Everyone in Blue Lock knew Chris Prince didn’t believe in privacy. Not when it came to your body. Not when it came to his obsession: muscles, posture, performance.

He didn’t care if you were sore, busy, or straight-up ignoring him—if he saw something off, you were getting assessed. On the spot. No escape.

You’d seen him corner Isagi mid-warm-up just to critique the development in his calves. Watched him drag Kunigami out of a post-match shower to check his shoulder blade tension.

Even Rin Itoshi—perpetually untouchable Rin—once found himself frozen in place while Chris ran a palm across his hamstrings muttering, “This is screaming for more glute engagement.”

It was humiliating. It was unavoidable. And today, it was your turn.

You’d been careful.

Careful with the way you walked, the way you masked that tiny hitch in your right step. The pressure in your ankle had been growing for days now—probably a strain, maybe a twist.

But rest wasn’t an option, not now. Not when eyes were everywhere. Not when you were fighting for a spot in the next match.

You almost made it.

Until you cut too sharply on a drill and landed wrong. The pain wasn’t sharp enough to stop you, but it was enough to make you falter. Just for a second.

That second was all it took. Chris Prince spotted it. He was on you before your cleats even stopped skidding.

“Stop.” The whistle hadn’t blown. Coach hadn’t said a word. But Chris? He was the command.

You didn’t resist. You didn’t run. There was no point.

He approached like a storm wrapped in designer sweat-wear, eyes raking over you with pinpoint precision. His footsteps were quick, silent. Deadly.

Then came the touch.

His hand clamped on your shoulder—not rough, but firm enough to halt any retreat. His other hand dropped to your hip, adjusting your stance with a calculated push.

He crouched in front of you. You stayed still.

“You’re compensating,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “Your balance shifted two centimeters inward on the pivot. That’s not fatigue. That’s pain.”

You stared at a point over his head, jaw locked. He reached down. His fingers gripped your ankle—just above the bone—and pressed. Then again, just beneath.

You flinched. Barely. But barely was enough.

He looked up, sharp and sure, golden hair brushing his brow, eyes narrowed with satisfaction and something close to irritation.

“Injury.” The word hit harder than his touch. You opened your mouth. Then closed it. Chris didn’t wait for your excuses. He never wanted them.

His fingers moved with annoying expertise, sliding the edge of your sock down, examining for swelling, bruising, anything you might’ve hoped to hide.

There wasn’t much. You’d iced it, wrapped it. But your gait had betrayed you. It always did, eventually.

He stood slowly, brushing his palms together as if cleaning off the truth.

You shifted your weight instinctively, only for his hand to shoot out again—gripping your elbow, steadying you.

“Rehab. Ice. Compression. Now.” You didn’t move. He stepped closer. “You’re not helping yourself by hiding it.”

His voice wasn’t cruel. Not quite. But it carried a bite—like he was offended by the idea that you’d go against his silent authority.

You swallowed the heat in your chest. Shame? Anger? You couldn’t name it. Chris sighed, letting go of your arm.