(Haruto's perspective)
I found myself standing at the edge of the small soccer field, trying to make sense of what I was watching. The morning sunlight slanted across the turf, but even the brightness couldn't make this match feel anything less than tense. Hundreds of students had gathered, murmuring and whispering among themselves, but the only thing that mattered in my eyes was the two girls in the middle of the field—Reika and Ayame.
Reika had the ball at her feet again, smirking as if every movement she made had been rehearsed a thousand times before. She looked like a predator sizing up her prey, and it made my skin crawl a little, not because of fear, but because I recognized that look. That confidence, that control… it wasn't just raw skill; it was precision honed to a razor edge.
Ayame, on the other hand, was kneeling on the ground, catching her breath. She had no railing to support her, just the hard turf beneath her knees, but she held herself steady. I could see the sweat beading on her forehead, her pale hair slightly sticking to her temples, yet even in exhaustion, her eyes burned with determination. She wasn't a girl who would give in easily. I could feel it. She had been mixing her karate training with soccer moves, and I had no doubt that was what allowed her to defend so effectively against Reika's earlier onslaught.
Reika's smirk widened as she leaned slightly forward, her eyes locked on Ayame. She tapped the ball lightly with the inside of her foot, letting it roll a few centimeters in front of her, just enough to test Ayame's reaction. Ayame didn't move. Her breath came in measured gasps, her gaze fixed, her body coiled like a spring. For a second, I thought maybe Reika's presence alone would intimidate her—but no, Ayame's calm wasn't fear. It was patience.
And then Reika moved.
She accelerated almost impossibly fast, the ball tethered to her feet like an extension of her body. Her movements weren't chaotic or reckless—each feint, each tap, each sudden pivot was calculated to the millimeter. She flicked the ball with her right foot, then immediately changed direction with a left-foot drag that would have thrown off any ordinary defender. Ayame lunged instinctively, trying to intercept, but Reika anticipated it. She had already adjusted her path before Ayame even committed to the motion.
My eyes widened. I had seen fast players before, but Reika's agility wasn't just speed—it was foresight. She read her opponent's mind almost before Ayame herself could react. The ball zipped past Ayame like it was drawn by some invisible thread, and for a moment I could see the desperation flash across Ayame's exhausted features. She scrambled to block the shot, her hands out, her legs moving with the precision of a martial artist—but it wasn't enough.
Reika struck the ball cleanly with her right foot from a good thirty meters out, her body leaning just slightly forward, channeling every ounce of strength and precision into the shot. The ball curved in a perfect arc, spinning past Ayame's frantic reach. Ayame lunged, knee scraping against the turf, stretching with everything she had, but the ball sailed past her fingertips, thudding into the net with a satisfying, almost mocking smack.
I exhaled slowly, trying to process the speed and power of the goal. The scoreboard—or at least my mental tally—flashed in my mind: **2-1, Reika**.
The crowd erupted. Students shouted, clapped, and some whistled, but I barely heard them over the pounding of my own pulse. Ayame knelt there for a moment, catching her breath, her body low to the ground, one hand resting on the turf. Her chest heaved as she tried to regain composure, but her eyes didn't waver. They were still locked on Reika, a fire burning behind them. I couldn't tell if she was angry, frustrated, or just analyzing. Probably all three.
And Reika? She just grinned. Her smirk was almost predatory now, a mix of exhilaration and dominance. She knew she had just outmaneuvered someone who was no pushover, someone with enough skill to make her think twice. The thrill in her eyes told me this wasn't just a game to her—it was a statement.
I shifted slightly on my feet, feeling the intensity of the match seep into me. This wasn't like any ordinary soccer match. It was more like a chessboard, but faster, messier, and with physical stakes. And I had a front-row seat.
As Rika blew the whistle to restart the game, I knew one thing with absolute clarity: this wasn't over, not by a long shot. Reika had the advantage, but Ayame was far from defeated. And me? I had to watch every move, every feint, every strategy—they both were dangerous in their own ways, and I couldn't afford to blink.
---
(Ayame perspective)
The whistle pierced the air, sharp and final. My heart thumped against my ribs, and the taste of adrenaline lingered on my tongue. Reika and I shot forward, legs pounding against the turf, our eyes locked on the ball that sat at the center like a prize neither of us could afford to lose.
She reached it a fraction of a second before me, and without hesitation, launched another wild, reckless strike at the goal. That was her style—rash, brutal, relying on sheer force as though the ball could be bullied into the net.
*Tch. Predictable.*
I slid in just enough to block the attempt, my leg cutting across the ball's path, the shock of impact vibrating up through my shin. Pain tingled, but I didn't let it slow me down. I gained control, trapping it beneath my foot before rolling it forward, my body moving in rhythm with the ball like it was a part of me.
Reika came at me again, ferocious and unrelenting. She pressed in close, her speed carrying a desperate edge, and for a moment it felt like she'd tear the ball right out from under me with sheer force. Her presence was suffocating, but brute strength wasn't everything.
*Soccer isn't about rage. It's about rhythm. About vision.*
I flicked the ball back with my heel, letting her momentum carry her just enough past me. Her head whipped around, eyes tracking the ball—her instincts too eager, too aggressive. That was the opening.
"Got you," I breathed under my breath.
I darted past, slipping into the empty space her lunge had created, the ball spinning obediently at my side. She realized it too late, and though she lunged back, I was already drawing back my leg.
The shot cracked through the field, the ball cutting the air like lightning. The net rippled—GOAL.
The cheers in the distance were faint to me. What echoed in my mind was the roar of my own heartbeat, the fire in my veins.
2–2.
We stood even now.
I was panting, sweat dripping down the side of my face, my chest rising and falling in ragged bursts. Across from me, Reika was seething, her eyes burning with rage that threatened to consume her entirely. She refused to bend. I could see it in the way her fists clenched at her sides, her jaw locked tight.
I wiped the sweat from my brow, forcing my voice steady, though my body trembled with exertion.
"Your style of soccer will do nothing for our team during the Sports Festival, Reika," I said coldly, my words cutting sharper than any tackle.
Her glare intensified. "Shut it."
She spat the words like venom, and I could practically feel the heat radiating off her. She wasn't going to let this go.
Rika, calm as always, tossed another ball into the center circle. It bounced once, twice, before rolling to a stop on the painted white line. The entire field seemed to hold its breath, anticipation hanging thick in the morning air.
Then came the sharp blow of her whistle.
"RESTART!"
The sound shattered the silence like glass.
Reika's boots dug into the turf, her body tensing like a beast about to pounce. My own muscles burned, but I bent forward, ready, unwilling to yield even an inch.
*This is it. The next goal decides everything. The next moment decides who walks away and who's left in the dust.*
And I had no intention of being the one left behind.