People kept saying this was a "recreational club," but that was a joke. The university played hard, travelled to other schools, and kept its rankings. Joining would mean pressure, competition and eyes on you. Maybe that's why I wanted in. Perhaps that's why Kai showing up today hit harder.
The field is loud; studs on the turf, someone yelling for a bib, someone already bragging about how he's basically guaranteed a starting spot. I started stretching, trying to pretend that I didn't feel sick. Every time I glance towards the sidelines, my brain stalls. Kai is just looking, watching me. Why is he here?
I'm trying my hardest to remain composed, but every time Kai's gaze lingers for too long, it's just a reminder of everything that's tangled between us. I can't tell if I'm angry, terrified or something worse. I turn quickly, telling myself it's nothing. It's just a trial. I just need to focus. But my mind refuses. Instead, it drifts back, unbidden, to a hallway I haven't thought about since last year.
—
October—2024
I still remember the smell of the school's hallways. Floor polish, sweat and whatever desperation third years give off in the months before graduation. Everyone said our year was supposed to be "more mature" than the first-year students, but that wasn't how it felt living through it. If anything, people got meaner when they knew they were running out of time, like cruelty was something they needed to squeeze in before the bell rang on high school forever.
Most days, I kept my head down. Eye contact was an invitation, and invitations were dangerous. But nonetheless, I somehow convinced myself it would be fine to join the soccer club, Yuujin was my in. I told myself that it would be worth it. It almost was. I thought it would help. I told myself it made sense: I was half-British, my dad wouldn't shut up about the Premier League back when he still bothered to act like a parent, and kicking a ball around was one of the things I didn't completely suck at. It felt like something normal guys did. Something that would make me blend in. I thought that if I ran drills with them, memorised formations, laughed in the right places... maybe people would stop noticing the stuff that made me stand out. The boy-group K-Pop photocards hung up inside my locker. My hair or the shirts that "looked too pretty." The fact that I'd rather sing than roughhouse. And the Boys' Love manga, my biggest secret. The one thing no one could ever see. If they found that...
Yeah. That was the end of any hope I had of passing as regular.
The week before midterms, I was exhausted. I must've stuffed my PE uniform into my bag without zipping it properly. After practice, I walked into the changing room thinking only about a shower and getting home before my mum passed out on the couch again.
Then my bag hit the bench wrong. Opened. Contents spilled like a crime scene.
Notebooks. Water bottle. Pencil case. And, in the centre at the top of the pile, my BL manga volume: cover bright, obvious and humiliating.
"Yo! Look at this," I still don't remember the name of our number 10. Didn't need to know it. All I remember was his ill-favoured face. He laughed, holding up the manga as if it were diseased. "What the fuck, Anri? This is what you read?"
My stomach dropped, my throat closed. I just wanted the ground to swallow me.
"Put it back," I muttered, reaching for it—
But then the other guys started joining in, started laughing, and one of them grabbed the volume and volleyed it away. Pages bent. They laughed harder. Too loud. It bounced off the walls and boxed me in.
"Embarrassed?"
"Next-level shit, man..."
"Maybe he likes watching us in the showers."
I lunged for it, diving to the floor; desperate, stupid. They just kicked it into the shower room onto the wet tiles. Water soaked the pages. For a second, I didn't move. Everything inside me folded, small, shaking. I guess they had felt like they had won because they started brushing past me out of the locker rooms, leaving me on the ground.
I hadn't even noticed that Kai had been here the whole time—just leaning against the lockers, furrowing his brow.
He moved through the room like he owned the air. I had braced myself for him to finish me off, either with a kick to the ribs or some smug, biting comment to remind me how pathetic I looked on the ground.
But when he stopped in front of me...he didn't strike. He didn't sneer. He just looked.
I'd never really looked at him before that point—not really. I was always too busy glaring at the floor or trying not to flinch. But right then, something made me hold his gaze.
That was the first time I really saw his eyes.
One was the usual shade you'd expect—brown, but it bordered on red, like there was a flame behind it he was barely keeping under control. The other...murky green, almost emerald, clouded in a way that made him look older than he was, like it had seen things the rest of him hadn't caught up to yet. They shouldn't have worked together. They shouldn't have fit his face, his attitude, his reputation. But the mismatch made it impossible to look away.
For a moment, just one moment—he didn't look like someone about to hurt me. He looked like he was trying to understand something.
Kai crouched down in front of me, slow enough that I felt every inch of distance closing as if it were heat.
He tilted his head, studying my face like he was checking for damage only he was allowed to inflict.
He let out a slow sigh before speaking, "You shouldn't put things in your bag if you're not ready for people to see them."
I swallowed "I—"
"Next time," he added, "don't leave your things where people can touch them."
Something in me snapped. I shoved at his chest, more instinct than thought, but he didn't move. Not even a sway. His eyes didn't leave mine either; that mismatched gaze pinned me harder than his body ever could, locking onto me like he could see through whatever was left of me.
"...You really don't know when to stop, do you?" he said quietly, no real bite, just this low, almost bored tone that made my chest tighten more than a shout ever could.
"If you came over here to finish what the others started, then stop staring and just do it. I'm not gonna give you the satisfaction of flinching—" My voice sounded sharper than I expected, even to me, and I saw it register, just for a fraction of a second—in his eyes.
Kai's gaze didn't waver; he just leaned in closer.
"If I wanted to break you..." His voice was low, measured, the kind of quiet that made the air itself seem heavy. "...you wouldn't be talking."
My heart thumped loud enough that I'm still sure he could hear. I wanted to push past him, shove him away and run, but my hands froze, and my chest ached with the ridiculous, infuriating pull of being seen this clearly.
He was waiting, watching, testing. Waiting for me to flinch, to break, and somehow, against every rational thought, I had found a small, defiant spark inside me.
I forced a smirk that didn't quite reach my eyes. "Guess I'm just too stubborn to make it easy for you."
Kai's lips quirked ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly. He didn't smile, not really, but it was enough to put a lump in my throat. The silence stretched, thick and taut, like the calm before a storm, and in it I realised: he could stay here forever and I wouldn't move. I couldn't move.
He moved his hand across the floor and picked up the manga, his movements calm, deliberate. He shook it off a few times and when he handed it to me, I reached instinctively, my fingers trembling.
Our hands brushed. Just the slightest touch. A spark, or maybe a jolt, ran up my arm, a heat that shouldn't be there, a shock that made me jerk back. My chest tightened, my breath hitched. It was almost too much, almost unbearable.
I could feel the weight of his gaze pressing down on me, and for the first time, the room, the laughing, the teasing, the wet tile, faded into a blur. There was just him, just the touch that lingered in my memory, the tension that seemed to hold a thousand unspoken things.
His fingers lingered a fraction longer than necessary, and my skin crawled. Anger, shame, and something I couldn't name knotted together, leaving me raw and exposed. I wanted to tear away, to run, to scream, to push him—but something rooted me in place.
"Relax," he murmured, voice quiet enough that I almost thought I imagined it. "... I'm not going to out you."
Out me. Out me?
The words hit like a paradox; comfort and accusation rolled into one. My stomach twisted. My head spun. I wanted to hate him, to push him away, to deny this feeling, but the intensity of it stole my voice.
For a moment, all I could do was stare, breath catching, heart hammering.
From then on, we clashed whenever we crossed paths. Tiny disagreements in class, sharp words in the hallways. People started whispering, laughing quietly behind our backs, calling us the "arguing couple."
"Watch where you're stepping," he'd say, eyes glinting. "I don't need your advice," I'd snap back, cheeks burning.
"Eat lunch with your own friends," he'd mutter under his breath. "Maybe if you stayed out of my way, I would," I'd fire back.
It became a rhythm, a game of edges and balance. Each retort, each shove of words or glance, a way to measure the other, to push, to provoke, to test limits. Sometimes, when he wasn't looking, I felt a strange comfort in the familiarity of it, like we existed in the same orbit, constantly colliding, yet somehow tethered.
Then my parents died. At first, I didn't cry. The house had been empty for days before anyone came to tell me. The news hit quietly, crushingly, lingering in every corner. And Kai... he stopped clashing with me. He kept his distance, almost as if my grief were contagious, a force too heavy to confront. I didn't understand why, only that the space he left felt both alien and unbearably empty.
Somewhere in that quiet stretch of months, the rumours about Kai began. Whispers in the hallway, passed between lockers and half-closed classroom doors; he quit soccer. No one knew why. Some said he was bored. Others said he'd gotten into trouble. A few whispered it was because his parents were strict, or because he'd started working some kind of late-night job he didn't talk about. But the truth was simpler: the moment I stopped showing up to practice, he did too. Not immediately. Not obviously. But enough that people noticed. Enough that it sounded like a coincidence, even though it wasn't. And whenever someone mentioned his name around me, all I could think about was how he wouldn't even look at me anymore, like grief had turned me radioactive.
I tried to tell myself it was relief. Relief that he wasn't around to watch, to measure, to make me feel exposed. But that wasn't it. I found myself replaying the briefest of moments: his eyes catching mine, the brush of fingers over the manga, the quiet, low words that had made my chest tighten.
I hated thinking about it. Hated the way my stomach would knot when I imagined him there, calm and unreadable, daring me to react. And yet... a part of me couldn't stop. Couldn't stop wondering why he had stayed away, what it meant, what he had thought while the world around me had been falling apart.
I caught myself scanning hallways, lingering too long at lockers, listening to laughter and footsteps with the faint hope it might be him. I hated myself for it, for caring, for noticing that his absence left a hollow I hadn't expected. I told myself it was just curiosity. Just habit. But even as I said it, I knew it wasn't.
And somewhere beneath the anger, the suspicion, the pride, something was stirring. Something that whispered, even then, that the story between us was far from over.
—
April—2025
I shake off the memory like water from my sleeves and force myself to focus on the trial. The whistle blows again, and the field snaps into motion. Drills, sprints, passing exercises. I move automatically, muscles remembering the rhythm even as my mind wants to drift back to the locker room.
Kai is there, of course, moving through the drill with that same quiet efficiency that makes everyone else hesitate around him. He's already caught my gaze once; I know he's watching, but now I force myself to act like it doesn't matter. Focus. Left winger. Eyes forward.
The coach blows the whistle again, his voice sharp across the field. "Pairs, pass and move! Keep it quick, keep it sharp!"
I glance at my pairing for the drill. Yuujin's already stretching his legs, focused, alert, a little smirk tugging at his lips as he spots me. "Ready?" he asks, and I nod, forcing a smile. At least one of us is predictable.
The ball rolls to me. I trap it, pivot, and push forward. The drill is straightforward: pass, move, anticipate, but under the coach's gaze, every mistake is amplified. I've got to be precise, fluid. Yuujin moves like he's born for this, scanning, opening lanes, drawing defenders. I find the rhythm with him almost instinctively.
Then my attention flicks to Kai. He's on the opposite end, moving with that same measured precision, eyes scanning every player, every angle. It's impossible not to notice him. Even now, in the middle of a trial, I feel like I'm being assessed—not just by the coach, but by him.
The whistle signals the start of a small scrimmage. Three lines: forwards, midfield, defence. And somehow, we're lined up. Yuujin on the right, me on the left, Kai dead centre as the striker. My stomach knots.
The ball comes to me first. Quick dribble, I fake left, nudge right. Yuujin cuts in front of a defender and opens his leg for the pass. I send it just right, and he turns, spins, and the ball slides across the grass. I follow the play, heart hammering—not just from the drill, but from him. Kai's eyes catch mine for a fraction of a second as he intercepts a defender and positions himself perfectly.
He doesn't smile. He doesn't say a word. But I know he's aware. Every motion is deliberate. Every angle calculated. I force myself to focus on the ball, on the rhythm, on the play.
It's not flawless, but it's close. And it's terrifying. Not because the drill is hard, but because we're forming something unspoken here. A forward line that could work. The coach's whistle cuts through the noise. "Excellent! Keep that intensity, forwards!" I force myself to step back, hands on my knees, trying to slow my breathing. My legs are burning, but adrenaline pushes me through. I glance at Kai again. He's not looking at me, at least not fully—but there's awareness there. Calculated, unreadable.
Yuujin jogs up beside me, wiping sweat from his forehead. "We work well together," he says, a teasing grin on his face. "Don't get too cocky, though—you know who's really in charge out there." I glance at Kai, standing legs slightly apart, scanning, waiting. I can't tell if the comment stings or excites me. Maybe both.
The drills continue, increasingly competitive. The coach mixes in stamina exercises, quick passes, and small-sided games. My legs ache, lungs burn, but I keep pushing. Every pass, every movement feels measured, like a test not just of skill, but of composure. And all the while, Kai moves like a shadow across the field, precision in every step, awareness that makes me tighten my chest.
Finally, the scrimmage ends. The coach calls us together. Sweat drips down my face, grass stains my knees, and I can feel every ache from the drills. My hands are still shaking from the adrenaline, from the awareness that this isn't just a trial; it's a proving ground.
He calls out names. "Takato, Haruko, Harukawa—good coordination. Keep it up in the next round."
The three of us are not just noticed. We're being marked. And I can feel it, Kai's eyes on me for just a fraction too long as we jog to the sidelines, scanning the next drill.
I want to glance away, to pretend I don't notice. But something in the rhythm of the field, the way he moves, the way he commands without speaking, it's impossible.
The next round starts, and the intensity ramps up. Drill after drill, match after match, and I realise—we're forming a unit. Polished, not perfect, but dangerous if we click fully. And even now, I can feel the undercurrent: the tension, the awareness, the slow recognition that Kai is still here, still taking up space in my head.
We play well together—but I don't think I'd be able to handle being stuck on a team with him. I should just quit.
The whistle blows for the end of the trial. "That's it for today," the coach called out. Everyone collapses onto the grass, panting, exhausted. The coach nods at us, approving with an expression that tells you he's already decided half your fate. I glance at Kai, who hasn't moved from his spot, still standing tall, hands on his hips, scanning. He finally meets my eyes, and for just a second, something flickers. Not a smile. Not a nod. Just...acknowledgement.
"You all worked hard. Results will be posted tomorrow morning on the club bulletin board," The coach continued. "If your name is on the list, show up ready to commit. No excuses."
A few guys groaned. Some tried to look confident. Some were clearly trying too hard. My chest was still tight from the last drill, sweat sticking to the back of my shirt.
"Dismissed."
Just like that, the tension snapped. Studs scraped the grass as everyone shuffled off, talking all at once. Yuujin jogged ahead to grab water. I hang back behind everyone, wanting to reach the locker rooms last so that I can just grab my bag and go home to shower, trying to push away any remnants of my flashback.
I managed to slip in and out of the locker rooms while they were all preoccupied with the showers. Trying to find the nearest exit, the nearest escape. I just started barrelling through the empty maze-like hallways to get to the front of the university.
I don't think I can do this. Not if he makes the team. What if we both make the team? I can't fucking do this if he's going to be watching me all the time.
I'm pondering this even as I don't know if I'm going to make the team; part of me hopes I don't.
I sense him before I see him. That same quiet gravity, that same pressure at my back. I sling my bag over my shoulder and try to speed up my walk before Kai can close the distance, but of course, he does. His hand catches the strap of my bag, not yanking, just stopping me. His grip is firm enough that I feel the strap dig into my shoulder.
"You shouldn't quit," he says.
His voice is low—too low for anyone else to catch, and it goes straight down my spine like someone running a thumb over a bruise. I turn, ready to tell him to mind his own business, but he's already watching me with that mismatched stare. One eye warm, the other sharp as broken glass. They don't match, but somehow that makes it worse. Like he sees more than he should.
I force out a breath. "Why do you care?"
He doesn't answer right away. His fingers slide off my bag slowly, deliberately, like he's deciding whether to keep holding on.
"You look good out there," he says. Not casual. Not friendly. The way he says it... it's almost like he's annoyed about it. Like the fact that I was good pissed him off.
My pulse jumps. "Then why'd you quit?" I shoot back. "You were the star, right? So, what? —couldn't handle someone challenging that?"
It's petty. It's defensive. It's exactly what I shouldn't say.
But Kai steps in. Just enough that the space between us tightens. My breath stutters anyway.
"Rumours," he murmurs. "That's all anyone has. They don't know anything." His gaze drops to my cheek, lingering on the residual flush from playing. "I don't quit things that I want—but I know what quitting looks like."
There's a beat. Heavy. A knot tightening in the air.
"And that's not you."
My chest pulls tight, almost painfully. "You don't know me, Kai."
A corner of his mouth lifts, not a smile. Something sharper. "Ace... I know exactly what you look like when you want to run. And what you look like when you don't."
I almost laughed, but it stuck in my throat. "Why do you care if I stay? You stopped bothering me after you quit."
He steps a fraction closer, close enough that I can feel the ghost of his exhale against my cheek. My fingers tighten around the straps of my bag.
"Because," he said slowly, voice low enough that the hallway felt too quiet around us, "whether you like it or not..."
His eyes held mine, steady, unblinking.
"I've already gotten used to playing with you."
His words hit me harder than a shove. Not loud. But too honest. Too calculated.
He didn't wait for a response.
He brushed past me, shoulder grazing mine, disappearing into the hallway like he hadn't just dropped a match in a room full of gasoline.
All I could do was stand there, heart hammering, feeling the fire catch.