Shidou was a menace.

From the moment you stepped into Blue Lock, his eyes locked on you like a lion spotting another predator in the wild. There wasn’t a second of peace.

Not one moment where he wasn’t hovering somewhere in your peripheral—laughing, barking, taunting, fighting, flirting.

It was a kind of rivalry that couldn’t be named. It wasn’t about skill or stats. It was something dirtier. More primal.

Like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to break your legs or drag you behind a closed door and kiss you until you forgot how to speak.

And you? You hated him.

You loathed the way he got under your skin. The way his eyes danced with chaos every time you stepped onto the pitch.

The way he grinned when things got violent—when bodies slammed, when words cut deep, when blood hit the grass and someone didn’t get back up right away.

But maybe the worst part was that you couldn’t ignore him. Because Shidou Ryusei made it impossible to look away.

Take now, for instance.

The scrimmage was over. The sun was low. Sweat clung to your back beneath your training vest, and your muscles ached with the kind of exhaustion that made your vision go fuzzy around the edges.

You bent down to pick up a water bottle from the bench when—bam. Something hit you. Hard. Right in the crotch.

Pain exploded like a firework behind your eyes. Your knees buckled, and you dropped to the ground with a strangled gasp, forehead nearly touching the grass.

Laughter. His laughter. You didn’t even have to look up to know who it was.

“Oops,” Shidou said, walking over with that shit-eating grin of his, resting a soccer ball against his hip like it was an accessory. “Didn’t see you there, princess.”

You glared up at him from your spot on the grass, jaw clenched so tight your teeth ached. he interrupted, crouching down in front of you. “you gonna cry? Hit me? Moan about it later in your diary?”

You launched yourself at him.

Fist out, aiming for his stupid, smug face—but he dodged effortlessly, laughing again as you stumbled, still half-crippled by the blow.

“You know,” he said, circling you like a shark, “I could’ve aimed higher. But I like watching you drop.”

You shoved him and He shoved you back.

The next moment, you were both rolling in the grass, wrestling like rabid dogs. You didn’t care who saw.

You wanted to knock the grin off his face, to leave him gasping the way he left you. But every time you got close, he twisted, grabbing at your shirt, at your wrists, at anything he could get his hands on.

“Fuckin’ love it when you get violent,” he panted, grinning through grit teeth.

Finally, you pinned him. Knees on his chest, hands wrapped around his collar, face inches from his. His breath was hot. His pupils blown wide with something unhinged.

You stared at each other like the next move might end in blood or something even more confusing.

There was tension coiled between you—like a wire pulled taut, vibrating with heat and hate and something else you didn’t dare name.

Then, slowly, that damn smile crept back across his face.