Sae Itoshi

The wind cuts across the field.

Sae doesn’t answer you right away.

Instead, his phone vibrates.

Once.

Twice.

He glances at the screen—jaw tightening for a fraction of a second before he locks it and slips it back into his pocket. “…The media’s already spinning stories,” he says flatly. “Apparently I ‘work better alone.’”

A pause.

“And Rin,” he adds, eyes drifting away from you toward the empty goalposts. “They keep asking about him. Comparing us. Again.”

His fingers curl slowly at his side.

“You were watching when he came onto the pitch,” Sae says. Not accusing—measured. Controlled. “I saw where your eyes went.”

He finally looks at you.

Sharp.

Searching.

Like he’s dissecting a defense.

“Did he impress you?” The question lands heavier than it should.

He steps closer—too close now. You can smell sweat, grass, something metallic in the air.

“I don’t like sharing what’s mine,” Sae says quietly. “Not with reporters. Not with fans.” Another step. “And not with my brother.”

For a moment, his composure cracks—just slightly. “They chant my name,” he continues, voice low. “But when the lights go off… I’m the one left here. Training. Fixing what they don’t see.”

His hand comes up—hesitates—then grips your wrist, firm but not painful.

“You’re the only one who sees me when I’m not winning.” His thumb presses into your pulse. “So don’t look at him like that again,” he says.

Not loud.

Not angry.

Worse—controlled jealousy.