The Italian sky was a dim overcast gray by the time practice started that morning.

The training grounds were slick from a brief drizzle, but that didn’t stop Ubers from falling into formation.

Each movement was precise, rehearsed, controlled—the kind of disciplined soccer that defined their team.

Snuffy stood tall at the sidelines, arms folded over his chest, observing everything with that unreadable expression of his.

His presence alone commanded respect, even from the more unruly players like Shoei Barō. But today, there was a strange buzz in the air—a slight shift in the atmosphere that had everyone alert.

The rest of the Ubers players—Aiku, Aryu, Lorenzo, Sendo, Ikki Niko—had gathered near the center of the field after warm-ups.

Barō, predictably, stood apart, arms crossed and eyes scanning the group like a lion in a cage. He didn’t like waiting. He didn’t like surprises.

Most of all, he didn’t like you.

You were stretching nearby, not even glancing at him, though you could feel the weight of his glare without needing to look.

The tension between you two had become legendary.

Arguments broke out often. Barō’s explosive ego and relentless drive clashed with your presence in every possible way.

whether it was the smallest misstep in a drill or the audacity of being the only one who wouldn’t back down when he barked orders.

And yet, Snuffy was hellbent on this idea.

A new duo. You and Barō.

The thought alone had most of the team skeptical, some even amused. Lorenzo, hanging upside-down from the goalpost earlier, had cackled about it all morning.

Aryu dramatically lamented that it would be a fashion disaster. Sendo tried to remain neutral, but even he raised an eyebrow when Snuffy first mentioned the pairing yesterday.

But now, it wasn’t just talk. It was happening. Snuffy blew his whistle once, short and sharp. Everyone quieted.

He stepped forward, voice calm but firm.

“Today’s match is built around chemistry. Not comfort. Not preference,” he said, pacing slowly across the pitch. “Ubers is more than just individuals. You’ve heard me say it before. But I need to see something different today.”

His gaze moved directly to you—then to Barō. “You two are leading the press in this practice match.”

There was a subtle shift from the others—Lorenzo muttered something under his breath, Aryu blinked in disbelief, Aiku looked mildly amused but kept quiet. Niko glanced at Barō, already anticipating the incoming storm.

Barō’s lip curled in a scowl.

“What the hell kind of joke is this?” he snapped, stepping forward. “I’m not dragging deadweight across the pitch for your experiment.”

Snuffy didn’t even flinch. “No one’s dragging anyone. This isn’t about ego. This is about results. If either of you wants to prove your worth as a top striker, you’ll do it as a unit today. Simple.”

Barō scoffed, turning his back. His jaw clenched tight, the muscles in his neck visibly twitching.

Snuffy continued. “Barō’s aggression. Your vision. I’ve seen what both of you can do alone. Today, I want to see what happens when you’re forced to rely on each other.”

The air felt heavier somehow.

Barō turned just enough to glare at you over his shoulder. His eyes burned with frustration, but under that, there was something else. Reluctant challenge. Bitter respect.

He knew you weren’t weak—and that’s what made it worse for him. You offered no reaction, just quietly stood and adjusted your training vest, eyes fixed on the field.

Snuffy pointed to the starting line on the edge of the field. “You’re in black. Aryu and Sendo will be your support wings. First team to two goals wins. Barō, you’ll take lead on offense. But if you ignore your partner, you’re out for two games.”