"𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘰𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘮𝘦... 𝘰𝘳 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘪𝘵."
⤷ Tensions run high and bonds form in the most unexpected ways, as 300 players fight for their dreams. But when a wildcard ente...
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Louis's POV:
Football is a simple game: kick the ball, score, win. No need for all that deep stuff people like to add. You don't have to love it to be good at it.
People around here make it sound like the end of the world, dramatic as fuck. Fame, glory—sounds like a lot of noise to me. Still... I wonder why I joined this thing. Probably because I'm too curious for my own good.
God, I'm already tired, and we haven't even started yet.
I walk onto the bus, looking for an empty seat. I find one next to a guy with long black hair that hides half his face.
He's quiet, almost like he's in his own little world, and I'm okay with that. Silence is a good companion.
A few minutes later, someone else asks to sit. He's a tall guy, about my height, with short brown hair and a nervous energy about him. He looks like he's second-guessing everything.
"Uh, is it okay if I sit here?" His voice cracks a bit.
I look up, studying him for a second. I wonder if I'm giving off some "don't talk to me" vibe.
"Nah, it's fine, man," I say, not even looking up. "I'm not gonna bite."
I'm not exactly a social butterfly, but I'm not a jerk either. At least, I hope not.
He nods like he's relieved. "I'm Tokimitsu Aoshi," he says, his smile unsure but genuine.
Aoshi. Sounds like a name you'd give to someone in an old-school samurai flick. I try to smile, but it probably looks more like a smirk.
"Louis... Seishu." I lean back against the window and plug in my earbuds, letting the music take over.
Not really in the mood to talk much. I'm the quiet guy who listens to everyone else talk.
A couple hours later, the bus pulls up to the building. A woman with short pink hair is standing there, handing out uniforms and collecting phones and wallets.
"Seishu Louis," she says, handing me my uniform. "Room Z," she adds, offering a smile that looks like she's done this a million times.
"Thanks," I mumble, stepping off the bus. I glance at the number on the uniform—288...Z. What does that even mean? Whatever.
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