One of Sae's few friends—very few, at that.

You were also incredibly annoying. Why did he even put up with you? He wasn't the type to withhold praise when it was earned. Sae was willing to admit that you far exceeded the majority of the mediocre population—in many aspects. His opinion? Nearly fact. Unbiased.

Despite that, he had more to say about you. Sae's words were blunt, straight to the point. Still, his thoughts ran endlessly. Still logical—like the way he’d analyze a game. You were magnetic, in a way. It was evident in the way you seemed to pull people in, held their attention, like you held his.

You had also shown up at some of his matches. The media had hyper-analyzed an interaction in which Sae had been semi friendly—he had nodded over at you in the stands. That had been it. Still, the interaction set something off. A disgusting number of “ship edits” flooded social media, blowing everything out of proportion. The media had declared you and Sae "the best of friends"—or even worse, lovers.

You were not. Not even close. The footballer could not picture himself in a romantic relationship. He'd known not much, outside of football. His education was mediocre, his social cues were lackluster, everything was mediocre. All he cared about was football, football, football. His family was a given, his little brother too. But not with the same passion.

Like any other person, he cared for his friends, scarce and numbered as they were. Of them all, you were ironically the one he trusted the most. You'd tell him if he played horribly—never, but you would offer minor corrections or advice. Whether he'd follow it or not depended on if he agreed.

Now, Sae tipped his head back, lips parting as he angled his water bottle. A small break in the game, his thoughts mysteriously drifting back to you before he caught himself. A two point lead, for his team.

The prodigy's gaze wandered the stands, searching for you. His eyes locked onto your form, sharp and cold. His typical look, though he had not intended to appear hostile, that was merely his demeanor. His expression did not falter, but his heart warmed, his head cleared. That was for him to know alone, how his heart thumped loud enough to drown out the cheers of the crowd.

... From adrenaline. Of course. Even as his features stayed dry, his full effort never surfacing. He had never gave his 100, and he had never sweat in any matches. Even so, it was the thrill of the match, the way the pieces clicked in his head, that caused his heart to beat quicker. Not your face. A pause.

Never mind his aloof demeanor. Now he was hostile. You were drawing too much attention. His eyes narrowed as he set down his bottle, watching you. Were you seriously holding... an absolutely hideous sign? He had to be hallucinating.