Chapter 823: Jealous?

That night, he found himself struggling to fall asleep. Whenever he tried to fall asleep, his thoughts kept drifting back to Hiro.

What if he never plays again?

Though he refused to admit it, he couldn’t rule it out either.

Despite the recurring thoughts, he forced himself to sleep, and somehow the night passed. However, the questions didn’t stop.

For days, they followed him like a shadow, refusing to leave his side.

His focus slipped in training, and his coaches noticed, and so did his teammates, but none of them understood. They didn’t know what Hiro meant to him. They didn’t know that, in some way, Hiro was the reason he played at all.

Now, alone on the empty pitch, he drew back his foot and drove the ball against the concrete wall at the edge of the training ground.

Thud!

It rebounded to him, and he brought it under control and sent it back again.

Thud!

He kept going, the ball striking the wall and returning to his feet in a steady rhythm that matched the beating of his heart, the sound rolling out across the darkening grass.

I’m not going to give up. I’m going to make it. I’m going to stand on the same pitch as him.

At last he stopped and let the ball settle under his sole. His lungs burned, and the question he had been avoiding rose once more.

But how?

He thought of the articles he’d read and the arguments over Hiro’s future, the whole country debating whether the World Cup could wait for him. Beneath all of that was something else, something that had been nagging at him for weeks and that he had tried hard not to look at directly.

What if Hiro doesn’t make it? What if someone else has to step up?

The thought felt disloyal, almost treacherous, but it would not leave.

What if that someone is me?

He shook his head to clear it. He was sixteen, and he was talented, but he was nowhere near Hiro’s level, and he hadn’t even made his professional debut. It was ridiculous to think of it.

Still, the thought stayed with him. It stayed as he picked up his bag and walked off the pitch with the last of the daylight fading behind the stands.

He stared at the fading light for a while before he grabbed his bag and stormed off the pitch.

**** ****

Hiro had stopped counting days.

Each morning began the same way, with the soft beep of the machines, the distant hum of traffic beyond his window, and the familiar ache settled deep in his leg.

The afternoons belonged to therapy, a cycle of exercise and pain and small, grudging progress that left his shirt damp and his hands trembling on the parallel bars.

By evening he was alone again, with his notebook open on his lap and the television glowing at the foot of the bed, showing him matches he could only watch.

He was getting stronger, and the System confirmed it.

His recovery rate now stood at 38%, his mental clarity had steadied, and his emotional state read as balanced. Elena had praised his progress, and Dr. Nakamura had called it "remarkable," a word Hiro turned over in his mind more than once.

But remarkable did not mean fast enough, and the world was not waiting for him.

In the time it took him to learn to walk without crutches, Atlético Madrid played three matches and won all three.

The first was a gritty 2-1 win over Real Betis, in which Julian scored twice, and his partnership with Guiliano grew sharper with every passing game.

The second was a dominant 3-0 victory over Valencia, orchestrated by Lee Kang-In, who pulled the strings from midfield, set the tempo, and threaded passes that left defenders reaching for shadows.

The third was a 1-0 win over Sevilla, a match that demanded patience and discipline and, in the end, a moment of magic. That moment came from Lee again, a curling shot from outside the box that settled into the top corner.

The headlines were nearly unanimous.

"Lee Kang-In: The New Heartbeat of Atlético" — Marca

"From Signing to Star: How Lee Filled the Void" — AS

"Atlético Doesn’t Miss Hiro—And That’s a Problem" — ESPN FC

Hiro watched every match, but never from the stands or the bench. He watched from his room, on a screen, with no one beside him.

He watched Lee Kang-In come into his own.

He watched Julian lead the line with growing confidence, and Guiliano run himself into the ground game after game, refusing to let the team falter.

He watched Diego on the touchline, calm and composed, adjusting the shape and making his substitutions and steering the team through the storm without ever seeming to raise his voice.

And he watched the fans.

They still chanted his name. They still raised their banners and sang the songs about their number ten.

But the chants came a little more quietly now, the banners were fewer, and the songs were less frequent, so that if he listened closely he could hear the gaps where they used to be.

They’re moving on, Hiro realized, and then, more quietly, they have to.

That’s just how life should be after all. Though it did pain him a little seeing the world advance without him. However, he didn’t allow the pain to consume him and transform into something worse.

He just took these emotions as they were, and sat with them whenever they struck him.

One evening, after a particularly grueling therapy session, Hiro lay on top of his blanket with his shirt still damp and his thigh trembling from the last set of exercises.

Dusk had turned the room dim and blue, and the only light came from the phone buzzing on the nightstand. When he reached for it, he saw Diego’s name across the screen.

"How are you feeling?"ℯℯ𝑙.

Hiro stared at the words for a long moment before he typed a reply. "Better. Walking without crutches now."

"Good. The team is doing well."

"I know. I’ve been watching."

For a while, nothing came back. Three dots appeared beneath Diego’s name, vanished, and appeared again, as though he were weighing each word before he sent it. Then the message arrived.

"They miss you. We all do."