"Haa... haa..."
I see countless stars.
Were there always this many stars in the sky?
Countless stars twinkle as if they might pour down any moment, yet I suddenly wonder if half of them might not be real stars at all.
Normally, the stadium is too bright to see them.
"..."
It's a bit... cold.
The weather is quite chilly, so my sweat is cooling quickly.
The sweat leaving my body is taking my body heat right along with it.
Going somewhere nice, are you?
The moment it leaves, it follows without looking back.
Traitor.
Thanks to that, I'm freezing.
They always say the final five minutes of a football match are the most dangerous.
A fleeting worry crosses my mind—that I'll look like an idiot catching a cold even though winter is practically over.
"Hoo..."
But I don't really want to care.
Whether I catch one or not.
I just feel like falling asleep right here.
Just as my eyes are slowly drifting shut...
"Jian!"
"Kid!"
The faces of unwelcome guests disturbing my sweet slumber appear one by one, blotting out the sky.
Yet they can hardly be called unwelcome—they're all faces I'm glad to see.
"Put this on. Drink this too."
"Good work. You worked hard."
Something fluffy covers my body. As hands help me sit up, something is suddenly pushed into my mouth.
Gulp, gulp.
I frantically drink the water and electrolytes flooding in.
Ah... It's soaking in.
I can feel something coursing through my veins and spreading throughout my entire body.
From my throat to my stomach, my arms and legs, to the tips of my fingers and toes.
Is this what rain feels like in a desert?
I can feel my body absorbing moisture in real time.
And then, when that moisture finally reaches my head.
"...Ah."
The haze clears and my mind snaps into focus.
Everything around me that had felt dim and vague becomes sharp and clear.
I raise my head to look at the sky, but it's just pitch black.
...So it's over.
"..."
Looking around, my teammates are lying or sitting slumped over with blank faces, just like me.
They look as if they don't even know where they are or who they are, let alone having the strength to get up.
Was I wearing that same expression just moments ago?
I also see other teammates bustling about, distributing supplies to them the same way they did for me.
"Ugh... Cold."
My whole body is trembling, but I somehow force myself to my feet.
It's not easy to stand, but I stubbornly rise because now is not the time to be sitting.
It was not the time to be sitting.
The match is over, but the fans are still watching.
I can't show them a dejected figure.
I had to show them us getting back up.
"Jian..."
I turn at the voice calling my name and see Coach Vincenzo.
His head is flushed red all the way to the top, so for a moment I think he's angry, but I realize my mistake as he pulls me into an embrace.
"...I'm sorry, and thank you. Good work."
His embrace feels several times warmer than any thick padded jacket.
I'm not quite sure what he has to be sorry or thankful for.
If anything, I'm the one who should be sorry.
But I don't say anything and simply accept his warmth.
His hand patting my back feels a bit rough, but I can take it.
"..."
We hold each other tight for a moment.
Soon, the coach moves on to another player, embracing them just as tightly and patting their back.
I, too, walk toward the closest teammate I can see.
Senior Saponara is sitting blankly with his knees drawn to his chest, eyes out of focus.
I wave my open palm back and forth in front of his face to check if he's still alive.
His eyes slowly turn toward me. So he was alive after all.
I hold out my hand to him.
"Shall we get up?"
"...Ah, yeah."
He takes my hand.
As I try to pull him up, the sudden weight is no joke, and I have to grit my molars tight.
Wow, he's hella heavy.
"...Good work."
"...You too."
Pat, pat.
Like the coach did, I pat Saponara's shoulders.
He nods, then suddenly turns his head and blows his nose with a loud snort.
...Does he have a spray nozzle attached to his nose?
Disgusted by the sight, I decide to leave and find the next teammate.
Up ahead, Romero is lying face down.
Not on his back—face down.
Someone had covered him with a padded jacket but couldn't seem to get him up.
What's he doing like that?
"...Hey."
"..."
"Are you there?"
"..."
I squat beside Romero and poke the back of his neck with my finger to check if he's alive or dead.
He's not responding, so he must be dead.
"...He's dead."
"..."
"Guess I don't have a rival anymore."
"...I'm alive."
Peek.
At the word "rival," Romero lifts his head.
How can this guy be so honest?
His face is covered in grass, probably stuck there by all the sweat and tears.
His red-rimmed eyes stir the urge to tease him.
"Crying?"
"...No."
"You're not? Your face is covered in tears."
"...It's sweat."
"Right. Of course. My rival wouldn't cry like a baby."
"...!"
Romero's eyes go wide at my words, then he sits up and roughly wipes his face.
Don't just wipe your eyes; wipe your nose too.
Anyway, I burst into a grin.
I hold out my hand and pull him up.
Then I hug him, sharing my body heat.
I received it myself, so there's no need to spare sharing it.
"...Hic."
As I hold him, his shoulders start heaving again.
He makes strange hiccuping sounds too.
I pat his back so the heaving doesn't get any worse.
I try like that for a moment.
"..."
I feel warm body heat from behind.
Soon, from the left, and from the right as well.
Body heat begins piling up layer by layer.
My teammates are all gathering around us.
Everyone is silent, simply spreading their arms and pressing close.
We cling together as if we are one body, without a word.
We share each other's warmth for a while.
*
Clapclapclapclapclap—
As we approach the stands with all our senior teammates, applause bursts out.
Everyone is clapping for us.
At that sight, we too raise our hands above our heads and respond with applause.
While doing so, I suddenly think that today's first goal has been achieved.
Of course, the second goal—that is, advancing to the quarterfinals... I failed at that.
But more important than that, I succeeded in having no regrets.
If I had regrets, I wouldn't be able to stand before the fans and clap like this now.
I would have been too ashamed and guilty to raise my head. I would have hidden behind the bigger seniors, hanging my head low.
But right now, my head is held high.
I'm looking the fans in the eye without avoiding them.
...Well, they might say I have no shame.
Losing the match, getting eliminated in the Round of 16.
They might ask what nerve I have to hold my head up like this.
But the thing is.
I just think that showing a dejected figure is actually discourteous to the fans.
As long as I'm wearing this uniform, I must always be dignified and composed.
We made the fans cry, so it is also our responsibility to make them stop.
We all did our best together.
There is disappointment, but no regrets.
Thanks to that, I can stand before them like this.
Clapclapclapclapclap—
Expressing our gratitude with applause, we slowly circled the stadium.
As if we aren't tired at all.
We couldn't stop either, faced with the unceasing applause of the fans.
If we had won, that would be one thing.
But they applaud like this even though we lost, so I am simply grateful.
If we had won... it would have been better.
Everyone would have been happy.
Thinking that, a deep regret does wash over me.
But it is fortunate that it ends at mere regret.
However, what I feel more than regret for the loss is this:
Even though it took quite a while to circle the stadium, the stands are still packed with no one leaving.
And the fact that we have to leave the ground before those fans.
"Jian. Sorry, but the interview..."
"Ah... Yes."
"Let's go."
That damn interview.
This guy will probably torment me until my playing days are over.
Hearing that I have to go for an interview, I leave the rest to my senior teammates, the coach, and the coaching staff.
Leaving regret behind, I exit the pitch first.
And heading toward the tunnel leading to the corridor, at that moment—
I stop in my tracks at the faces visible in the nearby stands right beside the entrance.
Interview or whatever.
I need a moment.
"Um, just a moment..."
"Hmm?"
"Can I go say hi?"
"Ah, sure. Take as long as you need."
"Thank you."
I had been prepared to lie down and throw a tantrum if he said no, so I'm glad I don't have to.
Having gotten permission, I head toward the stands.
I hop over the advertising hoardings and approach them.
Jiu and Dad are there.
"Jian...!"
"Hey! You did great! Really great!"
As I draw close, Dad and Jiu start making a fuss.
Both are leaning so far over the waist-high fence that they look like they might fall over.
They'll get hurt doing that.
Before they can, I quickly climb the stairs to meet them at eye level.
And first, I hug Dad, who stands with his arms spread wide.
"Good work, good work. You worked so hard. Yes."
Dad embraces me, his voice choked with tears.
What, is there some disaster?
I'm fine, but Dad is the one making a fuss.
But the strange thing is, as I stand there, I somehow feel like tearing up too.
I had felt surprisingly fine until now.
But being in Dad's arms, I suddenly want to act spoiled.
...Maybe the coaches were right when they said to practice headers when I'm older.
I insist I'm all grown up, but Dad's arms still feel impossibly warm.
"Jian."
"Yes."
"Don't be disappointed. You know? You did well enough."
"...I'm not disappointed."
"Yes, yes. It's because you did your best. The opponent was truly good. If you're unlucky enough to meet the best team in the world here, that's all it is."
"..."
Hmm.
They truly were a strong opponent.
It wouldn't be wrong to call them the best team in the world.
That's probably why I didn't want to lose so easily.
But, well, we lost.
It's because I'm not at that level.
Deep regret washes over me once more.
But then, the next moment.
At Dad's words, I blink my eyes blankly as if struck in the back of the head.
"They were the best team, your opponent. But that's exactly why you who faced such a best team are also the best team. Understand?"
"..."
Dad pulls back slightly and grips my shoulders as if conveying strength. Instead of answering, I nod.
We who faced the best are also the best.
It's an idea I never would have come up with.
As expected, Dad is Dad.
Why didn't I inherit that creativity?
I nod at Dad once more.
After finishing the hug with him.
"..."
"..."
I turn my head and see Jiu looking at me with the corners of his mouth pulled down.
Like a clock at five-forty.
He looks like he might cry at any moment.
At that sight... I suddenly feel conflicted.
I had only planned to greet him and go.
Hugging only Dad felt odd enough, but seeing that expression stirs some inexplicable urge inside me.
...Can't be helped.
It would be awkward to just leave, so it can't be helped.
"...Thanks. For cheering."
"...Uh, uh. Good work..."
I awkwardly hug Jiu for a brief moment, then immediately pull away.
I make the excuse that I have to go to the interview, quickly turn around, and head back down the stairs.
And hopping over the hoardings again to leave the ground and head toward the tunnel... I'm struck by a sudden regret that makes me want to punch the ground.
If we had stopped the match around the seventieth minute and hugged like just now, we might have won.
Just from a brief hug, my blood is circulating and strength is welling up throughout my body.
...It's a strange thing.
Until moments ago I felt like collapsing, but now it feels like I could play another whole match.
"...Sniff."
Anyway, I sniff myself and head toward the interview area.
...Do I smell like sweat?
Jiu smelled nice.
He looked awkward so I had no choice, but maybe I shouldn't have.
Hmm.
I thought I had no regrets, but I never expected to find one here.