The pitch was louder than it should have been.
Not because of the crowd—they were barely awake yet—but because of the way the ball kept hitting feet, shins, grass. Every touch echoed like it mattered more than it should.
"Malik!"
I turned my head just in time to see the ball rolling toward me.
"Man on!" Jiro shouted.
I didn't panic.
I let the ball come.
One touch. Cushion. Stop.
A defender rushed me, too eager, too fast.
I stepped sideways and passed backward.
"Tch," someone clicked their tongue behind me.
I didn't need to look to know who it was.
Ren.
Our striker.
"Why are you always going back?" he snapped. "We're not here to recycle the ball!"
I jogged into space, eyes scanning the field. "Because they're waiting for us to rush."
He threw his arms up. "This isn't chess, Malik. It's football."
I didn't answer.
The ball came back to me anyway.
People always had opinions about the way I played.
Too slow.
Too careful.
No killer instinct.
I heard it from teammates. From coaches. From people who barely understood the game but spoke the loudest.
What they never said out loud was the truth:
I didn't look like a footballer.
I wasn't fast.
I wasn't tall.
I wasn't loud.
I didn't demand the ball.
I waited for it.
"Move it wide!" our captain yelled.
I glanced right. Jiro was overlapping, already sprinting like his life depended on it.
I passed to him.
He crossed early.
Too early.
The ball flew harmlessly into the keeper's arms.
Ren slammed his palm against his thigh. "See?! If you'd pushed forward—"
"If I pushed forward," I cut in calmly, "they'd have collapsed the center."
He stared at me. "You always have an excuse."
"An explanation," I corrected.
He scoffed and jogged away.
The match clock ticked past thirty minutes.
0–0.
Regional qualifier.
Win, and we advanced. Lose, and the season was over.
From the sideline, Coach Tanaka shouted instructions nobody followed.
"Compact! Stay compact!"
Nobody listened.
Kagura High pressed higher.
I felt it before I saw it.
The pressure building. The spaces shrinking.
This was the part of the game most players hated.
This was the part I loved.
I dropped deeper, almost alongside our defenders.
"Oi, Malik," our center back muttered, "you playing midfielder or defender today?"
"Whatever keeps the ball," I replied.
He snorted. "Weird guy."
The opponent's midfielder stepped toward me, arms out, blocking angles.
I pretended not to notice.
I took another step back.
Then another.
He followed.
Good.
I turned suddenly and slipped the ball through the space he'd just abandoned.
"Run!" I shouted.
Ren reacted late—but not too late.
He sprinted onto the pass, eyes wide.
"Oh—!"
He shot.
Saved.
The crowd groaned.
Ren dropped to his knees. "Damn it!"
I jogged past him. "You were half a second early."
He looked up at me, breathing hard. "You saw that?"
"I saw everything," I said.
That wasn't arrogance.
It was fact.
At halftime, the locker room smelled like sweat and frustration.
Coach Tanaka slammed the whiteboard down. "You're playing scared!"
Ren pointed at me. "He is!"
All eyes turned to me.
I didn't flinch.
"Say it to my face," I said.
Ren stood up. "Fine. You play like you're afraid to lose instead of trying to win."
Silence.
Coach watched closely.
I took a breath.
"I play like someone who knows losing comes from impatience," I said. "They're pressing because they want mistakes. If we rush, we give them what they want."
"And if we don't?" Ren challenged.
"Then space appears."
Coach finally spoke. "And if it doesn't?"
I met his eyes.
"Then I'll make it."
The room went quiet.
Jiro let out a low whistle. "Damn…"
Coach studied me for a long second.
Then he nodded. "Ten more minutes. If nothing changes, we switch tactics."
Fair.
Second half.
The sun dipped lower, shadows stretching across the pitch.
Kagura High grew impatient.
Their captain started shouting.
"Press harder! Don't let fourteen breathe!"
Fourteen.
Me.
I smiled faintly.
Good.
They'd noticed.
The ball rolled toward me again.
Two defenders closed in.
"Nowhere to go," someone yelled from the stands.
They were wrong.
There was always somewhere to go.
I stopped the ball dead.
Everything froze.
Then—
I passed.
Not forward.
Not sideways.
Between them.
The ball slipped through like it belonged there.
Ren gasped. "No way—"
He was through.
One-on-one.
This time—
He scored.
The net rippled.
The stadium erupted.
Ren turned, eyes wide, then ran straight at me.
"You—!" He grabbed my shoulders. "You knew! You waited!"
I nodded. "Space came."
He laughed breathlessly. "You're insane."
"Maybe," I said. "But it worked."
We won that match.
1–0.
People talked about Ren's finish.
About Jiro's runs.
About the defense holding strong.
Nobody talked about me.
I didn't mind.
As I walked off the pitch, Coach Tanaka stopped me.
"You won't always be understood," he said quietly.
I wiped sweat from my face. "I know."
He nodded. "But games move when you touch the ball."
I looked back at the pitch.
The grass. The lines. The empty space.
That was enough
To be continued...