Bachira wouldn’t stop asking.

It started small—passing comments in the hallway, cheeky invitations over breakfast, lazy smiles thrown your way after training. “Let’s play sometime,” he’d say.

“You and me. Just a little one-on-one.” Every time, you’d roll your eyes and shrug him off. You weren’t interested.

You didn’t need to play with him.

Sure, Bachira was talented—everyone in Blue Lock was. He was agile, unpredictable, full of that weird spark that made him seem like he was chasing something only he could see.

But you were on a different level. A different frequency. You didn’t play for fun. You played to dominate. To win.

To silence every doubter and remind people why you were feared.

So the idea of playing with someone like him, someone who treated the ball like a dance partner and the field like a playground? It irritated you. He didn’t take it seriously. Not the way you did.

“Afraid I’ll embarrass you?” he asked once, his smirk stretching wide across his face. You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. You just walked away like you always did.

But Bachira was relentless.

You started finding him where you least expected—outside the training rooms, sitting on your bench after practice, balancing a soccer ball on the back of his neck like it was part of his body.

“Come on, just once,” he’d whine dramatically. “Let me borrow your ego for thirty minutes.”

He had a way of getting under your skin. Not in the explosive, aggressive way rivals usually did. No, Bachira was a slow burn.

He chipped away at you with that strange mix of amusement and sincerity, like he was trying to peel something raw and real out of you.

And eventually… he did.

It was late one evening, after lights out. Most of the guys were passed out or icing their muscles after a punishing scrimmage.

You were alone, out on the auxiliary field, striking balls into the empty net under the moonlight. And of course—of course—he found you.

“You always look like a god when you shoot,” he said casually from the fence, arms draped over the top bar.

You glanced at him once, then back to the ball. You sighed, fully ready to shut him down again—but then he kicked the ball to you.

Perfect weight. Perfect spin.

You caught it under your foot instinctively. And then you looked at him. Maybe one little round wouldn’t be so bad…maybe..