The call ended, and the screen went dark in Shun's hand.
He set the phone down on the blanket and rolled his gaze towards the ceiling.
The television was still on in the corner with the sound muted, and its pale light flickered across the plaster in slow, shifting patches.
Beyond the window, the city lights glimmered against the night, and somewhere past the rooftops he could just make out the low, steady murmur of the sea.
Your spot on the national team isn't guaranteed either.
The words echoed in his mind.
He knew that. He had always known it. But it was another thing entirely to hear it from Hiro, who had already won the Golden Ball at nineteen and who was now fighting his way back from an injury that might have ended anyone else's career.
He had all the reasons available to talk about himself tonight. But instead, he had turned his attention to Shun, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
You just have to believe it.
Shun closed his eyes.
