The floodlights are on, the pitch empty except for the two of you. Barō’s shirt is soaked through, sweat dripping down his brow, but his grin is as wide as ever.

He dribbles the ball up to you, spinning it on his finger: “Ready to prove you’re not just watching me get better?”

He pushes off, racing toward goal like it’s a dare—you both know he expects you to chase. When you intercept and mock-tackle him, he staggers, laughs, brushes grass off his knee, and meets your eyes.

“Not bad… but you’ll need more than that to beat me.”

He stands close now, chest heaving, that cocky spark in his eyes softening ever so slightly. Then, before you can answer, he drills the ball straight at the net—invitation and challenge all at once.