As the match resumed, I got back on my feet, brushing off the dirt and shame like it was just another Wednesday.
Okay, Akira. Stop being fascinated by this lazy bum and start thinking.
Break it down.
The first two goals?
He wasn't even in my defense zone. Slipped right past the midfield and poof—goal. Not my fault, technically.
The other two?
Those were on me.
That second-half opener—he controlled the ball with his back like it was some kind of feather. And the last one? He juggled it off his damn heel mid-air and volleyed it in like it was no big deal.
Like it was nothing.
Who does that?
Who plays football like they're in a dream sequence?
No way I'm letting that happen again.
Time to analyze. Adapt. Evolve.
I locked eyes on him.
Lazy posture. Blank stare. That annoying "I'm-too-talented-for-this" aura.
But now I knew better.
Of course—my teammates lost the ball again.
Because why wouldn't they?
Reo snatched it up like it was part of the plan. That purple-haired puppet master didn't even break a sweat.
Think, Akira, think.
Every time he crosses… it's a high lob.
Deep into the back corner.
Like he's playing fetch with a freakin' golden retriever in white boots.
And that white-haired shit—he always gets there.
Nagi just floats in, traps the ball like it's magnetized to him, and scores like it's nothing.
But…
If I know where he'll send it—
If I time it right—
I can cut it off.
I can beat him to it.
Let's see how bored you are when someone actually ruins your highlight reel, lazy bastard.
---
Reo wound up for the pass. That same elegant motion—like a dancer lining up a killer move in a ballet of humiliation.
High lob. Deep corner.
Exactly where I knew it would go.
The ball arced through the air, elegant and slow like some cinematic slow-mo scene.
Nagi moved toward it with that same bored grace, like he already knew the ending.
But this time…
This time, I was there first.
I launched myself up—timing it like my life depended on it.
And the moment that ball got within range—
Boom.
I cleared it. Hard. High. Away.
And just for a split second…
Just a flicker—
I saw it in Nagi's eyes.
Surprise.
He looked like a bird that just flew into a cage it didn't know existed.
Like—
"Wait, this wasn't supposed to happen."
Damn right it wasn't.
Not anymore.
I looked forward, heart still thumping from the clear, only to see…
Mazimi.
Our right winger.
Trying to dribble.
My soul left my body.
Mazimi, you bitch—you can't dribble.
Why are you even trying? Your dribbling looks like a toddler fighting a balloon.
And, surprise surprise—he lost it. Instantly.
The ball was stolen by the other team so fast it might as well have been theft caught on CCTV.
But then—something weird happened.
I blinked…
And I was already running.
Before I could even think, my body had moved on its own.
I shot forward like a heat-seeking missile, closed the gap in a heartbeat, and snatched the ball back with a clean tackle that'd make Paolo Maldini smile from the heavens.
I stood there, ball at my feet, chest rising, adrenaline roaring.
What the hell was that?
Did I… move on instinct?
Just as I caught my breath—
I heard it.
A voice.
Not from the crowd.
Not from a teammate.
It came from inside.
"Move."
My body obeyed before my brain could argue.
I dragged the ball back—just in time.
An opponent lunged in, but he bit on the feint and slid past like a clown on ice.
"Keep moving forward."
The voice again, sharper this time.
"Losing the ball is like dying. You don't trust your teammates. You can't. Clear your mind of useless thoughts… and just move."
And I did.
I ran.
Feet light, vision narrowing, the ball glued to my foot like it belonged there.
I wasn't thinking about tactics or my coach's voice or Kenji's stupid AC Milan goodbye message.
I was just… moving.
And for the first time in a long time—
It felt right.
"Spin."
No hesitation.
I planted my foot and twisted, the ball spinning with me in a clean, sharp Roulette.
An opponent lunged—too late. He was already behind me, eating grass.
"To the left."
I shifted instantly, slipping past another defender like water through fingers. His legs tangled, and he fell over himself like a folding chair.
"Jump."
My body lifted just in time—clearing a desperate slide tackle by inches.
In three moves—just three—
I had burned through their entire midfield.
The stadium blurred.
The sidelines vanished.
It was just me, the ball, and that voice guiding me like I was born for this.
Every step felt right.
Like the instincts I'd buried years ago were clawing their way back to the surface.
I wasn't just defending anymore.
I was attacking.
"Remember."
The voice was calmer now—firm, but almost… familiar.
"You've seen Kenji shoot a thousand times. You know this."
My feet didn't stop.
"Tilt your body slightly to the left…"
My shoulders shifted.
"Move the ball at a 45-degree angle…"
I tapped it gently into space.
"Now. Shoot."
I swung.
Clean contact. The kind that sends a shiver up your spine.
The ball curled.
Not straight.
Not wild.
A perfect high arc—graceful and deadly—bending like a guided missile.
Time froze.
The keeper dove.
Too late.
The ball kissed the top right corner like it belonged there.
GOAL.
Silence. Then chaos.
But I didn't hear it. Not really.
All I heard was the fading echo of that voice in my head.
And one thought, louder than anything else:
I'm back.