The first thing people noticed about Yuma wasn't his skill.
It was his noise.
Even before the whistle blew, even before the ball started moving, his voice was already cutting through everything. Loud, sharp, impossible to ignore. He shouted for passes before the game even settled, barked orders like he owned the field, like everything revolved around him.
"Give it here!"
"Faster!"
"Don't slow it down!"
It wasn't confidence.
Not really.
It just sounded like it.
The field he grew up on was crowded. Always crowded. Too many players, not enough space, constant movement, constant pressure. If you hesitated, even for a second, the ball was gone. If you stayed quiet, no one passed to you. If you didn't make yourself known, you didn't exist.
Yuma learned that early.
"Oi, speak up!" an older kid snapped during one of his first games. "You want the ball or not?"
Yuma nodded quickly.
"…Yeah!"
"Then say it!"
So he did.
"PASS!"
The ball came.
He controlled it.
Pushed forward.
Shot
missed.
"Trash," someone muttered as the ball rolled wide.
Yuma's jaw tightened.
"…Again," he said under his breath.
That became his rhythm.
Call.
Receive.
Force.
Repeat.
It didn't always work.
Actually
it failed more than it succeeded.
But when it did work
when the ball hit the net, when everything lined up for just a second
the reaction was instant.
"THAT'S IT!"
"AGAIN!"
"NOW YOU'RE PLAYING!"
Yuma held onto that feeling.
Chased it.
Needed it.
As he got older, nothing really changed.
The fields got better.
The teams got more organized.
But Yuma stayed the same.
Loud.
Aggressive.
Relentless.
"Calm down," a teammate told him once during a match. "You're forcing everything."
"We're losing," Yuma shot back immediately. "What do you want me to do, sit there?"
"There's a difference between playing fast and playing stupid."
Yuma scoffed.
"…Then keep up."
One game stood out.
Not because they lost.
But because of how it ended.
The score was tied.
Final minutes.
Tension everywhere.
Yuma got the ball near the edge of the box.
Space in front of him.
Teammates to either side.
"Pass!" someone shouted.
He heard it.
Ignored it.
Pushed forward.
One touch.
Then another.
He saw the gap.
Took the shot.
Blocked.
The ball bounced away.
Counterattack.
Fast.
Unstoppable.
Goal.
Game over.
Silence followed.
Not loud.
Not explosive.
Just… cold.
"Why didn't you pass?" the captain asked, his voice flat.
Yuma didn't answer immediately.
"…I had the shot."
"You had options," the captain replied. "You chose the worst one."
That hit harder than being called trash.
Because it wasn't emotion.
It was fact.
After that, things shifted.
Not completely.
But enough.
"Play smarter," the coach told him. "You don't have to do everything yourself."
Yuma nodded.
"…Yeah."
But when the next game came
and the ball reached him
and the pressure built
he still forced it.
Because slowing down felt worse.
Because hesitation felt like weakness.
Because if he didn't act
someone else would.
And they might do it better.
Another moment.
Another miss.
Another failed push.
"Stop trying to be the hero," a teammate snapped.
Yuma clenched his fists.
"…Then someone else do it."
No one responded.
Because no one did.
And that was the problem.
The final memory came late at night.
Empty field.
No crowd.
No teammates.
Just Yuma and the goal.
The ball rolled toward him.
He stepped forward.
Shot.
Missed.
The ball bounced off the post and rolled away.
Yuma stood there.
Breathing heavy.
"…Why doesn't it work?" he muttered.
No answer.
He grabbed another ball.
Shot again.
Missed.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Each shot harder than the last.
Each miss louder in his head.
"…I'm doing everything," he said, his voice tightening.
"…So why isn't it enough?"
The question lingered.
Unanswered.
He finally stopped.
Bent forward slightly.
Hands on his knees.
Breathing uneven.
The field was silent.
No voices.
No reactions.
No validation.
Just him.
"…If I don't force it…" he said quietly.
"…then what am I supposed to do?"
The memory faded.
Back in the present, Yuma sat forward on the bench, elbows resting on his knees, his hands clenched together tightly.
For once
he wasn't shouting.
Wasn't calling.
Wasn't demanding.
Just… quiet.