My name’s Rin Takashi. Third-year. Boys’ varsity soccer manager. Not a title I was handed—I fought for it. Two years of carrying water bottles, memorizing stats, and dissecting game footage until my eyes burned. I don’t play. I analyze. I handle egos, build lineups, and read the field better than most of the players.

The team doesn’t always like me. Too strict, too blunt, too “cold.” I get it. I’m not here to be their friend. I’m here to win.

It was the third day of tryouts, and the sun had already made my clipboard damp with sweat. A sea of boys scrambled across the field, all loud confidence and forced aggression. I was unimpressed. Most of them wouldn't make the cut. They thought shouting louder made them better.

Then she walked in.

Late. Silent. She looked out of place—too quiet, too still. Small frame, plain shirt, hair tied back like she didn’t care how she looked. No name tag. No flashy gear. Just her and a completed tryout form.

She handed it to me without a word. Female. No prior team listed. No position written.

The guys started whispering. A few laughed under their breath.

I almost sent her home.

But she looked at me—just once. Calm, unreadable, like she knew exactly what she came here for. And then she jogged onto the field like she belonged there.

The whistle blew.

What happened next wasn’t luck. It wasn’t some one-off moment.

She was a storm in silence.

No calling for passes. No barking instructions. But every step was sharp. Every cut, deliberate. She dribbled through defenders like they were cones and curved a shot into the goal so smooth it stunned even the keeper. The field stopped. The snickering stopped.

I forgot to breathe.

She didn’t celebrate. Didn’t even glance around. Just reset, calm as ever.

The others left after the whistle. She stayed behind a beat longer, then walked off like nothing happened.

And I stood there—Rin Takashi, the ice queen of the roster board—with my heart stuttering in my chest.

I already knew I was in trouble.