Mao didn't care about sports.
At least, he didn't used to.
But after falling to fourth in the rankings, after watching Ren Hayashi walk through the school like someone born to win, something inside Mao shifted.
Ren wasn't just brilliant—he was balanced. He could speak confidently in class and score goals on the field. Teachers liked him. Girls laughed around him. Even the guys who didn't care about grades respected him.
And Mao? He was becoming the boy people used to mention.
So when signups for the interclass soccer tournament went up, Mao's name appeared.
It surprised people.
"You? Playing?"
"Is this a bet?"
"Ren's playing forward. You'll be on the same team?"
"No," Mao replied. "I'm on the opposing class."
A challenge. Silent, but clear.
Game day came. The field buzzed with students in uniform, whistles blowing, voices loud. Mao's shoes felt too tight. His heartbeat, too fast.
Ren stood across from him, stretching casually, laughing with teammates. No nerves. No pressure.
Mao locked eyes with him once before kickoff.
Ren smiled. "Didn't know you played, Tanaka."
"I don't," Mao said flatly.
"Guess we'll both find out."
The whistle blew.
It didn't take long.
Ren moved like he belonged there—quick feet, sharp turns, effortless passes. Mao tried to keep up, but he wasn't built for this. His timing was off. His body slow. And every mistake he made only made his teammates more frustrated.
When Ren slipped past him and scored the second goal of the game, it was too much.
The crowd cheered. Mao clenched his fists.
At halftime, his classmates whispered behind him.
"Why is he even playing?"
"Ren's carrying this whole match."
"Mao's just standing there."
By the end, it was 4–1. Ren had scored two and assisted another.
Mao didn't score. He barely touched the ball.
As the teams shook hands after the match, Ren approached him, wiping sweat from his forehead.
"Don't take it too hard," he said. "It's not really about winning."
Mao stared at him.
"Isn't it?" he asked.
Ren's smile faded, just a little.
Mao turned and walked away without shaking his hand.
Later that night, as the sun dipped behind the empty bleachers, Mao sat alone on the field, knees pulled to his chest, uniform dirtied and pride bruised.
He'd tried academics. Lost.
He'd tried sports. Lost.
And now, he wasn't even sure what was left to be his.