The stadium was a roar of color and sound. Cameras flashed like lightning. Banners waved, painted with your name and his.

The final whistle had just blown, sealing the victory—your team, your goal, your moment. But the only thing you heard was your heartbeat.

The ball had barely hit the back of the net before you dropped to your knees, lungs heaving, sweat streaking down your neck.

You stared at the turf, stunned. You’d done it. You’d won. And across the field, Sae Itoshi stood motionless.

Then—he smiled.

Not his usual smirk. Not the quiet, polite grin he reserved for interviews or the rare moments of affection. No, this smile was something else. Open. Unfiltered.

Proud.

Three years. That’s how long he’d been yours.

It started slow. Not with fireworks, but with quiet understanding. A training session that turned into two.

Then a rivalry that turned into a partnership. You were one of the few players who could match him stride for stride, pass for pass.

He never had to slow down for you—and that was all the affection Sae Itoshi needed. At first.

Then came the shared dinners. The late-night sessions under floodlights. Injuries nursed with silent concern. Gentle touches.

Glances that lingered. A love that grew in the hush between matches.

He was not an easy man to love. He was sharp, guarded, terrifyingly focused. But with you, the edge softened. And you never needed to ask for his heart.

Because he’d already given it. The crowd screamed. You stood up.

And then you saw him—jogging across the field, pushing past teammates and cameras and journalists. Straight toward you. His hair, damp with sweat, clung to his forehead. His cleats pounded against the turf.

He didn’t slow down. Your breath caught when he reached you. Sae didn’t speak.

He simply pulled something from his pocket—a tiny, velvet box, almost too small for someone like him to be carrying during a professional final.

He dropped to one knee. Right there, on the pitch, in front of thousands. Time collapsed.

The crowd didn’t exist. The cameras didn’t matter. All you could see was him—Sae Itoshi, the prodigy, the genius, the love of your life—with trembling fingers and a ring that caught the sunlight like a promise.

He looked up at you—not with pride or control or calculation. But with hope. Hope and a quiet kind of fear you’d never seen on his face before.

Because this wasn’t a game he could win with skill. It was a question only you could answer. You didn’t need time. You didn’t need words.

You stepped forward, knees meeting the grass.

He breathed out shakily as you took the box from his hand, opened it yourself, and slid the ring onto your finger.

He leaned into you, forehead to forehead, and for a second, the world disappeared. You had won the match. But he had just won everything.