Yusuke didn't start with a team.
He started alone.
There wasn't a proper field.
Just a narrow stretch of grass behind an old building, uneven and quiet, the kind of place no one really cared about. The goal wasn't even a real goal—just two worn-down bags placed a few feet apart. No net. No lines. No one watching.
Just him.
The ball rolled forward.
Yusuke stepped into it.
Shot.
The ball slipped between the bags.
No sound followed.
No reaction.
It just… happened.
He didn't celebrate.
Didn't raise his arms.
Didn't smile.
He just walked forward.
Picked the ball up.
Went back.
Again.
That was how it always was.
No instructions.
No coach.
No teammates.
Just repetition.
Touch.
Move.
Shoot.
Miss.
Adjust.
Repeat.
At school, people played.
Groups gathered.
Teams formed.
Names were called out.
"Oi, we need one more!"
"Not him," someone replied casually, barely even looking in Yusuke's direction. "He doesn't talk."
A shrug.
"Yeah, fair."
Yusuke stood a few steps away.
Listening.
Not reacting.
"…It's fine," he muttered under his breath.
And it was.
Or at least—
he told himself it was.
So he kept playing alone.
Time passed.
The touches got cleaner.
The movements sharper.
The shots more consistent.
No one taught him.
No one corrected him.
No one stopped him.
That meant—
nothing held him back.
One day, someone finally noticed.
"Oi."
Yusuke looked up.
An older player stood a few feet away, arms crossed, watching him.
"…You've been doing that for a while," the guy said.
Yusuke nodded.
"…Yeah."
"Why alone?"
Yusuke shrugged slightly.
"…No reason."
The guy stared at him for a second longer.
"…Play with us."
Yusuke paused.
Then nodded.
"…Okay."
The game was different.
Faster.
Messier.
Voices everywhere.
"Pass!"
"Move!"
"Here!"
Yusuke heard it all.
Understood it.
Ignored most of it.
The ball came to him.
He moved.
Past one.
Then another.
Then another.
The space opened.
He shot.
Goal.
Silence—
for half a second.
Then—
"…Yo."
"Where'd that come from?"
"That was clean."
Yusuke blinked.
"…Oh."
It wasn't excitement.
It was unfamiliar.
After that, they passed to him more.
Called his name.
Expected something.
Yusuke responded the only way he knew how.
He moved.
Created.
Scored.
Again.
And again.
And again.
But something felt off.
"Pass it!" someone shouted during one play.
Yusuke didn't.
He pushed forward.
Scored.
"Nice!"
The reaction came instantly.
Approval.
Energy.
Noise.
Next time—
same situation.
"Pass!"
He passed.
The teammate took the shot.
Missed.
"…Tch."
"Bad pass."
Yusuke paused.
"…It reached you."
"Yeah, but it wasn't good," the teammate replied.
That stayed.
The more he played with others—
the more he noticed it.
When he scored—
they reacted.
When he passed—
it depended.
When he didn't stand out—
he disappeared.
Another game.
Another moment.
Yusuke moved through defenders again.
Clean.
Efficient.
He saw a teammate open.
A better option.
He passed.
The play broke.
Ball lost.
Counter.
Goal.
"…Why'd you pass?" someone asked afterward.
Yusuke frowned slightly.
"…It was the better choice."
"No," the reply came. "You're the better choice."
That didn't make sense.
Not fully.
Later that day, he stood alone again.
Same empty field.
Same two bags marking the goal.
The ball at his feet.
He didn't move.
"…If I play alone," he said quietly.
"…I don't have to think about anyone else."
He nudged the ball forward.
Stopped it.
"…If I play with others…"
A pause.
"…then what am I supposed to do?"
Score?
Pass?
Lead?
Follow?
The questions didn't come with answers.
So he did what he always did.
He shot.
The ball rolled between the bags.
Same as before.
No reaction.
No noise.
No expectation.
Yusuke stood there for a moment longer.
Then turned away.
"…This is easier," he muttered.
But even as he said it—
it didn't feel right.
Because somewhere along the way—
he had started to notice something.
Not the noise.
Not the praise.
Not the recognition.
The difference.
When he played alone—
nothing changed.
When he played with others—
everything did.
And he didn't know which one mattered more.
The memory faded.
Back in the present, Yusuke sat quietly, leaning forward slightly, his hands resting together as his gaze stayed fixed ahead.
For once—
he wasn't moving.
Wasn't creating.
Wasn't deciding.
Just thinking.