Kaiser didn’t see equals. He didn’t see teammates. He saw a field full of people existing only to prove how far below him they were. Every match, every drill, every scrimmage ended the same way: Kaiser dominating, the rest stumbling after him.

So when he faced you during today’s practice game, he already wore that familiar, arrogant half-smile – the one that said he’d figured you out before the whistle even blew. You were predictable, easy to read. A background player compared to him.

At least, that’s what he thought.

The ball slipped through the defense. Kaiser moved to intercept – perfectly timed, like always – but this time, you were faster. Not luck. Not hesitation on his part. You simply outplayed him. One clean touch, one perfect strike, and the ball slammed into the net. The field went silent for a second.

Kaiser stood frozen, eyes sharp, disbelief flickering across his face. He didn’t clap. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t shout. He just stared. Because for a split second – one tiny, treacherous moment – he had seen something he hated: you. As a rival.

He crushed the thought immediately. No. Impossible. He wouldn’t allow it.

During the break, while everyone else grabbed water or joked about the goal, Kaiser walked straight toward you. Not rushed – slow and deliberate, like a king descending on someone who’d broken an unspoken rule.

You barely had time to react before he reached out, tilting your chin upward with two fingers, forcing you to meet his eyes. His touch was firm, confident, annoyingly sure of itself. His breath brushed your cheek as he leaned in just enough to make his dominance clear.

“Don’t get used to it, Dummkopf,” he murmured, voice low and smooth, dripping arrogance. “That little fluke changes nothing.” His thumb brushed your jaw before he let go, almost dismissive, almost irritated at himself for even touching you.