Asahi's Secret

The crowd goes wild. Steady. Just as he drags his foot back, lining up the perfect kick, your finger attacks the shutter button. The camera captures the exact moment—his foot connecting with the ball at just the right angle, sending it spinning toward the net. Asahi scores. Again. He fists the air in victory before sprinting back to center field, the game far from over. Sweat glistens over his body like someone poured gold dust over him. His dark hair is damp, sticking to his forehead, the kind of effortlessly gorgeous that has girls squealing from the stands. The field stretches wide and alive, every blade of grass catching the afternoon sun. It’s the perfect place for perfect shots. You bring the camera up again, just in time to catch Asahi high-fiving a teammate mid-run. "Go, Team Tiger!" Chants ripple through the air, the sound so loud it almost shakes the ground beneath your feet. From what you’ve heard, this roaring crowd is like gasoline to the already burning fire of the Tigers. Asahi whirls around to face the ball, curls bouncing with the motion. His hair is damp too, sticking to his forehead in that artfully messy way that only happens after an intense game. You hold your breath as he readies himself for the final play. One last minute. One last shot to seal the win. The ball comes flying his way—perfect timing. He dodges an oncoming opponent who’s desperate to steal it. With a smooth pivot, Asahi glides past him, a small smirk curling on his lips. A few more steps. Your finger hovers over the shutter again, ready for the shot. He sprints down the field with lightning speed, and it’s like watching a scene in slow motion. He’s face to face with the goalkeeper now. Three. It’s now or never. Two. Determination burns in his eyes. He bites his lip, pulls his leg back— One. He kicks. The crowd explodes. Cheers erupt from every corner of the bleachers, so loud you swear the whole neighborhood can hear. Team Tiger piles onto Asahi, shouting, laughing, practically burying him in a sweaty group hug. You lower your camera, smiling. Got it. The perfect shot for next week’s school bulletin board. Perfect. The field is empty now, the buzz of the game gone. But you’re still here. To kill time, you scroll through the shots you took earlier. There’s the one where Asahi’s foot connects with the ball mid-air. Your fingers had tingled pressing the shutter, barely able to focus on the game while tracking every move he made. You nailed the timing though. Then there’s the high-five, Asahi mid-stride, palm meeting his teammate’s with easy confidence. And the final one—victory. His team huddled around him, their joy practically spilling off the screen. "Did you wait long?" You look up. Finally. The voice you’ve been waiting for. "About five minutes," you say casually. Asahi is fresh from the shower, hair damp again but this time smelling faintly of mint shampoo. Without a word, he takes your bag from your shoulder and slings it over his own, right beside his heavy sports backpack. "It’s fine. Give it here," you protest, reaching for your bag. He just lifts an eyebrow and ignores you. "Don’t be stupid." You gape. "What exactly about me is stupid?" That earns you a low chuckle, the kind that’s lazy and warm. He nudges your side with his elbow. "Sorry I kept you waiting, muffin cheeks." You groan. "Would you stop calling me that?" He shakes his head. "Never." The walk to your house takes about twenty minutes, plus another ten for him since his place is a few blocks farther. "Congrats on the win, by the way," you say. "Thanks. I was amazing, wasn’t I?" His smirk makes you want to smack him. You roll your eyes and try to shove him. The keyword being try. He doesn’t even stumble. It’s not your fault, really. He’s built like… well, like someone who actually enjoys waking up at five to train. Next to him, you feel like the definition of “average height, average build.” His eyes are warm brown and always gleam with mischief, his eyebrows sharp enough to cut glass, and his mouth—don’t even get you started. If he’s not teasing you, he’s mocking you. You like simple things. Asahi is… not simple. You love your camera. He hates having his picture taken. You speak your mind without hesitation. He could take a secret to his grave without flinching. You can’t make a decision without weighing both sides at least twice. He decides before the question is even finished. You could sleep until noon if you were allowed. He’s already had a morning run before you even wake up. Completely different people. Incompatible, even. But somehow, it’s worked for years. In fact, you think you’re closer now than ever. "I don’t know," you say with a shrug. "Eiji did most of the scoring." "Shut up, El." You grin, taking your bag back from him. "I’m serious." You know he hates it when you mention Eiji. You’re not sure if it’s competitiveness or something else, but it’s cute watching him get all riled up. He’s so unreadable most of the time that seeing flashes of irritation feels like spotting a rare animal in the wild. "See you tomorrow, Asahi." He gives a small nod and turns away. You watch him go, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Then you brace yourself. The moment you open your front door, the stench of alcohol smacks you in the face. You ignore the unfamiliar shoes scattered near the entrance and make a beeline for your room. You almost make it. "Elora!" You freeze. Your father’s voice is loud and heavy. The living room is littered with beer bottles, smoke curling lazily from half-crushed cigarettes. Men you’ve never seen before lounge on the couch, their eyes flicking to you in ways that make your stomach churn. "Y-yeah, Dad?" He grabs his wallet, pulls out a crumpled bill, and tosses it onto the floor. "Go grab us some drinks from the store," he says between coughs. "And be quick." You snatch the money without a word, shove your shoes back on, and step into the night air. The cool breeze is a relief. The following day, you show up to school in a hoodie.