Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the middle school courtyard as Oliver Aiku wiped the sweat from his brow, his heterochromatic eyes—one green, one purple—scanning the field with the intensity of someone far older than his thirteen years. Even at this age, his frame was beginning to show signs of the towering presence he'd become, though his face still held the softer edges of youth beneath the emerging sharpness that would define him later.

"Aiku! Over here!"

His teammate's voice cut through the air, followed by the familiar whistle of a football sailing toward him. Without hesitation, Aiku positioned himself, feeling that familiar surge of confidence that came with being the team's ace striker. The ball met his foot with a satisfying thud, and he sent it soaring back toward the goal with precision that made his teammates cheer.

This was his world. This was where he belonged.

"Nice one, Aiku!" Tanaka called out, jogging over with the rest of the team. "That curve shot is getting insane. No wonder Coach says you're gonna make nationals."

Aiku allowed himself a small smile, the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes but conveyed enough satisfaction to keep his teammates motivated. He'd learned early that being a leader meant carrying himself with a certain maturity, even when part of him wanted to grin like the kid he still was.

"It's all about the angle," he explained, demonstrating the motion slowly. "If you can control where your foot meets the ball, you control where it goes. Simple physics."

The younger players gathered around him, hanging on every word. Aiku felt that familiar warmth in his chest—the pride of being looked up to, of being the one others turned to when they needed results. Football wasn't just a game to him; it was his identity, his future, his everything.

"Alright, one more drill before we call it," their coach, Yamamoto-sensei, called from the sidelines. "Aiku, show them that striker instinct. Make it count."

The setup was simple enough—a mock game scenario with Aiku as the focal point of the attack. As the ball came to him, he felt time slow down the way it always did in these moments. His mind calculated angles, distances, the goalkeeper's positioning, all while his body moved with the fluid confidence of someone who'd never doubted their path.

He struck the ball clean and true, watching as it curved past the keeper's outstretched fingers and nestled into the top corner of the net. The satisfying thwack of ball against mesh was followed by the cheers of his teammates, and Aiku felt that surge of accomplishment that never got old.

"Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!" Coach Yamamoto clapped his hands together. "That's the kind of striker instinct that'll take you places, Aiku. Keep that fire burning."

As practice wound down and his teammates began packing up their gear, Aiku found himself lingering on the field. He lived for moments like these—the praise, the recognition, the certainty that he was exactly where he was meant to be. Football was his language, and he spoke it fluently.

"Hey, Aiku!" Sato, one of the younger players, called out. "Want to practice penalties? I need to work on my saves."

"Sure," Aiku replied, already moving toward the goal. "But don't expect me to go easy on you."

As he set up for another shot, the ball at his feet, Aiku felt that familiar tunnel vision settle in. This was his element—just him, the ball, and the goal. Everything else faded away until there was only the perfect moment of contact, the sweet spot where foot met leather and dreams became reality.

He drew back his leg, focusing on the bottom left corner of the goal, when a sudden gust of wind slapped his face. It was just enough to throw off his usually perfect timing, and instead of the controlled shot he'd intended, the ball sailed high and wide, clearing the goal entirely.

"Ah, damn it," he muttered, watching as his errant shot disappeared over the fence that separated the football field from the school's garden area.

His teammates turned to look, and Aiku felt his cheeks warm slightly. It wasn't often he missed so spectacularly, and the surprised expressions on their faces only made it worse.

"I'll get it," he said quickly, jogging toward the fence. "Just a bad contact. Happens to everyone."

"Need help?" Tanaka offered, but Aiku was already measuring the height of the chain-link barrier.

"Nah, I got it. Won't take a second."

The fence wasn't particularly high, and Aiku had always been athletic. He grabbed the top rail and pulled himself up with the easy confidence of youth, swinging one leg over and then the other. As his feet touched the ground on the garden side, he took a moment to orient himself.

The garden was... different from what he'd expected. Where the football field was all open space and clear lines, this area was a maze of raised beds and winding paths, bursting with colors he rarely took the time to notice. The air smelled different here, too earthy and green, with hints of something floral that made him pause despite himself.

He spotted his football almost immediately, sitting innocently in the middle of what looked like a bed of bright pink tulips. His heart sank as he saw the crushed stems and scattered petals around it.

"Well, shit," he whispered, then immediately glanced around to make sure no one had heard him swear. His grandmother would box his ears if she knew he was using language like that, even if it was under his breath.

Moving carefully through the garden paths, Aiku approached the damaged flower bed with growing unease. The tulips had clearly been planted with care, arranged in neat rows that his football had completely disrupted. Several stems were bent or broken, their bright red blooms now scattered across the dark soil.

He could just grab the ball and go. His teammates were waiting, and whoever tended this garden might never know exactly how the damage had happened. It could have been any number of things: a strong wind, an animal, some other accident. The rational part of his mind, the part that was always calculating angles and outcomes, suggested this was the smart play.

But as he crouched down to retrieve his football, something held him back. Maybe it was the way the remaining tulips seemed to stand like little soldiers in their neat rows, or maybe it was the obvious care that had gone into creating this space. Someone had put real effort into making this beautiful, and he'd just charged in and messed it up.

Aiku was still crouched there, brushing dirt off its surface, when a voice behind him made him freeze.

"You know, usually people apologize when they destroy other people's hard work."

Aiku straightened slowly and turned around. A girl about his age stood a few feet away, holding a small watering can in one hand and a pair of gardening shears in the other. She wasn't particularly tall—most people weren't, compared to him—but something in her posture suggested she wasn't intimidated by his height. Her school uniform was pristine except for the dirt stains on her knees, and her hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail that had a few stray leaves caught in it.

Her expression wasn't angry exactly, but there was definitely something sharp in her eyes as she took in the scene—him, crouched in the middle of her destroyed flower bed, football clutched in his hands like evidence of his crime.

"I, uh..." Aiku started, then stopped. He was usually good with words, especially when he needed to charm his way out of trouble, but something about her direct gaze made his usual smooth talking feel inadequate.

"Let me guess," she said, setting down her watering can and crossing her arms. "Football practice got a little enthusiastic, and my tulips paid the price?"

There was something about the way she said it—not accusatory, exactly, but with a kind of resigned understanding that made Aiku feel even worse than if she'd just yelled at him.

"Yeah," he admitted, straightening up to his full height. "I'm sorry. It was an accident. I was practicing penalties and the wind caught it weird, and..."

"And you figured you'd just hop the fence and grab it without anyone noticing?" She raised an eyebrow, but there was something almost amused in her expression now.

"Well... yeah, basically." Aiku felt his cheeks warm again. When she put it like that, it sounded pretty cowardly. "But then I saw the damage and I felt bad about it."

"Mm-hmm." She moved closer, kneeling down to examine the broken tulips. Her fingers were gentle as she touched the damaged stems, and Aiku found himself watching the careful way she handled each flower. "These were just starting to really bloom too. Been working on this bed for weeks."

The guilt hit him harder than he'd expected. "Look, I'm really sorry. I can pay for new ones, or... I don't know, whatever it takes to fix this."

She looked up at him then, really looked at him, and Aiku felt an odd flutter in his chest. Her eyes were sharp and intelligent, the kind that seemed to see right through whatever front he might put up.

"You're Aiku, right? The striker everyone's always talking about?"

"Yeah." He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing in this context. "You know about football?"

"Hard not to when the field's right next to my garden." She gestured toward the fence, and Aiku could see his teammates still gathered on the other side, probably wondering what was taking him so long. "I hear Your Coach singing your praises pretty much every day."

"Oh." Aiku didn't know what to say to that. He was used to praise, but hearing it secondhand somehow felt different. "You're in the garden club?"

"Garden club, student council, debate team." She shrugged like it was no big deal, but Aiku could hear the pride in her voice. "I like keeping busy. I'm (Name), by the way."

"Nice to meet you," Aiku said, and found that he actually meant it. "Even under these circumstances."

(Name) laughed at that, a sound that was warmer than her initial tone had suggested. "Yeah, well, at least you're honest about it. Most people would have just grabbed the ball and run."

"I thought about it," Aiku admitted, which earned him another laugh.

"Points for honesty." She stood up, brushing dirt off her knees. "Okay, here's the deal. These tulips are pretty much done for the season, but tulip bulbs are hardy. If we replant them properly and add some fresh soil, most of them should come back next year."

"We?" Aiku blinked.

"Well, you did offer to make it right," (Name) said, that sharp look returning to her eyes. "Unless you were just saying that to make yourself feel better?"

"No, no, I meant it." Aiku set his football down carefully. "I just... I don't really know anything about gardening."

"That's fine. I do." She was already moving toward a small shed at the edge of the garden area. "But it'll take some time. Are your teammates going to wait, or should you tell them to go ahead without you?"

Aiku glanced back toward the fence, where he could see his teammates starting to pack up their equipment. For a moment, he hesitated. He was their striker, their leader. They'd expect him to come back and maybe run through a few more drills, or at least stick around to analyze their performance like he usually did.

But then he looked back at (Name), who was already pulling gardening supplies from the shed with practiced efficiency, and made his decision.

"Let me tell them I'll catch up later," he said, jogging back to the fence.
"
Aiku!" Tanaka called as he approached. "Everything okay over there?"

"Yeah, just... there was some damage when the ball landed. I need to help fix it." Aiku felt oddly self-conscious explaining it, like his teammates might not understand why he was choosing to stay and help rather than just apologizing and moving on.

"Want us to wait?" Sato asked, but Aiku shook his head.

"Nah, you guys head out. I'll see you tomorrow."

As his teammates headed for the locker room with various calls of "See you later" and "Don't do anything stupid," Aiku turned back to where (Name) was waiting with an armload of gardening tools.

"Ready to learn about tulip bulbs?" she asked, and there was something in her tone that made it sound less like a chore and more like an adventure.

"Ready as I'll ever be," Aiku replied, and meant it.

The next hour passed differently than any Aiku could remember in recent months. Instead of the familiar rhythm of drills and scrimmages, he found himself learning about soil composition and proper bulb depth. (Name) was a patient teacher, explaining things in terms that made sense to him and only occasionally teasing him when he asked what she deemed "city boy questions."

"You can't just shove them in the ground and hope for the best," she explained as they carefully extracted the damaged bulbs from the soil. "Tulips need proper drainage, the right depth, adequate spacing. It's all about creating the right conditions for them to thrive."

Aiku found himself oddly invested in the process. There was something satisfying about the methodical work, the way each step built on the last toward a clear goal. It wasn't so different from football, in a way—understanding the fundamentals, practicing the technique, working toward a successful outcome.

"You're better at this than I expected," (Name) commented as they worked side by side, replanting the salvageable bulbs in fresh, amended soil.

"What did you expect?" Aiku asked, genuinely curious.

She paused in her work, considering the question. "I guess I figured you'd be impatient. Most athletes I know want everything to happen fast. But gardening... gardening requires patience. You plant something and then you wait months to see if you did it right."

"Sounds frustrating," Aiku admitted, carefully placing another bulb at the depth she'd shown him.

"It can be. But it's also... hopeful, I guess? Every time you plant something, you're betting on the future. You're saying 'I believe things will grow, I believe there will be a spring, I believe this effort will be worth it.'"

Something about the way she said it made Aiku pause in his work. He'd never thought about the future in terms of belief before. For him, the future was about goals and plans and the hard work needed to achieve them. Football was immediate: you trained, you played, you won or lost. The results were clear and measurable.

"Do you ever worry they won't grow?" he asked.

"Sometimes," (Name) admitted. "But that's part of what makes it meaningful. If it was guaranteed, it wouldn't really be hope, would it? It would just be... scheduling."

As they worked, Aiku found himself talking more than he usually did with people outside his team. (Name) had a way of asking questions that got him thinking about things from new angles, and she listened with the same attention she gave to her flowers.

"So you want to be a professional player?" she asked as they finished tamping down the soil around the last of the replanted bulbs.

"Not want," Aiku corrected automatically. "Will. I'm going to be the best striker in the world."

(Name) glanced at him, something unreadable in her expression. "That's a big goal."

"Big goals are the only ones worth having," Aiku said, repeating something his coach had told him. "If you're not aiming to be the best, why bother aiming at all?"

"Hmm." (Name) stood up, brushing dirt off her hands. "And what happens if you don't make it? What if you're only the second-best striker in the world, or the tenth-best?"

The question caught Aiku off guard. It wasn't something he'd ever seriously considered, not because he was arrogant, but because doubt felt counterproductive. Doubt was the enemy of confidence, and confidence was what made great strikers.

"I will make it," he said simply. "Failure isn't an option."

(Name) was quiet for a moment, looking down at the newly replanted flower bed. "These tulips," she said finally, "some of them might not make it. Even with perfect care, even with ideal conditions, some bulbs just don't take.
That doesn't mean the effort was wasted, or that the ones that do bloom are any less beautiful."

Aiku wasn't sure how to respond to that. It felt like she was trying to tell him something important, but he couldn't quite grasp what it was. In his world, results were what mattered. You either scored the goal or you missed. You either won the game or you lost. There wasn't really room for moral victories or beautiful failures.

"I should probably head home," (Name) said, gathering up the gardening tools. "Thanks for helping. The tulips have a much better chance now."

"Thanks for... you know, not just yelling at me and making me buy new flowers," Aiku said, picking up his football. "This was actually kind of interesting."

"Just kind of?" (Name) raised an eyebrow, but she was smiling.

"Okay, really interesting," Aiku amended, and found that he meant it. "Maybe I could... I mean, if you need help with other garden stuff sometime..."

"Are you volunteering to join the garden club, star striker?"

The teasing note in her voice made Aiku's cheeks warm, but not in an unpleasant way. "Maybe not officially. But if you need help moving heavy things or... I don't know, what other kinds of help do gardens need?"

"All kinds," (Name) said, locking the tool shed. "Watering, weeding, pest control, seasonal preparation. Gardens are a lot of work."

"Well, I'm pretty strong," Aiku offered, which made her laugh.

"I'll keep that in mind," she said. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?" Aiku blinked.

"The tulips will need watering every day for the next week or so, just to make sure they settle in properly. Since this was a team effort..." She gestured between them.

"Oh. Yeah, sure. I can do that." Aiku found himself looking forward to it more than he'd expected. "Same time tomorrow."

As they walked back toward the main school building together, Aiku became acutely aware of the differences between (Name)'s world and his own. Where the football field was all open space and clear objectives, the garden was intricate and layered, full of subtle complexities he was only beginning to understand.

"Can I ask you something?" he said as they reached the point where their paths would diverge.

"Shoot."

"Why do you do it? The gardening, I mean. What do you get out of it?"

(Name) considered the question seriously, which Aiku appreciated. She didn't dismiss it or give him a quick, surface-level answer.

"Peace, I guess," she said finally. "And... connection? When I'm working in the garden, I feel connected to something bigger than myself. The seasons, the cycles of growth and rest, the way everything depends on everything else. It reminds me that I'm part of something larger."

Aiku nodded, though he wasn't sure he fully understood. His connection to something larger came through football: the team, the sport, the dream of playing on bigger and bigger stages. But there was something appealing about the quieter connection (Name) described, something that didn't require competition or comparison.

"Plus," (Name) added with a grin, "there's something satisfying about creating beauty. About taking a patch of dirt and turning it into something that makes people smile."

"Do I make you smile?" The question slipped out before Aiku could stop it, and he immediately felt his face heat up. "I mean, do the flowers make you smile? Obviously the flowers make you smile, that's what you just said..."

(Name)'s laugh cut off his rambling. "Yes, Aiku. The flowers make me smile. And yes, watching you try to figure out the difference between a tulip bulb and a regular onion also made me smile."

"They look really similar!" Aiku protested, which only made her laugh harder.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she said, shouldering her bag. "Try not to destroy any more flower beds on your way home."

As Aiku watched her walk away, he found himself thinking about hope and patience and the strange satisfaction he'd felt working with his hands in the dirt. It was different from the immediate rush of scoring a goal, but it was satisfying in its own way.

By the time he made it home, his mother was already setting the table for dinner. She took one look at his dirt-stained uniform and raised an eyebrow.

"Rough practice today?" she asked.

"Something like that," Aiku replied, heading for the stairs to wash up. "I'll tell you about it later."

As he scrubbed the garden soil from under his fingernails, Aiku caught himself thinking about tomorrow, not about football practice or upcoming games, but about whether the tulip bulbs would show any signs of settling in, and what other things (Name) might teach him about the patient art of growing things.

It was a strange feeling, looking forward to something that had nothing to do with his goals or his training or his path to becoming the world's best striker. But as he looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, seeing the bits of dirt still clinging to his hair and the satisfied tiredness in his heterochromatic eyes, Aiku found he didn't mind strange.

Maybe there was room in his world for more than just football. Maybe there was room for gardens, and patience, and the quiet satisfaction of helping something grow.

Maybe there was room for (Name).

The thought should have worried him—he'd always been single-minded in his focus, dedicated entirely to his dream of football greatness. But as he headed downstairs for dinner, Aiku found himself already planning what he might ask her tomorrow, what other secrets of the garden she might be willing to share.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, he was looking forward to something that had nothing to do with winning.

Chapter Text

Three weeks had passed since Oliver Aiku first climbed over that chain-link fence, and somehow, checking on those tulips had become as routine as his morning stretches. The bulbs they'd replanted were still buried beneath the soil, barely visible green shoots poking through the earth like nature's own quiet promise, but that hadn't stopped him from finding reasons to visit the garden almost daily.

"You know," (Name) said without looking up from the seedlings she was transplanting, "the tulips haven't grown much since yesterday. Or the day before that."

Oliver paused in his examination of the tulip bed, a football tucked casually under his arm. "Just making sure they're progressing properly," he said, his tone carefully neutral. "Plants need consistent monitoring."

(Name) snorted, finally glancing up with dirt smudged across her forehead and an amused glint in her eyes. "Since when are you an expert on plant care?"

"Since I helped plant them," Oliver replied smoothly, settling down beside her on the ground. The movement was fluid, natural—he'd grown comfortable in this space over the past few weeks. "I have a vested interest in their success."

She shook her head, but her smile was fond. "Right. And I suppose it's just a coincidence that your football practice seems to end right when I'm finishing up here?"

Oliver shrugged, the picture of innocence. "Good timing."

It was a lie, and they both knew it. He'd been adjusting his schedule, lingering after official practice ended to kick the ball around solo, timing his sessions so he could casually wander over to the garden just as (Name) was wrapping up her work. Sometimes he'd even aim a few kicks toward the fence, telling himself it was just to test his accuracy while secretly hoping for another excuse to climb over.

Yesterday, his aim had been a little too good—or maybe a little too subconscious—and the ball had sailed over the fence again. He'd found (Name) standing over it with her hands on her hips, one eyebrow raised in a look that was half exasperation, half amusement.

"Oliver Aiku," she'd said, "if I didn't know better, I'd think you were doing this on purpose."

He'd played it off with a laugh and a shrug, retrieving the ball while making some comment about the wind affecting his kicks. But the truth was, he wasn't entirely sure it was accidental anymore. There was something magnetic about this place, about the quiet conversations and the easy companionship that had developed between them.

"Hand me that watering can, would you?" (Name) asked, gesturing toward the small shed where she kept her tools.

Oliver reached for it without thinking, his long arm easily spanning the distance. As he passed it to her, his hand brushed against hers, and he felt the familiar flutter in his chest that he'd been trying to ignore for the past week.

Their fingers lingered for just a moment longer than necessary before (Name) pulled away, focusing intently on watering her seedlings.

"So," she said, clearly trying to fill the sudden silence, "how was practice today? You looked pretty intense out there."

Oliver had been hoping she wouldn't ask. Practice had been... frustrating. More than frustrating, actually. It had been the kind of session that left him feeling caged, restless, like every instinct he had was being systematically suppressed.

"It was fine," he said, his voice perhaps a shade too casual.

(Name) looked up from her watering, studying his face with that perceptive gaze he'd grown to expect from her. "Fine is a pretty boring word for someone who's going to be the best striker in the world."

Oliver felt his jaw tighten slightly. She meant it as encouragement, he knew, but the words hit closer to home than she realized.

"Yeah, well," he said, forcing a smile, "not every practice can be groundbreaking."

It was another deflection, but (Name) seemed to accept it, returning to her seedlings. Oliver watched her work, using the familiar rhythm to calm the irritation that had been building in his chest since Coach Nakamura's latest lecture about "playing for the team."

The problem was, he was starting to understand that his coach's idea of teamwork and his own understanding of football were fundamentally incompatible. Every time Oliver saw an opening, every time his instincts told him to take a shot or make a play, there was always someone calling for a pass, always some reminder that football was about eleven players working together, not one player trying to shine.

But that wasn't how Oliver saw the game. When he looked at the field, he saw opportunities, possibilities, moments where individual brilliance could change everything. He saw the spaces between defenders, the split-second hesitations of goalkeepers, the perfect angles for shots that no one else seemed to notice.

And increasingly, he was being told to ignore all of that in favor of "safe" plays and "team-first" mentality.

"You're doing that thing again," (Name) said quietly.

"What thing?"

"That thing where you get all broody and intense. Your eyebrows do this..." She gestured vaguely at her own face. "It's very dramatic."

Despite himself, Oliver felt his mouth twitch into a smile. "I don't brood."

"You absolutely brood. It's like watching a storm cloud form." She set down her watering can and turned to face him fully. "What's eating at you?"

The question was direct, caring, and completely without judgment. Oliver found himself wanting to tell her everything—about Coach Nakamura's constant reminders to pass first, about the way the other players looked at him when he took shots instead of setting them up, about the growing feeling that his natural instincts were somehow wrong.

But admitting that would mean admitting weakness, uncertainty. It would mean acknowledging that the adults who were supposed to guide him might not understand what he was capable of. And that felt dangerously close to whining.

"Nothing specific," he said instead. "Just the usual stuff. Practice, school, you know."

(Name) looked like she wanted to push further, but something in his expression must have warned her off. Instead, she nodded and returned to her plants, though Oliver caught her glancing at him with concern a few more times.

They worked in comfortable silence for a while, (Name) tending to her seedlings while Oliver found small tasks to occupy himself—moving a bag of soil, organizing tools, anything to stay busy and avoid thinking about the knot of frustration in his chest.

"Can I ask you something?" (Name) said eventually.

"Sure."

"Why football? I mean, I know you're good at it, but... what made you want to be a striker specifically?"

Oliver paused in his arrangement of hand tools, considering the question. It was one he'd been asked before, but never by someone who seemed genuinely interested in the answer rather than just making conversation.

"Because that's where you can change everything," he said finally. "A defender stops things from happening, a midfielder helps things happen, but a striker... a striker makes things happen. When you're in front of goal, it's just you and the keeper and the ball. Everything else falls away."

"That sounds lonely."

The observation caught him off guard. "Lonely?"

"Well, yeah. You against everyone else. No one to help, no one to rely on."

"That's the point," Oliver said, surprised by the passion creeping into his voice. "When it's just you, you can't blame anyone else if you fail. But you also can't let anyone else limit what you're capable of."

(Name) tilted her head, studying him with that thoughtful expression that always made him feel like she was seeing more than he intended to show. "Is someone trying to limit what you're capable of?"

The question hit too close to home. Oliver felt his shoulders tense, his carefully constructed casual demeanour threatening to crack.

"No," he said, perhaps a bit too quickly. "It's not like that. It's just... football is complicated. There are a lot of different philosophies about how to play."

"And you don't agree with your coach's philosophy?"

Oliver's hands stilled on the tools he'd been organizing. She was too perceptive, too good at reading between the lines. He'd been trying so hard not to sound like he was complaining, but somehow she'd picked up on his frustration anyway.

"I didn't say that," he said carefully.

"You didn't have to." (Name) set down her watering can and moved closer, settling beside him on the ground. "Oliver, you know you can talk to me, right? I mean, I might not know much about football, but I know about... well, about feeling like the adults don't understand what you're trying to do."

There was something in her voice, a note of shared experience that made Oliver look at her more closely. "What do you mean?"

(Name) gestured around the garden, her expression growing thoughtful. "When I first started the garden club, the faculty advisor kept trying to get us to focus on 'practical' plants. Vegetables, herbs, things that could be used in the cafeteria. She couldn't understand why I wanted to spend time and resources on flowers."

"What did you do?"

"I planted them anyway. The flowers, I mean. I figured it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission." She smiled, but there was something wry in the expression. "Turns out I was right. The flowers are what made people actually notice the garden. Now she takes credit for the whole thing."

Oliver felt something click into place. "That's... that sucks."

"It does. But the point is, sometimes adults think they know better, but they're really just scared of letting you try something different. They want you to do things the way they've always been done, even if that way isn't working."

The words resonated more deeply than Oliver wanted to admit. That was exactly how he felt during practice, like his natural instincts were being systematically discouraged in favor of conventional wisdom that felt fundamentally wrong to him.

"But you kept planting flowers anyway," he said.

"I did. Because I knew what I wanted to create, even if no one else could see it yet."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the weight of the conversation settling between them. Oliver found himself actually relaxing for the first time all day, the knot of frustration in his chest loosening slightly.

"Hey," he said suddenly, "want to see something?"

(Name) looked curious. "What kind of something?"

Oliver grinned, pushing himself to his feet and jogging toward the fence. "Trust me."

He climbed over with practiced ease, dropping down on the football field side. (Name) followed him to the fence, pressing her face against the chain-link to watch as he positioned himself near the goal.

"What are you doing?" she called.

"Showing you why I'm going to be the best striker in the world," Oliver called back, settling the ball at his feet.

What followed was five minutes of pure demonstration. Oliver moved with fluid grace, showing off skills that came as naturally as breathing. He juggled the ball effortlessly, keeping it in the air with his feet, knees, chest, and head in combinations that seemed to defy gravity. Then he moved to shooting, placing the ball exactly where he wanted it from impossible angles—top corner, bottom corner, threading the needle between imaginary defenders.

But it wasn't just the technical skill that was impressive. It was the way he moved, the confidence and creativity that infused every touch. He played like someone who saw possibilities that others missed, who could make the extraordinary look effortless.

When he finally jogged back to the fence, slightly out of breath but grinning with genuine joy, (Name) was staring at him with undisguised amazement.

"Okay," she said slowly, "I take back everything I said about you being modest."

Oliver laughed, the sound coming easier than it had all day. "I told you I was good."

"Good? Oliver, that was..." She shook her head, searching for words. "That was art. No wonder you're frustrated when people try to tell you how to play."

The understanding in her voice made something warm and grateful bloom in Oliver's chest. This was what he'd been missing—someone who could see what he was capable of without immediately trying to constrain it or channel it into something more conventional.

"I should probably head home," he said reluctantly, glancing at the darkening sky. "But tomorrow—"

"Let me guess," (Name) interrupted with a grin, "you need to check on the tulips again?"

Oliver felt his cheeks warm slightly, but he held her gaze steadily. "Something like that."

"Well, when you do, bring that ball with you. I want to see more of that... whatever that was."

"Football," Oliver said simply.

"No," (Name) said, her expression growing serious. "That was you. The real you. And it was incredible."

As Oliver walked home that evening, her words echoed in his mind. The real you. He'd been so focused on trying to be what his coaches wanted, what his teammates expected, what would make him successful, that he'd almost forgotten what it felt like to just... play. To let his instincts guide him, to trust in his own vision of the game.

Maybe (Name) was right. Maybe the adults didn't always know better. Maybe sometimes you had to be willing to plant flowers instead of vegetables, even if no one else understood why.

The tulips would bloom soon, pushing through the soil toward the light. And maybe, Oliver thought, it was time for him to do the same.

Chapter Text

The morning air was crisp and colorless, everything washed in shades of grey that seemed to leach the life from even the brightest flowers. Oliver Aiku crouched in the dirt between rows of half-grown vegetables, his fingers mechanically tracing patterns in the soil—circles, spirals, meaningless geometric shapes that appeared and disappeared with each sweep of his hand.

He'd been here since sunrise, having climbed over the garden gate in the pre-dawn darkness rather than face another day of pretending everything was fine. The metal was cold against his palms as he'd hauled himself over, and for a moment he'd considered just staying there, hanging between the garden and the pitch, suspended in a space where he didn't have to be anything to anyone.

But gravity had won, as it always did, and now he sat among (Name)'s carefully tended plants, feeling like an intruder in the one place that had offered him any peace these past few weeks.

The shapes in the dirt dissolved under his restless fingers. Circle. Spiral. Nothing. Everything felt like nothing lately.

Three weeks. Three weeks since he'd stopped going to practice, since he'd stopped pretending that Coach Nakamura's philosophy of "team first, individual second" made any sense to him. Three weeks of mornings spent staring at his football cleats like they belonged to someone else, of afternoons hiding in places where no one would think to look for the school's star striker.

Former star striker, he corrected himself bitterly. Hard to be a star when you couldn't even force yourself to show up.

The worst part was how easy it had been to disappear. He'd started with small lies—telling (Name) that practice had been cancelled, that the coach was sick, that they were giving the team a break. She'd believed him, why wouldn't she? And his teammates... well, they'd stopped looking for him after the first week. Probably assumed he'd gotten too good for their middle school team, moved on to something more worthy of his talent.

If only they knew.

Oliver pressed his palm flat against the earth, feeling the coolness seep through his skin. Everything felt cold these days, like someone had turned down the temperature of the world and forgotten to turn it back up. Even the sun seemed weaker, its light struggling to penetrate the haze that had settled over his thoughts.

A football sat in the grass nearby—the one he'd brought with him this morning in some misguided attempt to convince himself he still cared about the game. Now it just looked alien, foreign, like an artifact from someone else's life. The black and white pattern that had once been as familiar as his own reflection now seemed harsh and jarring against the soft greens and browns of the garden.

He used to love that ball. Used to sleep with it beside his bed, wake up thinking about the moves he wanted to practice, the shots he wanted to perfect. Now the sight of it made his stomach turn with something that felt suspiciously like grief.

What was the point of perfecting shots when every coach would just tell you to pass instead? What was the point of seeing opportunities that no one else could see when you'd be criticized for taking them? What was the point of being the best when everyone around you was determined to make you ordinary?

The sound of the garden gate opening made Oliver's head snap up, his heart rate spiking with familiar panic. But it was just (Name), arriving for her usual after-school gardening session, her bag slung over one shoulder and a look of mild surprise on her face as she spotted him.

"You're early today," she said, setting down her bag and pulling out her gloves. "Practice ended quickly?"

The lie sat in his throat like a stone. He'd been telling her the same story for weeks now—practice cancelled, coach busy, team taking a break. She'd never questioned it, never pushed for details, and Oliver had been grateful for her easy acceptance.

Now, looking at her honest face, the lie felt heavier than usual.

"Yeah," he managed. "Something like that."

(Name) nodded, seemingly satisfied, and moved to check on her plants. Oliver watched her work, the familiar rhythm of her movements usually soothing but today feeling distant, like he was watching her through thick glass.

She was humming softly—something he'd noticed she did when she was particularly content. The sound should have been pleasant, but instead it just emphasized how empty he felt inside, how disconnected from anything resembling happiness or satisfaction.

"The tulips are coming along nicely," (Name) commented, crouching beside the section they'd replanted together. "Look, you can see the buds starting to form."

Oliver glanced over without much interest. The green shoots looked the same as they had yesterday, and the day before that. Everything looked the same lately, washed out and flat, like someone had drained all the color from the world and left only shades of disappointment.

He returned to his dirt patterns, this time carving out what might have been a football field if you squinted and used your imagination. Then he dragged his palm across it, erasing the lines until it was just disturbed earth again.

"Oliver."

(Name)'s voice carried a note of concern that made him look up reluctantly. She was studying him with that perceptive gaze that always made him feel exposed, like she could see through whatever mask he was wearing to the mess underneath.

"Are you okay? You seem... different today."

Different. That was one way to put it. Other words that came to mind: empty, lost, broken, useless. But he couldn't say any of those things, not to her, not to anyone. Men didn't fall apart over something as simple as football philosophy. Leaders didn't crumble because their coaches wanted them to play differently.

"I'm fine," he said automatically. "Just tired."

It wasn't entirely a lie. He was tired—bone-deep, soul-deep tired in a way that sleep couldn't fix. Tired of pretending to care about things that used to set his world on fire. Tired of forcing smiles when everything inside him felt grey and hollow.

(Name) didn't look convinced, but before she could press further, voices carried over from the football field. Oliver's entire body went rigid, his hands freezing in the dirt as he recognized Tanaka's laugh, followed by Yamamoto's distinctive voice calling out instructions.

They were looking for him. They had to be.

Panic flooded through Oliver's system like ice water, his heart hammering against his ribs as the voices grew closer. He couldn't face them. Couldn't stand there and explain where he'd been, why he'd been avoiding practice, why the star striker of their team had been hiding in a garden like some kind of coward.

Without thinking, he reached out and grabbed (Name)'s wrist, his grip probably too tight but desperation overriding consideration for her comfort. She let out a startled gasp as he pulled her down beside him, both of them dropping to the ground behind a row of taller plants that offered some semblance of cover.

"Oliver, what—"

"Shhh," he hissed, his voice raw with panic. "Please. Just... don't let them see me."

He was pressed against the earth now, dirt smudging his uniform, his body coiled with tension as the voices grew closer to the fence. (Name) was beside him, her wrist still caught in his grip, and he could feel her staring at him with something that might have been alarm.

This was pathetic. This was beyond pathetic. Oliver Aiku, the player everyone looked up to, the one who was supposed to lead by example, cowering in a garden and dragging an innocent girl down with him because he couldn't face his own teammates.

"Aiku-kun!" Tanaka's voice carried clearly over the fence now. "Coach is looking for you! Where have you been?"

Oliver's grip on (Name)'s wrist tightened involuntarily, and he saw her wince. The part of his brain that wasn't consumed with panic felt sick with guilt, but he couldn't make himself let go. If they saw him here, if they started asking questions he couldn't answer...

"Maybe he went home already," Yamamoto suggested. "He's been weird lately, skipping out early and stuff."

"Coach is really pissed," Tanaka continued. "Says if Aiku doesn't show up tomorrow, he's off the starting lineup. Can you believe that? Benching our best player over some attendance issues?"

The words hit Oliver like physical blows. Off the starting lineup. Benched. His worst fears crystallizing into reality while he hid in the dirt like an animal.

"I heard he's been hanging around the garden," said a third voice—Sato, probably. "Maybe he's got a girlfriend or something."

Laughter erupted from the group, good-natured but sharp enough to cut. Oliver felt his face burn with humiliation, his grip on (Name)'s wrist becoming painful.

"Oliver," (Name) whispered urgently, "you're hurting me."

The words cut through his panic like a blade. Oliver immediately released her wrist, horror flooding through him as he saw the red marks his fingers had left on her skin. She was rubbing the spot gingerly, her expression a mixture of concern and growing irritation.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I didn't mean to—"

"Aiku-kun!" Tanaka called again. "If you're out there, coach wants to see you first thing tomorrow! Don't make this worse for yourself!"

The voices gradually faded as the group moved away from the fence, but Oliver remained frozen on the ground, his breathing shallow and his hands shaking slightly. He couldn't look at (Name), couldn't bear to see whatever expression was on her face as she processed what had just happened.

The silence stretched on for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes. Finally, (Name) pushed herself up to a sitting position, brushing dirt from her uniform with sharp, efficient movements.

"Okay," she said, her voice carefully controlled. "What the hell was that about?"

Oliver remained on the ground, staring at his hands. They looked foreign to him somehow, pale and weak against the dark soil. These were supposed to be the hands of a striker, hands that could control a ball with surgical precision, hands that would one day lift trophies and sign autographs. Instead, they were shaking like autumn leaves, stained with dirt and shame.

"I told you practice was cancelled," he said quietly, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

"Practice that's been cancelled for three weeks straight?" (Name)'s voice carried a sharp edge now. "Oliver, I'm not stupid. Something's going on, and whatever it is, it's got you hiding in my garden and grabbing me like—" She cut herself off, rubbing her wrist again.

The image of those red marks would haunt him later, Oliver knew. Another failure to add to the growing collection, another way he'd hurt someone because he couldn't get his own shit together.

"I'm sorry," he said again, finally forcing himself to look at her. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I just... I couldn't let them see me."

"Why not? They're your teammates."

The question was simple, reasonable, and completely impossible to answer. How could he explain that the thought of facing Tanaka and Yamamoto and the others made his chest tight with something that felt like drowning? How could he tell her that every time he looked at a football now, all he could see was disappointment—his own, his coaches', the inevitable moment when everyone realized he wasn't what they thought he was?

"It's complicated," he said instead, pushing himself up to sit beside her. The movement felt heavy, like his body was made of lead instead of muscle and bone.

"Try me."

(Name) had turned to face him fully now, her expression serious but not unkind. There was dirt in her hair and concern in her eyes, and Oliver felt something crack inside his chest at the sight of her genuine worry.

"I can't," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I can't go back there."

"Why not?"

The question hung in the air between them, simple and devastating. Why not? Because every drill felt like a betrayal of his instincts. Because every time Coach Nakamura told him to pass instead of shoot, a little more of his fire died. Because he was starting to suspect that maybe everyone was right—maybe individual brilliance was selfish, maybe his dreams of becoming the best striker in the world were just the fantasies of an arrogant kid who didn't understand how football really worked.

But he couldn't say any of that. Couldn't admit that the foundation of everything he thought he knew about himself was crumbling. Men didn't break down over sports disagreements. Leaders didn't hide from their responsibilities.

Stars didn't lose their shine just because someone told them to dim it a little.

"I just can't," he repeated, hating how weak he sounded.

(Name) was quiet for a long moment, her fingers absently plucking at the grass beside her. When she spoke again, her voice was gentler.

"You know, when I first had that fight with the faculty advisor about the flowers, I wanted to quit the garden club entirely."

Oliver looked at her sharply. "But you didn't."

"No, I didn't. But I thought about it. For about a week, I just... stopped coming. Told myself it wasn't worth the fight, that maybe she was right and I should focus on practical things instead of beauty."

She paused, pulling up a small weed with more force than necessary.

"The garden started to die," she continued. "Not all at once, but little by little. Plants that needed daily care, seedlings that were depending on me... they started withering because I was too stubborn and hurt to take care of them."

Oliver felt something cold settle in his stomach. "What changed your mind?"

"I realised that giving up wouldn't prove her wrong," (Name) said simply. "It would just prove that she was stronger than my conviction. And I decided that wasn't acceptable."

The words hit harder than she probably intended. Oliver stared at the ground, at his own hands still trembling slightly against his knees, and felt the weight of his own cowardice settling over him like a blanket.

He was giving up. That's what this was, what these weeks of hiding and lying and avoiding had been. He was letting Coach Nakamura and the philosophy of "team first" win without even fighting back. He was proving that his dream of becoming the best striker in the world was weaker than their determination to make him ordinary.

"I hate football," he said suddenly, the words torn from somewhere deep in his chest. "I hate everything about it."

(Name) went very still beside him. "No, you don't."

"I do." The admission felt like poison leaving his system, toxic but necessary. "I hate the way it makes me feel. I hate the rules and the expectations and the way everyone thinks they know better than I do about how I should play.
I hate that something I used to love more than anything now makes me want to disappear."

His voice cracked on the last word, and Oliver felt his face burn with humiliation. This was exactly what he'd been trying to avoid—breaking down, showing weakness, proving that maybe he wasn't as strong as everyone thought.

"I hate that I can't even look at a football anymore without feeling sick," he continued, unable to stop the words from spilling out. "I hate that I'm sitting in a garden talking to a girl about feelings instead of being on the field where I belong. I hate that I'm not strong enough to just... to just deal with it like I'm supposed to."

The silence that followed was deafening. Oliver kept his eyes fixed on the ground, on the meaningless patterns he'd carved in the dirt, anywhere but on (Name)'s face. He'd said too much, revealed too much. She'd probably think he was pathetic now, weak, not the confident striker she'd gotten to know over the past month.

"Oliver."

Her voice was soft, careful, like she was talking to something wounded that might bolt at any sudden movement.

"Look at me."

He couldn't. Wouldn't. If he looked at her now and saw pity or disappointment or disgust, it would be the final nail in the coffin of whatever was left of his self-respect.

A gentle hand touched his chin, fingers surprisingly strong as they tilted his face up. (Name)'s expression was serious, intense, but not unkind.

"You don't hate football," she said with quiet certainty. "You hate what they're trying to turn it into."

The distinction hit him like a physical blow. Because she was right, wasn't she? It wasn't the game itself that made him feel sick—it was the constant pressure to suppress every instinct that made him who he was. It was being told that his vision was selfish, that his creativity was problematic, that his desire to be extraordinary was somehow wrong.

"Remember when you showed me those moves a few weeks ago?" (Name) continued. "The way your whole face lit up when you were playing? That wasn't someone who hated football. That was someone who loved it so much it hurt."

Oliver felt his throat tighten. "That doesn't matter if I can't play the way they want me to."

"Then maybe the problem isn't with how you play." (Name) studied his face for a moment, then stood up, brushing dirt from her hands. "Come here, Striker."

The nickname hit him unexpectedly, a reminder of who he was supposed to be—or who he used to be. The star striker everyone looked up to, before everything fell apart.

"What?" he asked, confused by her sudden change in demeanor.

"I said come here. We're going to do some gardening."

"(Name), I don't think—"

"That's the problem," she interrupted, already moving toward a section of the garden where the soil looked freshly turned. "You're thinking too much. Spiraling. Sometimes when your mind won't stop eating itself alive, you need to give your hands something to do."

Oliver stared at her, bewildered. "I don't know anything about gardening."

"Good. Then you can't overthink it." She knelt beside the prepared soil and patted the ground next to her. "Sit."

There was something commanding in her tone that made Oliver comply despite his confusion. The earth was cool beneath his knees, and (Name) was already pulling small seedlings from a tray he hadn't noticed before.

"These are tomatoes," she said, placing one in his palm. The roots were delicate, almost fragile, and Oliver found himself cradling it carefully. "Feel that?"

"The roots?"

"The potential." She guided his hands to a small hole she'd prepared in the soil. "Every one of these tiny plants has the ability to grow into something that can feed people. But first, it needs to be planted in the right conditions."

Oliver lowered the seedling into the hole, his movements tentative. "Like this?"

"Exactly." (Name) showed him how to pack the soil gently around the roots, how to create a small well for water. "See? Your hands know what to do even when your brain is telling you you're useless."

The words stung because they were accurate. That voice in his head that whispered about how much better everyone would be without him, how he was just dragging people down with his problems.

"I feel like I'm disappearing," Oliver said suddenly, the admission pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. "Like everything that made me... me... is just fading away until there's nothing left."

(Name)'s hands stilled in the soil. "What do you mean?"

"I used to know who I was. I was the striker. The one who could see plays nobody else could see, who could score goals that shouldn't be possible." He planted another seedling, his movements becoming more confident. "Now I don't know what I am. I can't play the way they want me to, but I can't play the way I want to either. So what does that make me?"

Nothing, the dark voice in his head supplied. It makes you nothing.

"It makes you someone who's figuring things out," (Name) said firmly, as if she could hear his thoughts. "Oliver—Striker—you're thirteen years old. You're not supposed to have everything figured out."

The nickname again. It should have made him feel better, being reminded of his identity, but instead it felt like another weight on his chest. Because what happened when he wasn't the striker anymore? What happened if he couldn't find his way back to that person?

They worked in silence for a while, the repetitive motion of planting somehow soothing despite the chaos in Oliver's mind. There was something grounding about the feel of soil between his fingers, the careful placement of each small life into its new home.

"You know what I think?" (Name) said eventually, sitting back to survey their work. "I think you're scared that if you stand up for what you believe in, you'll lose everything. Your position, your teammates' respect, your coaches' approval."

Oliver's hands paused in the dirt. She wasn't wrong.

"But you're already losing those things by hiding," she continued. "The only difference is now you're losing them without a fight."

The truth of it hit him like a physical blow. He was losing everything anyway—his position on the team, his identity as a striker, his sense of self. But he was doing it passively, letting fear make the decisions for him instead of at least going down swinging.

"What if I fight and still lose?" he asked quietly.

"Then at least you'll know you tried. At least you'll know you stayed true to who you are instead of letting other people's fear reshape you into something smaller."

She handed him the last seedling, a tomato plant with slightly larger leaves than the others.

"This one's different," she explained. "It's going to grow taller than the others, need more space, more support. I could try to keep it small, trim it back so it matches the rest, but then I'd never see what it was truly capable of becoming."

The metaphor wasn't subtle, but it was effective. Oliver stared down at the plant in his hands, seeing something of himself in its potential for growth.

"The team would be fine without me," he said, testing the words aloud. "Better, maybe. They wouldn't have to deal with my attitude, my refusal to just play the way everyone else does."

They'd be happier, that dark voice added. Everyone would.

"Stop that," (Name) said sharply, startling him.

"What?"

"That thing you're doing. Convincing yourself that everyone would be better off if you just... disappeared. I can see it in your face, Striker. That's not realistic thinking—that's your brain lying to you."

Oliver felt heat rise in his cheeks. Was he really that transparent?

"You don't know what it's like," he muttered. "Being the person everyone expects to be perfect, to always know what to do."

"You're right, I don't." (Name) planted the last seedling with efficient movements. "But I know what it's like to have adults try to make you smaller because your way of doing things makes them uncomfortable. And I know that giving up isn't the solution."

She turned to face him fully, soil smudged on her cheek and determination in her eyes.

"Here's what's going to happen. You're going to go back to practice tomorrow. You're going to face your coach and your teammates and whatever consequences are waiting for you. And you're going to remember that you're not just Oliver—you're a Striker. The person who sees possibilities others miss."

"What if they kick me off the team?"

"Then you find another team. Or you keep practicing on your own until you find people who understand what you're capable of." Her voice was fierce, uncompromising. "But you don't hide anymore. You don't let fear make you smaller than you are."

Oliver stared down at his dirt-stained hands, at the neat row of newly planted seedlings that represented something hopeful and growing. For the first time in weeks, the grey haze around his thoughts seemed to lift slightly.

"I don't know if I can," he admitted.

"Yes, you can. Because the alternative is staying here, getting smaller and smaller until there's nothing left of the person who used to light up when he talked about football."

She stood up, brushing off her knees, and extended a hand to help him up.

"Come on, Striker. Time to go be extraordinary again, even if it scares everyone else."

The description stung because it was accurate. He had been acting like a scared child, running from his problems instead of facing them, letting fear make his decisions for him.

"I don't know how to fix it," he admitted, the words scraping against his throat. "I don't know how to go back and pretend like everything's okay when it's not."

"Then don't pretend."

Oliver looked up sharply. "What?"

"Don't pretend everything's okay. Go back and deal with whatever's actually wrong." (Name)'s expression softened slightly, but her voice remained firm. "You told me once that when you're playing football, everything makes sense. That you can see patterns other people miss, make things happen that shouldn't be possible."

"That was before—"

"Before what? Before your coach tried to change how you play?" (Name) shook her head. "Oliver, you can't let other people's fear of your talent convince you that you don't have it."

She moved closer, her voice dropping to something more intimate, more urgent.

"You think I don't know what it's like to have adults try to make you smaller? To have people tell you that your way of doing things is wrong just because it's different?" Her eyes flashed with memory. "The difference between us is that I fought back. I kept planting flowers even when they told me not to. I kept doing what I believed in."

"Football's different," Oliver said weakly. "It's a team sport. There are rules, expectations—"

"There are always rules and expectations," (Name) interrupted. "The question is whether you're going to let them define you or whether you're going to define yourself."
She stepped back, giving him space but keeping her gaze steady on his face.

"You want to be the best striker in the world? Then be one. Stop hiding from the thing you love just because someone else doesn't understand it. Stop letting their limitations become your limitations."

Oliver felt something shift inside his chest, like a door that had been locked for weeks suddenly creaking open. The grey haze that had settled over everything didn't disappear, but it lightened slightly, enough for him to remember what colours looked like.

"What if they're right?" he asked, the question pulled from his deepest fears. "What if I am being selfish? What if teamwork really is more important than individual skill?"

(Name) was quiet for a moment, considering the question with the same seriousness she brought to everything else.

"Maybe they are right, for them," she said finally. "But that doesn't mean they're right for you. Oliver, you have something special. I've seen it. And if you bury that gift because other people are uncomfortable with it..."

She trailed off, but Oliver could fill in the blanks. If he buried his gift, he'd become exactly what Coach Nakamura wanted—a good team player who knew his place and followed orders. Ordinary. Safe. Forgettable.

The thought made his stomach turn with renewed intensity.

"I don't know if I can," he admitted. "Go back, I mean. Face them."

"Yes, you can." (Name)'s voice was certain, unshakeable. "Because the alternative is staying here, hiding among my vegetables, getting smaller and smaller until there's nothing left of the person who used to light up when he talked about football."

She picked up the ball he'd abandoned in the grass, holding it out to him. Oliver stared at it for a long moment, that familiar nausea rising in his throat.

"I can't even touch it anymore," he confessed. "Every time I look at a football, all I can think about is failure. About disappointing everyone. About not being good enough."

"Then stop thinking," (Name) said simply. "Just... feel."

She pressed the ball into his hands before he could protest, her fingers warm against his cold skin. Oliver's first instinct was to drop it, to push it away before the sick feeling could overwhelm him again.

But instead, he held it.

The familiar texture, the weight distribution, the way it fit perfectly in his palms—it was all still there, buried beneath weeks of doubt and self-recrimination. For just a moment, Oliver could remember what it felt like to love this simple sphere of black and white leather.

"There," (Name) said softly. "See? It's just a ball. It can't hurt you unless you let it."

Oliver's grip tightened slightly, his thumb tracing the familiar pattern of panels. "What if I go back and nothing's changed? What if I still can't make myself care about teamwork and playing for others and all the things they want me to care about?"

"Then you don't," (Name) said with stunning simplicity. "You care about what you care about, and you play the way you need to play, and you let them deal with their own discomfort."

"Even if it means conflict? Even if it means disappointing people?"

(Name)'s smile was small but fierce. "Especially then. Oliver, disappointment isn't the worst thing that can happen to you. Losing yourself is."

The words settled into the quiet space of the garden, mixing with the scent of growing things and the distant sounds of the school winding down for the day. Oliver felt something loosening in his chest, like a knot that had been pulled too tight finally beginning to ease.

He wasn't fixed. The grey haze hadn't disappeared, and the thought of walking back onto that football field still made his hands shake. But for the first time in weeks, the idea didn't seem impossible.

"Will you..." he started, then stopped, embarrassed by what he'd been about to ask.

"Will I what?"

"Will you be here? Tomorrow, I mean. After I... after I deal with whatever happens with the coach."

(Name)'s expression softened into something that might have been affection. "I'll be here. Checking on the tulips."

Oliver nodded, clutching the football against his chest like a lifeline. The weight of it was familiar, comforting in a way he'd forgotten was possible.

"And Oliver?" (Name) added as he turned toward the fence. "Whatever happens tomorrow, don't let them convince you that wanting to be extraordinary is a flaw. The world has enough ordinary players. It needs more people who see possibilities that others miss."

As Oliver climbed back over the fence, football in hand, he carried her words with him like a torch in the darkness. The grey haze was still there, the fear and doubt still gnawing at his edges, but underneath it all, something else was stirring.

Something that felt suspiciously like hope.