A wise man once said, "Heaven doesn't make one human above or below another."
Yeah.
Well, he was goddamn wrong.
Here I am, busting my ass trying to stop some white-haired, sleepy-eyed bastard from scoring his fourth goal—and he looks like he just rolled out of bed.
Every. Single. Time.
It's the same story.
His purple-haired boyfriend—who somehow moves like he has cheat codes—dribbles past three of my brilliantly useless teammates like they're training cones, casually whips the ball into the box, and the Lazy Lord of Naptime taps it in like it's nothing.
Scoreboard?
4–0.
Us?
Doomed. Mentally, emotionally, spiritually.
Me?
One bad decision away from punching a hole in the grass.
Right now, I was lying face-down on the grass. Not injured. Not tired. Just... spiritually defeated.
And all I could think was:
Kenji, you shitty striker—why did you have to leave?
If you were here, at least my defense would matter. With you up front, we'd be scoring. People would think I was actually doing something important back here instead of babysitting walking disasters in cleats.
And your goodbye message?
Don't even get me started.
"Hi Akira, I won't be coming back to school. I got an offer from AC Milan to play in their U20 team. Don't worry—you're nearly as good as me. You'll manage. Goodbye."
...Prick.
What kind of emotionally bankrupt farewell is that? No "I'll miss you," no "Let's stay in touch," not even a damn emoji.
And now, here I am.
4–0 down.
No Kenji.
No striker.
No hope.
Just me lying here like I'm the main character in a TikTok edit about Dennis freaking Bergkamp.
I swear, I can even hear Mala by 6ix9ine playing in the background.
At this point, I'm waiting for the filter and sad quotes to kick in.
"Ah… the grass is very comfy.
But why are you lying down?"
A lazy voice floated in from beside me.
I turned my head, and there he was.
The white-haired sleep demon himself.
Seishiro Nagi.
Of course he's lying down next to me.
We're in the middle of a match, his team is four goals up, and he's treating it like a goddamn picnic.
He was lying there like we were just two old buddies cloud-watching during lunch break.
I stared at him, stunned. "Bro, are you—seriously?"
He yawned. "You looked comfortable, so I thought I'd try it too."
What the hell is wrong with this guy?
I wanted to scream. Punch the earth. Maybe both.
But all I could manage was a twitch in my eye and a low, internal scream.
I don't know what's worse: my team getting wrecked, or the fact that the guy doing the wrecking thinks we're bonding over grass textures.
And then—just as I was about to sit up—I saw it.
That look in his eyes.
He was calm. Blank.
But those eyes? They were sharp. Calculating.
He wasn't lying here for fun.
He was studying me.
I shot Nagi a look, my eyebrow twitching.
"What's with that look?" I muttered under my breath, still lying there, trying to hold onto some semblance of composure.
He glanced at me, utterly unfazed.
"It's just... I find it fascinating that people keep playing even when they're losing. Look at you. You keep trying even after three goals. Is football really that fun to play when you're losing? For me, it sounds like a hassle."
That bastard.
How dare he?
Talk about hassle...
When he's barely even trying?
This guy's out here acting like he's in some kind of Netflix special, casually observing the trainwreck for his own amusement. What does he think I am? A circus act? His personal entertainment on a bored Sunday?
I clenched my fists into the grass, but kept my voice calm, my irritation simmering just below the surface.
"You're calling football a hassle?" I scoffed. "You've barely even broken a sweat."
He shrugged, still looking so uninterested. "That's because I'm good at it. Football's easy when you're naturally talented. I'm just doing what's... comfortable."
I wanted to throw him into the next century.
But instead, I stared at him. Studied him.
There was something off about his words. He didn't get it. Not really. Football wasn't about comfort. It was about passion. About growing.
For the first time, I felt it. An unstoppable anger.
How dare this discount genius look down on me?
But in the end...
Am I not just a joke?
Am I really as good as Kenji always said? That prick would always say I'd be better than him if I played as a striker. Based on what, exactly? Those Sunday league matches we played 8 years ago? Really?
As if.
Now, all I am is a defender.
A defender in a team that's barely hanging on.
Since the age of three, all I ever liked was football.
Not cartoons.
Not superheroes.
Not even those dumb plastic Beyblades Kenji used to obsess over.
Just football.
My only dream was rising—hissing—myself to the top.
To one day be mentioned in the same breath as Messi, Ronaldo, and the other legends whose posters used to hang on my cracked bedroom wall.
But now?
Now I'm stuck.
A defender.
A cog in a rusty machine.
No freedom to charge forward. No spotlight. Just chasing after people like some glorified babysitter with cleats.
This wasn't the plan.
This wasn't my dream.
And yet…
Here I am.
No, no—
Stop thinking about that, Akira.
Now's not the time for an emotional meltdown.
There's still 40 minutes left on the clock. That's plenty of time.
You can't let those goals get to you.
You're not some glass-hearted anime protagonist who cries after the first arc. You're me. You're Akira freakin' Shinkuro.
I turned my head and looked at Nagi.
Still lying there like he was watching clouds and not bodying us in a national tournament.
Only one thought crossed my mind.
I'm gonna block you, you lazy shit.
Even if I have to glue myself to you like a tracker on a mafia boss.
Even if I have to drag you down with me.
You're not scoring again.
Not on me.