Kaito didn't grow up chasing the ball.
He grew up chasing people.
The first field he played on wasn't even a proper field. It was a narrow strip of dirt behind a school building, fenced in on one side and bordered by concrete on the other. There wasn't much space to move, so the game was tighter, rougher, more physical. You didn't win by being the most skilled.
You won by stopping the other guy.
"Don't let him breathe," an older kid told him once, shoving him lightly toward an opponent. "If he moves, you move. If he stops, you're already there."
Kaito nodded.
"…Got it."
From that moment on—
he stayed close.
Too close.
At first, it worked.
Every time someone got the ball, Kaito was there. Pressing. Blocking. Getting in the way. He didn't care about style or technique. He cared about contact. About control. About making sure the other player couldn't do what they wanted.
"Oi, this kid's annoying," someone muttered after a game, rubbing their shoulder.
Kaito didn't react.
But inside—
he held onto that.
Annoying.
That meant he was doing something right.
When he joined an actual team, the difference hit immediately.
The field was bigger.
The game was faster.
And players—
were smarter.
"Keep your distance," the coach told him during practice. "Don't overcommit."
Kaito frowned slightly.
"…If I stay close, they can't move."
"If you stay too close, they'll go past you," the coach replied. "You need balance."
Balance.
Kaito nodded.
"…Okay."
But when the game started—
he forgot.
The ball came to his mark.
Kaito stepped in immediately.
Closed the space.
Pressed hard.
The player hesitated—
then spun.
Gone.
Kaito turned late.
Too late.
"Don't dive in!" the coach shouted.
Kaito clenched his jaw.
"…Tch."
Next time—
he stepped in again.
It became a pattern.
Too close.
Too aggressive.
Too committed.
Sometimes it worked.
When it did, it looked strong. Dominant. Like he had full control.
But when it didn't—
it broke everything.
"Why do you keep rushing?" a teammate snapped after one match. "You're pulling us out of position every time!"
Kaito looked at him.
"…If I don't step in, he moves."
"And if you do it wrong, he still moves," the teammate shot back. "Just past you."
Kaito didn't answer.
Because he didn't have one.
One game stayed with him longer than the others.
He was marking a player who didn't panic.
Didn't rush.
Didn't react.
Every time Kaito stepped in—
the player adjusted.
Small movements.
Minimal effort.
Always just enough.
Kaito pressed harder.
Got closer.
Tried to force a mistake.
The player stopped.
Waited.
Then slipped past him.
Again.
And again.
And again.
"Relax," the player said quietly at one point, almost like advice. "You're making it easy."
That stung.
Not because it was loud.
But because it was true.
After the game, Kaito sat alone on the bench, his hands resting against his knees, his head lowered slightly.
"…If I don't press," he muttered.
"…then what do I do?"
He replayed it.
Every step.
Every move.
Every mistake.
And the answer didn't come.
Because everything he knew—
everything he trusted—
was built on one thing.
Stay close.
Don't let them move.
But now—
that wasn't enough.
The next practice, he tried to change.
Just a little.
He held back.
Gave space.
Waited.
The player in front of him took a touch.
Then another.
Then passed.
Clean.
Unpressured.
"Step up!" the coach shouted. "You're giving him too much room!"
Kaito froze for a second.
Too close—
he gets beaten.
Too far—
he controls everything.
"…Then what's the distance?" he asked under his breath.
No one answered.
The final memory came late.
The field was empty.
Lights dim.
The goalposts casting long shadows across the ground.
Kaito stood near the edge of the box, a ball at his feet.
No opponent.
No pressure.
No one to mark.
He nudged the ball forward.
Stopped.
Then stepped toward it.
Like he was closing someone down.
Then stopped again.
"…Too close," he said quietly.
He stepped back.
"…Too far."
He stayed there.
In between.
Not moving.
Not deciding.
"…What am I supposed to do?" he asked.
The silence didn't help.
The memory faded.
Back in the present, Kaito leaned back against the locker, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the floor in front of him.
For once—
he wasn't stepping in.
Wasn't pressing.
Wasn't moving.
Just… waiting.
To Be Continued.