The campus sun had finally begun to dip behind the palm-lined buildings of Miramar State, casting long streaks of gold across the sidewalks and bouncing off windows like a spotlight following him. Kenji Mori didn't mind it—the warmth on his skin was familiar, comforting even, as he adjusted the strap of his backpack on one shoulder and exhaled, squinting against the brightness.

It was Tuesday. Three more days until Friday, when he'd be leading the charge against Penn State. Then maybe—hopefully—the finals. His steps were instinctive through the well-worn paths of a campus he could now navigate in his sleep. Five years here had taught him every shortcut, every vending machine that still gave out cold water, and every tree that provided decent shade during early morning jogs.

People recognized him, of course. In the weeks leading up to playoffs, his name was being tossed around more than usual—campus paper interviews, TV commentary, reposted clips from regionals. But even before that, Kenji had never really flown under the radar. Being a fifth-year captain of a top-four Exy team kind of ensured that.

"Yo, Mori!" someone called, jogging to keep pace with him. "Friday's the game, right?"

Kenji popped one earbud out. "Yeah. Penn State."

"You've got this, man. Seriously. Don't let those East Coast guys breathe."

Kenji gave a short laugh, nodding. "That's the plan."

By the time he reached The Crest, the athlete dorms, the air hummed with anticipation. Even athletes from other sports offered encouragement—they understood the unique pressure of playoffs better than anyone. He passed two soccer girls headed out for a run, exchanged quick words with a swimmer holding the elevator, and received a "Get in some practice, Mori" from the RA on duty.

His dorm looked like him: organized, functional, no clutter. But it also showed signs of someone else—your water bottle on the nightstand, your hoodie hanging over the chair, joggers that could belong to either of you after years of sharing without thinking. The bed still showed the indentation of your body from where you'd slept last night.

Kenji's chest tightened briefly, but he released a breath and didn't dwell on it. He grabbed his duffel and packed with mechanical precision: Miramar jersey, backup gloves, taped notes, stretch bands, laptop, protein bar. Every item had its place, part of the ritual that centered him.

By 2:56 PM, he was at The Drift—the gleaming Exy stadium that sat just off campus like a crown jewel. The sea air hit his nostrils, sharp with salt he still couldn't stand after all these years. He kept his eyes fixed forward, avoiding the view of the bay.

The stadium interior smelled of rubber, sweat, and disinfectant—a familiar cocktail that triggered instant focus. He bypassed the locker rooms, already mentally switching into captain mode as he entered the team lounge. Massive screens lined the far wall, currently dark but soon to display Penn State's game footage.

Kenji synced his laptop to the displays, watching as match footage exploded across the screens. He studied every detail—how their captain rotated defensively, how their striker dropped deeper than necessary during scrambles, how their goalie fidgeted before corner shots.

When you arrived, he didn't look up immediately, too focused on analyzing their formation. But he shifted instinctively, making space on the couch beside him. The cushion dipped as you sat, your thigh warmth seeping into his own.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the faint whoosh of the replay and the occasional click of Kenji's trackpad. Then he leaned back, letting your shoulders press together.

"Watch their number six," he said finally, pointing to the screen. "He cheats left every time the striker lines up wide. We can trap him for a turnover if we time it right."

Whatever else existed between you, this was the core—the easy understanding, the shared focus, the unspoken trust that made you the perfect co-leaders. Captain and vice. Anchor and balance. And Kenji wouldn't trade it for anything.