Daichi didn't start as the strongest.
He just looked like it.
Even as a kid, he was bigger than most of the others. Taller. Broader. The kind of presence that made people assume things before he even touched the ball.
"Put him in defense," one coach said during an early tryout, barely glancing at anything else. "He'll hold them off."
Daichi nodded.
"…Okay."
It wasn't what he wanted.
But it was what made sense.
The first few games were simple.
Someone came forward—
Daichi stepped in.
Used his body.
Stopped them.
Clean.
Effective.
"Good," the coach said. "That's what we need."
Daichi nodded again.
"…Got it."
That became his role.
Not to create.
Not to decide.
Just to stop.
At first, it felt fine.
There was something clear about it.
Something solid.
He didn't have to think too much.
Didn't have to read everything.
Just react.
Step in.
Win the ball.
Reset.
Simple.
"…Nice block," a teammate said once.
Daichi gave a small nod.
"…Thanks."
That was enough.
Or at least—
he thought it was.
But over time, something changed.
The players he faced got better.
Smarter.
They didn't just run into him anymore.
They waited.
Watched.
Pulled him out of position.
"Don't commit too early," the coach said. "Hold the line."
Daichi nodded.
"…Okay."
But when the moment came—
he stepped in anyway.
Because that's what he was supposed to do.
One game stood out.
The opponent wasn't fast.
Wasn't flashy.
But he was patient.
Daichi stayed in front of him.
Watching.
Waiting.
For once—
he didn't rush.
The player moved.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Daichi matched him.
Step for step.
Then—
a slight shift.
A feint.
Daichi held.
Didn't bite.
"…Good," he muttered under his breath.
Then—
the pass came.
Not forward.
Not toward goal.
Sideways.
Behind him.
Daichi turned.
Too late.
The space he left—
was already filled.
Shot.
Goal.
"Why didn't you close him?" a teammate snapped.
Daichi frowned.
"…I did."
"No, you didn't," the teammate shot back. "You just stood there."
Daichi hesitated.
"…I was waiting."
"For what?" the teammate asked.
Daichi didn't answer.
Because he didn't know.
After that, doubt crept in.
Small at first.
Barely noticeable.
But it stayed.
Every time he stepped forward—
he questioned it.
Every time he held back—
he questioned that too.
"Be decisive," the coach told him. "You can't hesitate."
Daichi nodded.
"…Right."
But deciding wasn't the problem.
Trusting the decision was.
Another match.
Another moment.
The ball came toward his side.
An attacker pushing forward.
Daichi stepped in.
Then stopped.
Then stepped again.
That split hesitation—
was enough.
The attacker slipped past.
Cross.
Goal.
"Pick one!" the coach shouted from the sideline. "Either go or don't!"
Daichi clenched his jaw.
"…I am picking," he muttered.
But it didn't feel like it.
It felt like guessing.
The final memory came quietly.
Late evening.
The field empty.
The air still.
Daichi stood near the edge of the box, a ball resting a few feet in front of him.
No opponent.
No pressure.
Just space.
He stepped forward.
Then stopped.
Then stepped again.
Then stopped again.
"…Go," he said softly.
He moved.
"…Stop."
He froze.
Back and forth.
Forward.
Still.
Forward.
Still.
Over and over.
Like he was trying to force the answer out of nothing.
"…Why can't I just know?" he muttered.
His voice didn't rise.
Didn't crack.
It just… stayed there.
Heavy.
Unanswered.
He finally exhaled.
Stepped back.
"…I'm supposed to be the one they rely on," he said quietly.
"But I don't even trust myself."
The memory faded.
Back in the present, Daichi sat on the bench, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands loosely clasped together.
For once—
he wasn't stepping forward.
Wasn't holding the line.
Wasn't deciding.
Just… sitting.
To Be Continued.