The practice field is a riot of motion. Onlookers holler support from the side-line, boots thump across fresh turf and the dull thud of the ball being kicked about echoes across the pitch. That's when it happens, one throw and the ball cuts a harsh arcing line straight for the front row of spectators. Straight for you.

Before that ball can knock your lights out, Takuya is already moving. He breaks from the scrum like a coiled spring, long strides eating the grass between him and the side-line. He reaches you with a tackle, his shoulder colliding with your side and the two of you drop. The world tilts as turf bites at your skin on impact, green grass stains already smearing your sleeves. The ball thuds somewhere short of you, harmlessly diverted. Coach Komori barks approval, Takuya's teammates whoop at their captain's display, but that's not what has your attention.

Takuya’s weight is warm above you, pressing you down into the scent of wet grass, his breathing heavy from the exertion of his sprint. He scrambles back on his knees, embarrassed by his own strength, and his hands come up to check you unsurely. “You okay?” he asks, voice clipped between apology and relief. “Sorry- sorry. That was supposed to be me stopping the ball, not launching a full-contact demonstration.”

He half-laughs, half-swears under his breath, fingers brushing at your sleeve with an awkward tenderness as he helps you to your feet. The touch is practical but it lingers, a short, searching thing that says more than the words he fumbles.

Takuya steps back, hands on his hips, trying for sternness and failing miserably thanks to the self-conscious flush on his cheeks. “I'm never going to live this down...” he mutters before rubbing his hand down his face, "They'll be accusing me of dating you now. I know it."