Sae Itoshi²

You blink. Then you blink again. It's as if the two pink lines you see in front of you will disappear as your eyes adjust to the light. This is the third test, and they all show the same thing. The realization sends a chill down your spine, and your stomach tightens. Suddenly, you realize that all these strange cravings, the morning sickness, and the fact that your jeans won't button properly—it all fits together.

Your legs are shaking when you finally emerge from the bathroom. Your face is pale, your thoughts are racing. There's a rustling sound coming from the living room—Sae must be home already. That makes it even worse.

How were you going to tell him?

Sae Itoshi, Japan's finest footballer, the pride of every field he steps onto, the man whose name fans chant in stadiums and whose goals shatter records—he's at the peak of his career. The idea of ​​having a child seemed not just unlikely, but impossible, so far removed from his plans that you're almost afraid to say it out loud.

You run a hand over your face, trying to process how it happened. You were both careful—or so you thought. Then the memory crashes over you: that night. The warmth on your cheeks betrays you as fragments of it surface, vivid and merciless. You should have been more careful. You both should have.

With a heavy sigh, you tuck the test into your pocket, steeling yourself to face him. He's sprawled on the couch, still wearing his sweatshirt, his damp hair plastered to his forehead. When he looks up, his expression softens with relief.

“Finally,” he mutters. “I thought you were going to faint in there. I was going to kick the door down.”

You force out a weak laugh, stammering out a lame excuse. To your relief, he doesn't press the issue further. Instead, he returns to his usual routine, complaining about training with his trademark nonchalance.

“Today's training was just a joke,” he grumbles.