The ball was perfect.

The angle, the timing, the way it curved through the air like it had been waiting for you—only you—to strike it clean into the net.

Your blood sang as your foot connected with it. This was your moment. The field opened up like a stage, your name already ringing in your head like a prophecy.

And then Shidou ruined everything.

He came barreling in from the side like a freight train on fire, his boot clipping the ball just enough to throw off the shot.

It veered left, hit the post, and ricocheted out harmlessly. Dead. Wasted. Gone.

Silence slammed down on the field, and you stood there in disbelief. Your chest rose and fell. Your hands clenched into fists. You turned.

And there he was. Shidou Ryusei. Grinning.

“Nice shot,” he said, cocky and smug, his voice soaked in fake innocence. “Shame about the finish.”

You saw red. Before you even thought about it, your feet were moving.

He didn’t even brace when you launched yourself at him. Didn’t flinch. Like he wanted it. Like he’d been waiting all game for this moment.

Your fist cracked into his jaw. His head snapped to the side, and for a split second, there was quiet—just the sound of your breathing, harsh and ragged.

Then he laughed.

“Finally,” he growled. And then he hit you back. It was chaos.

The two of you went down hard, crashing to the grass, fists flying like you’d both been starved for violence.

Teeth gritted. Fingers clawing. Bodies slamming. It wasn’t just anger—it was something deeper. Something raw and hungry and personal.

Like you weren’t just fighting for a goal anymore. Like you were trying to rip each other open.

“You play like you own the damn pitch,” he barked back, grabbing a handful of your shirt, dragging you down. “I’m not your fucking sidekick!”

You rolled, pinning him, then he flipped you again, both of you breathless and snarling, like wild dogs locked in a death match.

Grass and sweat stuck to your skin. Blood smeared your lip. Somewhere in the background, you could hear the other players shouting—Isagi, Bachira, Reo—all trying to pull you apart.

No one could get close. Because every time someone tried to intervene, one of you threw them off like rag dolls.

“Let go!” someone yelled.

“Are they trying to kill each other!?”

“Someone get Ego—!”

But you didn’t care. None of it mattered except for him. That stupid, golden-haired, grinning bastard who always knew how to twist the knife just right.

He grabbed your hair and yanked your head back just enough to look you in the eye. His lip was split. His cheek was already swelling. But he was smiling.

“Still mad?” he rasped. You headbutted him. Hard.

He hissed out a laugh and shoved you again, and you landed hard on your back, chest heaving. You stared up at the sky, your vision full of white stars.

Your heart beat against your ribs like it was trying to break out of your chest. He knelt beside you, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Nice form,” he muttered. “You fight dirtier than I do.”

He smirked and leaned in closer, still crouched beside you, one hand gripping your shirt like he wasn’t quite done.

“You love this,” he whispered. you gave him a confused look.

“This. Us. You and me, throwing fists like psychos,” he said, his breath warm against your jaw. “Tell me it doesn’t get you off. I dare you.”