Noah woke earlier than usual, his alarm still seconds from going off. For once, it wasn't nerves keeping him awake; it was that moment from the last match—the way his pass had split the press and built the winning goal. It was stuck in his head like a song he couldn't stop replaying. He sat up in his familiar childhood room, surrounded by walls lined with old football posters, his worn cleats tucked neatly by the door.
His phone buzzed with a notification. A message from his mom lit up the screen: We saw the clip online. So proud of you. Keep going forward. Noah smiled softly, thumb hovering over the screen before typing back, Thanks, Mom. I will. It was strange. She had always encouraged him but never commented on how he played. Maybe even she could see the difference—how he was finally taking risks instead of hiding in safety.
Downstairs, the smell of toasted bread and coffee filled the small kitchen. His mom stood by the counter, tying up her hair before work. "Morning," she said, glancing at him over her shoulder. "Big day?"
"Just training," Noah said, grabbing a slice of toast.
"You've been looking different lately," she said casually. "More… confident, I think. Your coach must be proud."
Noah didn't know how to answer that, so he just smiled and finished his breakfast before grabbing his gear bag. The academy wasn't far, but the bus ride always gave him time to think—sometimes too much time. This morning, though, his thoughts weren't anxious. They were curious. He felt like he was finally learning who he could be when he wasn't scared of failing.
At the academy, the cafeteria buzzed with low chatter, a nervous energy building as players prepared for the upcoming showcase tournament. Noah grabbed a tray and found a spot alone, only for Leo to drop into the seat across from him, grinning as usual. "You're still thinking about that pass, aren't you?"
"Not just the pass," Noah said. "The whole game. Felt different… like I wasn't overthinking."
"That's exactly who I need behind me," Leo said, pointing with his toast like a coach delivering tactics. "Keep that guy around."
Before Noah could respond, Riku appeared with his tray, muttering a brief "morning" before sitting down. He ate mechanically, eyes fixed on his food, shoulders tight. It was unusual—Riku usually lived for moments like this, when the team was buzzing and the next big challenge was looming.
They ate mostly in silence until Riku stood and mumbled something about heading to the pitch early. Leo raised his eyebrows at Noah, who could only shrug.
Training that day focused on rotation drills, a system Harper had been working on to maximize both Noah's control from deep and Riku's creativity higher up. It should have been a perfect setup, but Riku's usual sharpness wasn't there. His passes were crisp but lacked their usual edge. He looked distracted, heavy somehow, like he was carrying something Noah couldn't see.
After practice, Noah spotted Riku lingering by the far touchline, juggling a ball absently. Normally, he would have walked past, given the man his space. But something about Riku's posture made him stop.
"You good?" Noah asked, his voice softer than usual.
Riku caught the ball under his foot and hesitated before answering. "Just thinking."
"About the next match?"
"About home," Riku said after a pause. "My father called last night. He thinks I'm wasting time here, that I'm already behind where I should be. He played pro in Japan and…" Riku's voice trailed off as he stared at the grass. "He expects results. Always has."
Noah frowned, unsure what to say at first. He had never thought much about what kind of pressure Riku might be under; he always seemed untouchable, sharp-edged, fueled by pure competition. "That's rough," he said finally. "But… you're good because of you, not because of him."
Riku huffed a short, humorless laugh. "Just focus on your game, Maestro. I'll handle mine." It wasn't dismissive exactly—more weary than anything.
That night, Noah sat in his own room, the faint hum of traffic outside his window as he stared up at the ceiling. He thought about Riku, about how even someone so confident could be weighed down by expectations. They weren't so different, he realized—Noah had hidden from failure, while Riku ran at it so hard he couldn't stop.
His console flickered faintly in his vision, as if it had been waiting for him to connect those dots: [Bond Perk – Rivalry Respect +1. Threshold not yet met.]
He chuckled softly. "Even the system thinks we're starting to get along."
The next day at training, Noah didn't just focus on himself. He adjusted his positioning earlier, called out rotations faster, gave Riku the space he needed. Riku noticed—he had to—but said nothing. Still, Noah caught the small shift in his rival's body language, a subtle easing of the shoulders by the end of practice.
That evening, Noah returned home to find his mom in the kitchen again, this time making dinner. "You're home later than usual," she said without looking up.
"Extra work," he said simply, setting his bag down. "Tournament's coming."
She smiled faintly. "I can tell you've changed, Noah. In a good way."
As he ate dinner with her and later lay in his own bed, he thought about what she said. Maybe she was right. He wasn't scared of tomorrow anymore—not of losing, not of looking foolish, not of failing. For the first time, he wanted tomorrow to come faster.