Isagi's POV
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So yeah—high school.
Same crusty hallways. Same musty lockers. Maybe the uniforms were less itchy, but everything else? Copy-pasted from middle school.
Except now, I was officially on the Ichinan High football team.
Not because I tried out.
Not because I begged.
Just because I scored four goals at Nationals last year, and someone on staff remembered my name.
I wasn't expecting red carpets. Still, it's funny how people suddenly know you exist once you kick a ball well enough.
---
I walked the halls quietly—earbuds in, chin tucked. I could feel their eyes.
Whispers behind hands. Quick glances from third-years who thought they were slick.
"That's the kid from the middle school tournament, right?"
"Isagi-something?"
"He carried his whole team."
Didn't mean anything. Talk fades fast. Hype fades faster.
What mattered was the field.
---
My classroom was on the second floor, near the stairwell. I sat by the window. Always did. Something about the way the light hit the desk made it easier to think.
I glanced at my notes—mostly nonsense doodles of field formations.
A rough sketch of a 4-3-3 turning into a 2-3-5 during transitions. Just theory.
But theory mattered.
At least, to me.
A voice cut through the air behind me.
"Oi, Isagi!"
I blinked. Yamato. Guy had ramen breath at 8 AM.
"You hear? Coach put the new roster up. You're in the starting eleven for Saturday."
"...Yeah?"
"Yeah! You and me both, up front!"
I gave a small nod.
"Nice."
Yamato squinted at me.
"You always this chill? Don't you get hyped for matches?"
I tilted my head slightly.
"Not before the whistle."
---
Training that week was routine.
Warm-ups. Cone drills. Possession games that turned into ego battles.
Most of the guys were average.
Good on paper. Predictable on grass.
But I watched them. All of them.
The midfielder who always looked down before passing left.
The fullback who never tracked his blind side.
The keeper who took two seconds too long to reset after diving.
They didn't even notice.
But I did.
Every gap. Every twitch. Every opportunity waiting to be taken.
---
Match Day – Ichinan High vs Fukuda Academy
Friendly. No pressure. All performance.
We wore white kits. They wore navy blue.
The sky was grey but dry. Decent weather for a debut.
The whistle blew.
And the switch flipped.
---
I moved like a shadow between defenders.
Not rushing. Not wasting energy.
They pressed our midfield early. Sloppy high line. Eager legs. I waited.
Yamato intercepted, panicked slightly, and passed wide.
I drifted into the pocket, calling for it without words.
He saw. Passed.
Ball came rolling in.
Touch with the left. One glance. Defender stepped forward.
Too late.
Crack.
Low drive. Bottom left.
1–0.
First blood. First strike. No celebration.
I just walked back to half.
---
Fifteen minutes later, second goal.
Yamato was fumbling against two defenders on the right wing.
I ghosted into the box behind them. No one noticed.
He cut back blindly—ball sailed through open space like it had my name on it.
I didn't sprint. Didn't dive.
Just stepped into the path and tapped it in.
2–0.
"Luck," someone mumbled from their side.
Wrong.
It was never luck.
---
Halftime. 2–1.
Coach talked. I half-listened.
"Keep the pressure."
"Don't get complacent."
"Watch their number 10."
That last one stuck.
Their number 10 was smart.
Good with his body. Knew how to manipulate space.
Not flashy—but efficient.
He reminded me of… me.
Which meant he was dangerous.
---
Second half started. And he came alive.
Their midfield began feeding him more touches, drawing our defenders in.
He faked left, turned right, lobbed a pass over our backline.
Perfect assist.
2–2.
I clenched my jaw.
Not because we conceded.
Because I hadn't seen it coming.
That was rare.
Then it happened again.
Same rhythm. Same buildup.
But this time, I felt it—somewhere in the back of my mind.
An image flashed. Déjà vu.
The shape of the pass.
The way our defender stepped.
Where the striker would appear.
I saw the goal before it happened.
He missed.
Hit the post.
But that flash—
That vision—
It stuck.
---
I pressed harder. Dropped deeper.
Watched their midfield trio like a hawk.
Then I saw it.
Their number 6 hesitated under pressure.
A two-step pause before passing.
I forced it.
Charged at him.
He flinched. Passed early.
Interception.
One touch. Acceleration.
Space opened up on the left.
Only one defender between me and goal.
He stepped in.
I feinted outside.
He bit.
I cut inside.
Right foot.
Upper corner.
3–2.
Game.
---
They pushed the last five minutes, but it was already over.
Final whistle.
I walked off the field.
Not even sweating.
---
"Bro," Yamato gasped between breaths. "That last goal… how do you just see that stuff?"
"I don't see it," I muttered. "I feel it."
He blinked.
"...What?"
I grabbed my water bottle and shrugged.
"Never mind."
---
That night, I stayed late.
Everyone else had gone home.
I stayed on the field alone. Cones and silence.
Breath fogged the air.
I ran drills. On repeat.
Ball at my feet. Weaving. Turning. Shooting.
Again.
And again.
I wasn't angry.
I was searching.
That flash from the match—
What was that?
A premonition?
Instinct?
The start of something more?
I stayed until my calves cramped and my shirt clung to my back like glue.
---
Walking home, the streetlamps buzzed softly.
My socks were damp. My bag was heavy.
The house was ten minutes from school. Eight if I jogged.
I didn't.
I turned the corner by the bakery. The kitchen light was still on.
Figures.
---
I slid the door open.
The smell of miso and grilled fish greeted me.
"Yoichi?" my mom called from the kitchen.
"Yeah."
She peeked out from behind the doorframe. Still in her apron, hair tied messy.
"It's past nine. You stayed late again?"
"I needed it."
No scolding. Just a nod.
"There's food on the table."
"Thanks."
---
My dad sat at the table with a tablet. Looked up.
"You scored today."
I nodded. "Three."
He nodded back. That was it.
"You watched?" I asked.
"I showed your mom the clip someone posted."
"She made me rewind it four times," he added, chuckling.
My mom blushed and waved him off.
"I just wanted to see the pass again. It was good!"
I sat down, quietly. Ate. Warm food. Balanced. Enough ginger in the broth.
They used to forget I played.
But lately—
They started noticing.
---
After Nationals, they changed.
My mom packs proper meals now.
My dad asks about drills—even if he doesn't know what 'overlapping runs' are.
They don't fully understand.
But they try.
---
"Next week's match is tougher," my dad said.
I nodded. "Yeah."
"Think you'll win?"
"Doesn't matter."
They looked confused.
"I just need to get better."
A beat of silence.
Then my mom smiled gently.
"Just don't lose yourself along the way."
I didn't respond.
Not because I disagreed.
But because I didn't know what "myself" meant anymore.
Was I the quiet kid at the dinner table?
The predator on the pitch?
Both?
Neither?
---
Later, I stood in the bathroom, brushing my teeth.
Stared at the mirror.
Tired eyes. Damp hair. Blank expression.
But underneath—
Underneath, something burned.
That fire.
The one no one else could see.
But somehow—
My parents started feeling the heat.
And they didn't try to put it out.
They just made sure I had fuel.
---