kai.
He's there like he appeared out of the air, face blank, hair damp at the edges already like he doesn't sweat the way the rest of us do.
His gaze drops to my leg.
He crouches, one knee near the grass, and before I can say anything, his hand presses against my chest, pinning me to the ground.
Then his fingers wrap around my ankle to inspect.
My entire body jolts.
It's ridiculous—just a teammate checking on another, nothing more. That's all it's supposed to be.
But my skin knows his touch. My body reacts before I can even think, like it's muscle memory.
Ren hesitates, then quietly pulls back, as if he's realised he's not needed anymore.
Kai doesn't look up or acknowledge anyone else. He's focused, almost clinical, and somehow that makes it worse—it feels intentional.
"Straighten it," he says, voice low but steady.
He doesn't have to raise his voice; it still lands right in my chest.
I swallow, trying to keep my hands from shaking, and stretch my leg out a little. Kai's grip shifts—he supports my heel and gently nudges my foot upwards, guiding me to stretch my calf. There's no arguing with him; his touch is careful, but there's no room for protest.
The pain is sharp but contained. I grit my teeth and breathe through it, squeezing my eyes shut for a moment.
Kai's thumb presses into the muscle, right where it's tight—he knows exactly what he's doing, like he's done this a hundred times before.
When I open my eyes, he's watching my leg with this intense focus, as if he's trying to solve a puzzle.
I hate how relieved I feel. How stupidly grateful I am for his touch, like it's the only thing keeping me steady.
Kai lets up a little, then gently helps me move my ankle in a slow circle, testing how much it can handle. His hands never leave me, and I'm suddenly aware of all the eyes on us—from the sidelines, the pitch, maybe even the stands.
Riku makes a sound under his breath, impatient.
Kai doesn't react.
He looks up at me, just for a second. Our eyes meet, and it's like the match drops out from under me.
There's nothing soft in his expression. Nothing comforting.
Just something dark and controlled, like a warning wrapped in calm.
Then he stands.
He offers his hand.
A second passes. Too long.
I take it.
His grip closes around mine and he hauls me up like I weigh nothing, pulling me a little too close at the top of the motion before letting go.
That closeness is a flash. Gone immediately.
He doesn't say "you okay?" He doesn't say anything at all.
Kai turns and walks away like it never happened.
Like he didn't just touch me in front of everyone.
Like he didn't just take that moment and give me nothing to hold afterwards.
I stand there blinking, heartbeat too loud in my ears, leg throbbing, fingers tingling where his were.
My body is already bracing for the pullback.
It's almost automatic now: touch—then distance. Relief—then the drop. Like he's training me.
Riku jogs past me and bumps my shoulder—not hard, but enough to be rude.
"Try staying on your feet," he says, voice flat. "We need wingers, not casualties."
My mouth goes dry. I don't respond. I just turn back into position because the ref is waving us on, and the match isn't going to pause because my insides are twisting.
Yuujin catches my eye once from the other wing. His brows knit like he can tell I'm rattled.
Second half.
The clouds finally decide to crack open.
It starts with a few drops, scattered and cold. Then the rain falls steadily, thin lines turning into a constant flow, hitting my face like cold coins. The pitch darkens. The ball moves faster. Every touch becomes sharper. If you're careless, you lose it.
The match gets uglier.
I sprint, my earlier knock makes itself known in small flashes—ankle twinging when I plant, calf tightening when I push off. I keep going anyway.
We win the ball deep again. Riku gets it near the back, head up, scanning.
And I know what I'm about to do before I do it. Because I've been doing it all match.
I make the run. Wide. Available. Touchline open. The fullback is tucked in too far because they're worried about Kai.
A pass to me would be the safest outlet. The pass defenders love because it releases pressure and starts an attack.
I lift my hand slightly. Just a signal.
Riku looks right at me.
He sees me.
Then he turns his hips and plays it inside anyway.
Not to me. Not wide. Not the obvious release.
He plays into pressure like he wants to prove something.
Their midfielder snaps onto it instantly. The pass gets intercepted, or worse, it bounces into a duel and becomes a fifty-fifty we don't win.
The whole sequence turns messy and pointless because Riku refused the simple option.
I bite down hard on my tongue, furious.
A minute later, we get it back again—another chance to reset. Riku receives under pressure and instead of releasing to the wing, he tries to carry it forward, shoulders squared, captain ego driving him like a motor.
He gets pressed. Two players close him. He tries to muscle through anyway.
The ball pops loose.
We almost get punished on the counter because he wouldn't just play the safe ball.
Coach Nakamura's shout cracks across the field. Sharp. Anger finally punches through discipline.
"Maeda!"
Riku turns his head like he's offended that Coach would dare say his name like that.
Then he swings around and points at me like a spotlight.
"Ace!" he barks. "That run was wrong—stop cutting early. Stay wide."
My vision flashes white.
I can't argue mid-play. I can't shout back without looking like the problem. So I swallow it like I always do, and it burns all the way down.
We play on.
Rain thickens. It starts to soak through my hair, down my neck, into the collar of my shirt. My eyelashes catch droplets. My fingers feel cold and slippery.
A stoppage comes near the sideline and Coach Nakamura is already pacing the technical area like he's had enough of this.
He turns and calls for a substitution.
My stomach drops before I even register who he's calling off.
Riku looks toward the bench, confused.
Coach points.
"Maeda. Off."
For a second, the whole pitch seems to pause, like people are trying to figure out if they heard right.
Riku's mouth opens. "Coach—"
"Off," Coach repeats, calm as a knife. "Now."
Riku's face tightens. His eyes flick to the assistant coach like he's looking for backup. There is none.
He jogs toward the sideline with rain plastering his hair to his forehead, jaw clenched so hard it looks like it hurts.
When Riku reaches the benches, Coach doesn't yell. He leans in slightly and says something too quiet for the stands. Riku's expression shifts—anger, disbelief, humiliation all stacked on top of each other.
Then Coach's hand makes a small motion: the armband.
"Captain," Coach says, still calm. "Hand it over."
Riku freezes.
The yellow band on his arm looks suddenly too bright, too obvious.
Coach's gaze cuts toward the pitch.
"Takato," he calls.
Kai turns his head, jogging closer, rain slicking his hair back, expression unreadable.
My heart does something stupid in my chest.
Riku stares at Kai like he's looking at an insult given a body.
Coach's voice doesn't change. "Armband. To Takato. You're done leading today."
Riku's hands move like they don't want to. He peels the armband off his bicep, slow, like ripping it off is ripping his pride with it.
Kai holds his arm out without ceremony.
Riku slaps the band into his hand harder than necessary.
Kai slides it on like it's just equipment. Like it's not a public execution.
Not a flicker of satisfaction crosses his face. If anything, he looks more tired.
The substitution happens. Riku goes to the bench, water dripping off his jaw, eyes dark.
Kai jogs back into position with the armband on, striker wearing the captain's armband like it was always meant to be there.
And something about that—Kai with authority, Kai still silent—makes the air feel sharper.
We play out the last minutes under a worsening sky. The rain turns into sheets. The pitch shines under the stadium lights. The ball skips. Bodies collide. Everyone's tired, tempers thinning.
The ball breaks loose in midfield, and for a split second, it's nobody's.
Then it's Yuujin's.
He doesn't hesitate. One touch to kill it, another to push it into space like he's already seen the next five seconds. Their fullback steps up to close him down and Yuujin shifts his weight—shoulder drop, a little feint that makes the guy bite just enough.
Yuujin eats up the grass on the wing, rain slicking the pitch, the crowd waking up as soon as they realise what's happening. He cuts inside at the last second, dragging his marker with him, and threads the ball forward before anyone can fully commit.
It slides straight into Kai's path.
Kai takes it in stride like it's inevitable. One touch, then he's through, splitting the space between their centre-back and the keeper's panic.
The keeper rushes out.
It's the moment you always see in highlights. The selfish shot. The hero attempt.
Kai doesn't take it.
He looks up—quick, precise—and squares it across the face of the goal.
Right to me.
For a heartbeat, my brain goes blank. It's too clean. Too obvious.
Then instinct takes over.
I meet it with the inside of my foot and guide it into the open net like I've been doing it my whole life.
The sound is strange—dull off wet grass, then the net snapping tight, then the stadium's noise rushing in a half-second late like it had to catch up.
My chest locks. I don't even know what my face is doing.
Yuujin's already sprinting toward me, arms out, shouting something that gets swallowed by the crowd.
Kai slows to a jog.
For a moment, I want to run over to him, thank him for the assist, and celebrate with him.
He chose me.
Kai doesn't even look at me. He's already turning, already resetting, already pulling the distance back into place like it belongs there.
The whistle finally blows, and it's almost drowned out by the rain.
Thunder rolls over the stadium, deep enough that it feels like a vibration under your feet more than a sound. For a second, the crowd reacts like it's part of the show—voices lifting, whistles and laughter cutting through, the stands erupting in a wild, electric roar.
Then we move toward the tunnels, toward shelter.
Kai walks past me without a word.
The locker room after a win should feel lively. It almost does.
It's noisy at times: shouting, laughing, the sound of hands slapping against shoulders, someone chanting "one-nil!" as if they can't believe we pulled it off. Wet kits get taken off and tossed at lockers. Someone's phone is already out, filming, trying to capture the mood before it slips away. The air is heavy with steam, sweat, and the sharp, clean scent of shampoo.
Yuujin is everywhere at once, grinning like he personally dragged the ball over the line. He grabs me by the back of the neck and shakes me like I'm a lucky charm.
"You scored," he says, eyes bright. "You, Ace. You understand? You did that."
I laugh because I have to. Because if I don't, the adrenaline will turn into something else.
"It was a team goal," I tell him.
He points at my chest like I'm arguing with a referee. "Nah. Finish was clean!"
People keep shouting around us, the room still humming with the match like the stadium followed us inside.
And then Riku cuts through it.
Not with words. With presence.
He's sitting on the bench with his towel around his neck like a cape, jaw tight, shoulders stiff. The armband is gone, and I swear you can still see the absence of it on his arm like a bruise. He doesn't look at me directly. He doesn't have to. I can feel the heat of it anyway. Resentment without a target, and then a target the moment I move.
Tora and Kento hover near him, not celebrating so much as circling, like they're waiting to see what he does. The rest of the team keeps their distance without admitting they're doing it.
Someone tries to crack a joke. It dies halfway.
I keep glancing across the room.
Kai.
He's there, in the middle of everything, and somehow separate from it. Like the air doesn't touch him the same way. Someone slaps his shoulder, and he barely reacts.
He assisted my goal. He chose me for the sure thing. He made that pass like it was nothing.
And now he's back to being… this.
Cold. Silent. A closed door that sometimes opens just long enough to remind me what it feels like to be wanted, then clicks shut.
I shower in a hurry, too restless to stand still. I scrub my scalp hard, breathing through my nose.
I shouldn't care.
My breathing gets heavier, and the hot water only brings my true feelings closer to the surface.
When I step back into the locker room, most of the noise has drained out of it. People are gone. The floor is wet with footprints and puddles. The air is cooler now, heavy with leftover steam.
Yuujin is tugging on his hoodie, still talking, still trying to keep the energy up. He follows Daichi and Ren out of the locker room doors, arms linked and celebratory chanting.
Riku is still there, moving more slowly than everyone else. His movements are sharp, as if he's holding his anger in his hands. He mutters something to Tora. Kento glances at me once, briefly, like he's trying to figure me out.
Then, Coach calls from the corridor, urging the last few guys to hurry up. Riku stands there, as if out of spite, with his shoulders squared. He stalks out, his two shadows following closely behind.
The room empties in a handful of minutes.
Lockers close. Zippers. Distant voices fading down the hall. A door bangs somewhere. The stadium noise is gone. All that's left is the soft drip of water from hair to tile and the hum of the fluorescent lights.
I'm still towel-drying my hair when I realise I'm not alone.
Kai is by his locker, shirt off, hair damp, skin still slick from the shower. He's in slacks like he walked out of a different world where people don't wear training gear. He pulls something from his bag—slow, controlled. Like he has all the time in the world.
Like I'm not standing here with my heart trying to claw its way out.
He doesn't look at me.
He doesn't say a word.
Something in my chest tightens so hard it feels like it might crack.
I can't do it. Not another empty drive home. I can't handle these feelings sitting between my ribs.
"Kai."
He pauses. Not a full stop. Just enough to show he heard me.
I take a step closer before I can talk myself out of it.
"You're unbelievable, you know that?"
His head turns a fraction. Not quite facing me. Like he's letting me exist in his peripheral vision and calling it mercy.
I hate it.
I laugh once, sharp and humourless. "You can't even look at me."
Kai's jaw flexes. "Don't start."
My hands tighten around the towel. "Don't start?" My voice rises, then I force it down again, because the walls feel thin even when the room is empty. "You've barely spoken to me all day. You give me food like I'm some kind of… obligation. You make that pass—" I swallow hard. "You choose me in front of everyone, and then you go right back to acting like I don't exist."
Kai finally turns properly. His gaze lands on my face like it's a weight.
"Is that what this is?" I push. "A game? You get to decide when I'm allowed to matter?"
Kai's gaze drops to my hands, then to my face. Like he's checking if I'm shaking. Like he cares in a way he refuses to admit. So fast I almost miss it.
"That pass was the correct option," he says, voice flat.
I step closer. Close enough that I can see the water beading on his collarbone, sliding down the line of muscle when he breathes. Close enough that my chest feels too hot.
"Don't." I shake my head. "Don't do that. Don't pretend you didn't—"
Kai's voice cuts through mine, low. "You scored."
"That's all you have to say?" My throat burns. "You don't even—"
"Stop talking," he murmurs.
"No," I say, and the word comes out too honest. "Because you—"
Because you touched me and then you left me outside my building like I was nothing.
Because you gave me your jacket and then you didn't come upstairs.
Because you're everywhere and nowhere.
His voice drops. "Not here."
"Where then?" I ask. "Your car? My apartment? Oh, wait, you won't even walk me up anymore." My voice breaks before I can catch it, "You make me feel insane."
He takes one step forward.
The space between us collapses so fast my body reacts before my mind does. My breath catches. The towel slips in my grip.
Kai's shadow swallows me.
He's close enough that I can feel heat coming off him, the faint clean smell of my shower gel—he kept my shower gel. His eyes are heavy-lidded, unreadable, and I can't tell if he's calm or barely holding himself together.
"You want me to say something?" he asks, quietly.
My pulse pounds at my throat. "Yes."
Kai's mouth tightens like he's restraining a smile, or a warning. "You don't know what you're asking for."
The words land in my stomach like a stone.
My voice comes out rough. "Then tell me."
Kai exhales through his nose. It sounds like he's trying not to lose control. Like he's counting down from something only he understands.
His hand lifts.
For a second, I think he's going to touch my face, and my whole body goes stupid with hope.
He doesn't.
He grips my shoulders and pushes me against the lockers before I can react. Metal cold through my shirt. The sound rattles. I gasp, and he's already there, blocking me in, not crushing me, but making it impossible to forget he's bigger than me, stronger than me, closer than I can handle.
He plants his palm on the locker beside my head, arm caging me in. He's built a wall around me with his body.
Kai leans in, slow.
So slow it's unbearable.
His breath brushes my cheek. I can feel it. I can feel the way he's holding himself back, the tension threaded through his shoulders like a wire pulled too tight.
My heart is going to explode. I'm shaking, and I don't know if it's adrenaline or fear or want.
"You're angry," he murmurs, voice barely there.
"Of course I'm angry," I whisper back. "It was easier when I hated you."
His gaze lingers. Something shifts in his face—quick, dangerous.
He leans closer until our noses almost touch.
His mismatched eyes pin me there. The murky green one is soft for half a second, like he's about to give in. The other stays dark and sharp, like he's begging me not to make him fold.
The air between us is so thin it feels like it might snap.
I can't think. All I can do is feel—my breath catching on his, my skin buzzing where he isn't even touching me, the steady heat of him pinning me there like he's making a point.
Kai's gaze drops again—to my mouth.
His thumb lifts—hesitates—then brushes the corner of my lip like he's testing if he can survive it.
The contact is so small it's violent.
I inhale sharply. My hand fists in the fabric of his slacks without permission, grabbing like I'm anchoring myself to reality. My knuckles go white.
Kai's breath stutters.
"Tell me to stop," he says, and it's not a command. It's not even arrogance.
It's a warning. A plea. A line he wants me to draw because he doesn't trust himself to draw it.
My lips part. My mind screams say it. My body says nothing.
I tilt my face up the smallest amount—an answer I can't say out loud.
Kai's eyes darken.
He moves in.
Not fast. Never fast. Like he's letting me feel every centimetre. Like he wants it to hurt.
His forehead brushes mine. Just a touch. His nose grazes mine, barely there, and my whole body lights up. His breath is warm and shaky, and I hate that I can hear it. I hate that I can feel how badly he wants this.
My grip tightens on his slacks. I pull without meaning to.
Kai makes a sound in the back of his throat like he caught himself too late.
His mouth hovers a breath away from mine.
A breath.
I can taste him without tasting him. I can feel the promise of it like pressure in the air. My eyes sting, and I don't know if it's tears or the fact that I'm not breathing properly.
"Kai," I whisper, and his name comes out like it's something I'm begging for.
His lips brush mine—so light it's almost nothing, almost an accident—
And the sound of a door slamming down the corridor detonates through the silence.
Footsteps.
A voice.
Yuujin.
"Ace?" he calls, closer than he should be. "Ren and Daichi wanna go to a karaoke bar, do you wanna—"
Kai pulls back like he's been burned.
So fast I flinch.
The space between us rushes in, cold and brutal. My hand drops away from his slacks like I never meant to touch him at all, like my fingers weren't just shaking with it.
By the time Yuujin steps into the doorway, Kai's face is already wiped clean. Blank again. Controlled. Like nothing happened.
Yuujin takes one look at the room and slows. His eyes flick from me to Kai and back, and for half a second, he looks like he's just walked in on a crime scene.
Then he forces it—forces normal.
"Uh," he says, too casual. "You coming or what?"
Kai doesn't look at him. Kai doesn't look at me.
He bends to pick up his shirt properly, tugging it down like armour, like fabric can undo a moment.
My throat is tight. My mouth still feels… wrong. Too warm. Too aware of itself.
Yuujin clears his throat. "It's just karaoke," he adds, like he's talking me down from a ledge. "We're going to grab food after. Come on, you scored. You're basically obligated to be obnoxious tonight."
I swallow. The thought of a crowded room, bright lights, voices, pretending I'm fine—my stomach turns.
Kai finally speaks.
Not to Yuujin.
To me.
"You should go," he says, voice low, flat, like it's advice he's giving himself.
I blink at him. "What?"
His eyes stay somewhere over my shoulder. Anywhere but my face.
"Karaoke," he says, as if the word costs him. "Go with them."
There's a moment where I wait for something else. A softer tone. A look. Anything that proves the last minute wasn't just my brain inventing heat in an empty room.
Kai gives me nothing.
Yuujin's smile falters, just a little, like he's hearing the same thing I am: a dismissal dressed up as concern.
"Yeah—" Yuujin says quickly, clapping his hands once. "What about you, Kai? Come on. Fresh air. Food. Normal human stuff."
"No, I'm busy tonight."
Kai holds that door shut.
I take a step, then another. My legs feel delayed, like I'm moving through water.
As I pass Kai, I catch it—the smallest hitch in his breath, like he's bracing for contact that doesn't come. His hand flexes at his side and then stills.
If I look at him, I'll do something stupid.
I look at him.
I grit my teeth and lean close enough to Kai that he'll hear me under my breath, "I still have your jacket." I try to make it sound like a threat, but my voice won't behave.
Kai exhales once through his nose, almost a laugh. He still doesn't look at me. "Then don't lose it," he says quietly, too controlled to be casual. His hand flexes again, then stills like he's put it on a leash.
Yuujin shepherds me down the corridor, talking too much on purpose. Ren is waiting near the exit, already buzzing, already loud, and Daichi gives me a small nod like he doesn't want to scare me off.
"You're coming," Ren says, delighted. "No excuses."
I manage a sound that could be an agreement.
Behind us, the locker room door swings shut.
The sound is soft.
It still feels final.
And as we step out into the damp evening air, the storm finally commits—rain starting in thin, cold lines that slick the pavement and darken everyone's clothes, like the sky has decided we've had enough mercy.
All I can think about is the heat of Kai's breath against my mouth, and the way he told me to go like he was pushing me away with both hands.
Distance is the only thing keeping him from ruining us.
As if I'm not ruined already.