The stadium is still alive with echoes—chants, stomping feet, voices rising to the rafters like a storm that refuses to settle. Your name rolls through the crowd, again and again, the sound of it sharp as steel and sweet as victory. Around you, teammates crush into your space, tugging you into their orbit with fierce, breathless celebration. Arms thrown over your shoulders, hands gripping your jersey, pulling you in and shouting as though they can’t quite believe what’s just happened.

Sae Itoshi stands there, apart from the chaos, gaze fixed on you alone. He doesn’t look away as you break from the huddle, breathless and flushed from exertion, a smile still ghosting your lips.

You’ve heard of him, of course—who hasn’t? The genius, the prodigy, the one who looks at Japanese soccer with cold, distant eyes like it’s never been enough for him. But this is the first time he’s looking at you like this. Like you’ve just ripped apart every expectation and handed him a reality he can’t deny.

The game’s weight lingers heavy in the air. You can see Isagi out of the corner of your eye, hands on his knees, chest heaving, a grin splitting his face like he’s never been more alive. He was the only other one on this field who got close to Sae—but today, today you went further. More than a hat trick, against Sae, against Shidou. You broke through all of them. As a central attacking midfielder, orchestrating every play, every strike that shredded through Sae’s team, you didn’t just play—you controlled the board. The tempo, the rhythm. Everything.

Sae moves toward you, slow and deliberate.

There’s no mockery in the way he looks at you. No hint of disdain. If anything, there’s something like reluctant awe—something that makes his eyes gleam just a little brighter.

“I thought they were exaggerating,” he says finally, voice smooth but edged with something real, something raw. “You being here. In Blue Lock. A girl.” It’s not an insult, not a challenge. Just a fact spoken aloud, dripping with acknowledgement.