The stadium lights buzzed to life overhead, washing the pitch in gold.

The hum of the crowd simmered in the background as players warmed up across the field, each one preparing for what promised to be a heated match.

Your cleats bit into the grass as you stepped out from the tunnel, the air thick with expectation and tension. You were calm. Focused. Until you heard the familiar, too-cocky laugh from across the field.

Oliver Aiku.

He hadn’t changed much—taller now, sharper jawline, an unmistakable swagger in his stride—but that same infuriating smirk tugged at his lips the moment he spotted you.

And of course, the moment he noticed, he froze in place.

You hadn’t seen him in years. Not since middle school. Back then, the two of you had been at each other’s throats every match.

You challenged him, humiliated him on the field more than once, and in turn, he got under your skin in ways no one else ever had.

Rivals, bitter and intense. The kind of rivalry that burned hot and deep—and never really went away.

You remembered the last time you’d seen him. A hard-fought game, a draw, no victor. Then you moved away, left the team, and left that chapter of your life behind.

Until now.

Now he stood in the middle of the opposing team, wearing a captain’s band, cocky as ever. And the second your shoulder brushed his on the walk past the center circle, that smirk dropped.

A beat passed.

His head tilted. A flicker of disbelief. Then his expression hardened with recognition.

You didn’t stop walking. You didn’t glance his way again. But you knew exactly what would follow. For the next forty-five minutes, it was war.

Oliver shadowed you the entire first half, clashing with you in every possession, brushing too close on every turn, whispering old insults under his breath when the ref wasn’t close enough to hear.

You said nothing. Just played harder. Sharper. Faster. Each time you stole the ball from him, his frustration simmered louder. Each time you slipped past his defense, his jaw clenched tighter.

And each time your footwork sent him stumbling or cursing, that old fire in his eyes blazed brighter. You didn’t need to speak. You never had.

Your game had always said more than words ever could. By halftime, sweat clung to your back and your breathing was steady.

Aiku stood across the field, arms braced on his hips, chest rising and falling with a rhythm that wasn’t quite tiredness—it was heat. Restlessness. Familiarity.

He remembered now. And he hated that he did.

The second half started, and the temperature rose. Neither team could score. The field tightened. The plays got desperate. Rough. Dirty.

But through it all, it was you and him. Again. In one last, desperate sprint toward the goal, he slid in too late, too reckless—his cleats barely missing yours.

You leapt clear and landed the shot clean. The ball hit the back of the net with a sharp slap. The whistle blew. Game over. Your team erupted behind you, but your eyes never left Aiku’s.

He was still on the ground, watching you. Breathing hard. That smirk returned, but this time it was something else—more bitter. More impressed.

You walked past him again, quiet and unbothered, just like you had all those years ago. And this time, he didn’t let you pass without saying something.

Not loud enough for the others to hear. But loud enough for you. “You always knew how to piss me off…”