Chapter 7

My bedroom was dark except for the warm circle of light from the desk lamp. 

Outside the window, the neighborhood had settled into the quiet hush of a January night. A draft pushed against the glass, but the small heater beside my chair kept the cold at bay.

I sat with my legs stretched out beneath the desk, turning a pen between my fingers.

Hanging from the corner of my chair was the green lanyard from this morning. The laminated pass caught the lamplight, showing the bold crest of Musashi High.

My ears still carried the faint ringing of sixty thousand voices. 

I closed my eyes, and the images of the afternoon returned with total clarity. The high defensive line stepping up in unison. The front three hunting the ball like a pack of wolves. The suffocating pace that left no room to catch a breath.

In middle school, I had made a habit of playing conservatively. 

I walked into open spaces, waited for defenders to lose track of my shoulders, and spent my energy only when a pass demanded it. It was an efficient way to survive on a dirt pitch with a short bench.

Against a team like Kugayama, that habit would get me buried on the bench. Hell, I wouldn't even be brought to the stadium.

A Gegenpress required a motor that didn't stall after sixty minutes. If I wanted to earn that green shirt in April, I couldn't just rely on clever angles. I needed to build a proper engine from scratch.

A short chime broke the silence of the room.

I looked down at the desk. The screen of my phone had lit up with a green notification banner.

Narita Top Road.

My fingers paused over the pen. 

We hadn't exchanged a message since she had mentioned her father's love for Arsenal three days ago. I picked up the phone, tapping the screen to open the thread.

The message was an image attachment. 

I tapped the preview, and the photo expanded to fill the display. 

It was a screenshot captured directly from an online streaming broadcast of the tournament. The lower half of the frame showed the student section holding up cardboards to form the green shield of Musashi High.

Just above that formation, standing along the second-tier railing, were three boys in windbreakers. 

Shizuo stood stiff as a statue with his arms crossed. Yuuki was leaning over the rail, screaming something toward the pitch. And right between them, resting his chin on a fist, was me.

Before I could process the image, another message popped up directly beneath it.

*Top Road: Shimazu-kun! Why were you on the National Stadium today?!*

A second text arrived before I could even touch the keyboard.

*Top Road: I was watching the stream and nearly dropped my mug when the camera panned over!*

A faint smile touched the corner of my mouth. 

I leaned back against the cushions of my chair, resting the phone on my chest as I typed with my thumb.

*Yama: Our future high school was playing. The coaching staff sent us recruit passes for the semifinal.*

The three dots of her typing indicator appeared instantly, vanishing and reappearing repeatedly.

*Top Road: Your future high school?! Musashi High?!*

*Yama: Yeah. All three of us got sports recommendations there back in the autumn.*

*Top Road: That is incredible! I overheard your friend said about the sports recommendations back then, but Pokke-chan never told me you were going to an athletic powerhouse!*

*Yama: Yuri probably forgot. Her brain doesn't retain information that isn't about running or food or her idol Fuji Kiseki.*

*Top Road: That is entirely true. She spent twenty minutes this morning searching for a sneaker that was on her foot.*

I let out a soft laugh, picturing my sister tearing through her dormitory room in total confusion. 

I stared at the chat window for a second, a curious thought crossing my mind. 

*Yama: Did you just have the match on while you were resting, or do you actually follow the tournament?*

The typing bubble vanished for a few seconds. When the text finally arrived, the tone was distinctly defensive.

*Top Road: What do you mean by that?! Of course I follow it!*

*Top Road: Senshuken is an essential winter tradition! High school athletes putting their entire youth on the line for their schools! How could anyone not watch?!*

*Top Road: Please do not underestimate my ball knowledge, Shimazu-kun!*

The phrase ball knowledge in English made me chuckle out loud in the empty room. 

I adjusted my grip on the phone, genuinely amused by the indignant energy radiating from the screen.

*Yama: My mistake. What did you think of the match, then?*

Her response was neither brief nor casual. 

A long paragraph filled the chat, followed immediately by another. 

*Top Road: Kugayama's central midfielders were brilliant in the first half. The way they formed small triangles to escape the press was so smooth. Number twenty-two's movement on the flank was dangerous every time he touched the ball.*

*Top Road: But Musashi's back line was so brave! Holding that high line against favorites takes incredible discipline and not for the faint hearted. Even when they conceded that free kick in the eighty-eighth minute, nobody dropped their heads. It was an inspiring match.*

I read through her messages twice, feeling a quiet sense of respect settle in my chest. 

She wasn't just repeating whatever the commentators said. She had watched the spacing between the lines, recognized the tactical trade-offs, and understood the courage required to hold a defensive structure under immense pressure. 

Her passion for the game was completely real, after all.

*Yama: You really do know your stuff. That free kick was unstoppable, but our seniors played with pride until the final whistle.*

*Top Road: They really did! It made me want to lace up my racing shoes and sprint right then!*

*Yama: Don't do that in the hallways. The dorm supervisor will write you up.*

*Top Road: I am the class representative, Shimazu-kun. I have never received a disciplinary slip in my life.*

She sent a small cartoon sticker of an anime girl puffing out her cheeks with pride. 

I smiled at the screen, setting my elbows on the desk. Talking with her felt easy, the conversation just flow without effort.

Then, a new text appeared at the bottom of the screen.

*Top Road: Since you are joining a team that strong...*

The typing bubble paused, lingering for a long moment before the rest of the sentence came through.

*Top Road: I want to see how you play, Shimazu-kun.*

My thumb froze over the glass. 

I looked at the text, reading the words again to make sure I hadn't misinterpreted them.

*Yama: You want to watch my matches?*

*Top Road: Yes! You said you watched my race too, didn't you? I want to see how you actually play on the pitch.*

A dry swallow caught in my throat. 

In middle school, my game was the opposite of theatrical. I didn't beat three defenders with stepovers, and I didn't blast shots into the top corner from thirty meters out. I slipped into empty pockets, played simple passes, and ran only when the flow of the pitch demanded it.

To an outside observer, it often looked like I was doing nothing at all.

*Yama: My soccer isn't very exciting. I don't do tricks, and I don't run around like a hero. You'll probably get bored within ten minutes.*

*Top Road: I do not care about flashy tricks.*

Her text arrived without hesitation, firm and clear.

*Top Road: I want to see your soccer. The way you play when you're working toward a goal.*

The directness of her words caught me completely off guard. 

I couldn't really sure about her intentions, but knowing her, my mind automatically went for the serious and sincere tone she had always used. 

I mean, it's true that I watched her race, and then not allowing her to watch mine is such a jerk move.

I sat back in my chair, staring at the ceiling for a moment. 

If she wanted to see it, there was no point in hiding behind modest excuses. It was who I was as a player. If she watched and found it dull, that was fine too.

Though it'd be preferable if she sees the cooler si- hah.. what am I even thinking? I sighed deeply with my right hand covering my eyes for a second.

I then opened the browser on my phone and scrolled through my saved bookmarks. 

The Metropolitan Junior High Athletic Federation kept public archives of the summer tournaments on their portal. I found the page for the Kanto regional qualifiers from last August, scrolling down until I located our quarterfinal against Nerima Third and the national playoffs against Setagaya.

I copied the two match links, returned to LINE, and pasted them into the text box.

*Yama: Here. These are from the Regionals back in August.*

I paused, typing one last line before hitting send.

*Yama: Don't force yourself if you get tired. It's really just amateur footage recorded from a metal tower.*

The links delivered instantly. 

A second later, the status switched to Read.

*Top Road: Thank you! I am opening the first link right now!*

A cartoon sticker of a girl saluting with determination landed in the chat.

*Top Road: I will message you as soon as I finish the first half!*

I set the phone flat on the desk, resting my chin in both hands. 

The room was still quiet. The soft hum of the heater filled the space, and the small clock on my shelf read eleven-fifteen.

I picked up the pen again, doodling a few passing patterns on the corner of an old notebook. 

Five minutes passed. Then fifteen. 

The house around me settled deeper into sleep. Down the hall, the occasional floorboard creaked as the building cooled against the midnight frost outside.

I leaned back, picked up the phone, and tapped the screen awake. 

The chat remained right where we had left it. The link sat above her final sticker, and the status was still marked as read.

Eleven-forty. 

I shifted onto my bed, pulling the blanket over my legs while keeping the screen tilted toward my face. 

She was an elite athlete who could enter the central Tracen. Her daily routine was brutal, demanding early morning track sessions, classroom lectures, and evening conditioning drills. If she had sat down on her dorm bed to watch an hour of amateur middle school soccer, there was an obvious conclusion.

By twelve-fifteen, the notification bar remained silent.

I let out a soft breath, feeling a gentle, quiet calm wash over me. 

She had almost certainly fallen asleep with the video playing on her blanket, exhausted from another long day of chasing her dream. The thought didn't bother me in the slightest; if anything, it made me smile.

I slid the phone onto the nightstand, plugging the charging cable into the base. 

I reached up, clicked off the desk lamp, and settled beneath the duvet as the darkness closed in. 

Through the window, a few cold stars shone pale and clear above the roofs of the neighborhood. 

I closed my eyes, listening to the winter wind brush against the glass, feeling the now familiar yet still strange warmth resting right beneath my ribs.