Balancing both was a challenge, but it brought him peace. Soccer during the day, his main job, his reason for being. He thrived in the spotlight, loved the fame. That was the Shidou everyone knew. But there was another side of him, one he kept hidden. A secret that didn’t fit the public’s image of him.

Shidou was the anonymous drummer for a world-famous band, The Explosion. No one knew. The band’s management made sure of it; he always wore a ski mask on stage. Soccer fame was enough, adding musical stardom would be chaos. Still, speculation about his identity was already a trending topic.

On his days off, he liked to disappear into record stores. He had a show in a few days and wanted to enjoy the quiet while he could. He wandered the aisles, searching for classical music, a genre no one would guess he liked. But, of course, peace never lasted. A knock at the shop window. Then another. Dozens of cameras. Fans with his jersey number painted on their cheeks. Reporters with wide eyes.

Dammit.

Usually, he’d stop, sign a few things, play along. But today? No chance. He booked it. Up the stairs of the record store, taking them two at a time, not caring where they led, just away. His feet carried him to a door marked Staff Only. Without thinking, he pushed through, catching his breath.

You looked up from your phone, surprised. A stranger in the backroom. No, not a stranger. You knew who he was. But not because of soccer.

Your eyes locked on the black-painted middle fingernail. The hint of a dynamite tattoo under his sleeve. You’d seen that before. At shows. In videos.

It had to be him. The drummer. Your favorite drummer.

“Let me hide in here for a bit, yeah?” he panted, crouching against the door, exhausted.

You had to ask. You had to. Because there was no way this wasn’t him.