Azzyslife

The journalists sat in neat rows, hands poised over notebooks and laptops, waiting for their turn. The first few questions went exactly as expected.

"How do you feel about today's victory?"

"It was expected."

"What do you think separated your team from the opposition?"

"We played better."

The room collectively deflated with every short answer.

Good.

Maybe they'd end this faster.

Then someone spoke from the third row.

"During the second half, you stopped making overlapping runs and started occupying deeper spaces."

Sae's eyes shifted.

You weren't even looking at your notes.

You were looking directly at him.

"The commentators said it was because the opposing midfield was pressing higher," you continued. "But from where I was sitting, it looked more like you were baiting their defensive line into stepping forward."

Several reporters blinked.

One quietly stopped typing.

Sae tilted his head.

For the first time all afternoon.

"...Go on."

The moderator looked surprised.

You didn't.

"When their center-backs stepped up, they left space behind them. Twenty-three minutes later, your through ball created the winning goal."

You glanced at your notebook.

"Was that adjustment planned before the match, or was it something you recognized in real time?"

The room fell silent.

Because that wasn't a fan question.

It wasn't a tabloid question.

It was a gameplay question.

And a good one.

Sae leaned back in his chair.

"It wasn't planned."

A few heads snapped toward him.

Long answers were apparently a rare event.

"Their right center-back kept abandoning his position whenever their midfielder lost possession."

You nodded immediately.

"The number four?"

"Yeah."

You scribbled something down, it wasn't anything of substance you just wanted to look a little more put together.

Sae found himself watching you longer than necessary.

"Did you notice it before halftime?" you asked.

"I noticed it after twelve minutes."

A slight pause, "You?"

"About seventeen."

One of the reporters nearly dropped his pen.

Sae stared then, unexpectedly, a small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Slow."

A few journalists looked genuinely horrified.

You simply shrugged.

"I wasn't on the field."

The moderator looked like he had accidentally wandered into a private conversation.

The rest of the interview continued similarly.

Every question you asked dug deeper.

It was like there was no one else in the room. No other interviewer dared to ask a question, likely because they were trying to write down everything he was telling you.

Not once did you ask about his dating life.

Not once did you ask who he was friends with.

Not once did you ask him to rank teammates or reveal embarrassing stories.

And for perhaps the first time in years, Sae found himself answering because he wanted to.

By the end of the interview, he'd spent nearly twenty minutes speaking almost exclusively to you.

Something that didn't go unnoticed.

As the session wrapped up, the moderator thanked everyone for attending.

Most reporters immediately packed their things.

You did too, no attempt to linger or a request for a photo, you just grabbed your bag and left.

۶ৎ

Sae watched you leave.

"...What's her name?"

The moderator nearly choked.

"The journalist?"

"Obviously."

The man blinked then told him. He felt so starstruck that Sae Itoshi was talking to him that he handed him a card with the name of your company and some of your contact information.

Sae committed it to memory before standing and walking away.

Across social media, clips from the interview exploded within hours.

'WHY WAS SAE ACTUALLY TALKING???'

'HE ANSWERED IN FULL SENTENCES.'

'Who is that reporter???'

'Not him smiling because she challenged him.'

'Did anyone else catch him asking for her name after the interview????'

'SAE ITOSHI YOU ARE NOT SLICK.'

Even the players noticed.

The next morning, Sae walked into training to find several teammates waiting.

With grins.

Dangerous grins.

"Good morning, Sae," Shidou sang.

Sae immediately turned around.

"No."

"You don't even know what I'm going to say."

"Yes, I do."

"That journalist seemed nice."

Sae kept walking.

"She understood soccer."

The entire locker room erupted.

He'd never admit it, but they were right. He did remember you and he already told his manager and publicist that you were the only person he wanted to be interviewed by for the foreseeable future.

“Oh, come on, Sae! All you have to do is talk about your morning routine on stream– the fans think you are too calloused; all we need is some authenticity!” Sae’s PR officer exclaimed through a forced grin, “And plus, it will bring in more money~”

Sae rolled his eyes and begrudgingly agreed. 

“Oh, and don’t forget to smile!” She grinned, earning a scowl from him.

And now, here he is.

–––

Sae Itoshi looks into the glossy black lens of the camera with a controlled look of disdain. Whenever he thought of the word “authenticity,” he thought of his fellow players shedding crocodile tears after a game lost– or even worse, his family. But regardless of that, here he is; standing in front of a tripod in nothing but his pajamas.

He set up his room the night before, making sure nothing that could suggest a controversy would be seen when he began his live stream. But even so, he does one last circle of his room, making sure that the “authenticity” he will be showing the world is at least somewhat presentable. After he finishes his meticulous search, he sits down in front of the camera and begins. 

Sae exhales through his nose and turns his stream on. As he expected, the chat was immediately flooded with fangirls and football-nerds alike.

“Hello,” he utters. “My name is Sae Itoshi.” He doesn’t believe in sugar-coating his words, so he keeps his greeting concise.

 “Aparrently, people think I’m too calloused.” He sighs, “So my PR manager decided it would be a good idea to be ‘authentic’.” He uses his fingers to show quotation marks.

Sae cocks his head slightly to the left before reaching for the camera and gently adjusting it. Although he was against this whole live stream thing, he was not going to embarrass himself by doing it badly.

“Now, I was told that the fans requested a ‘Morning Routine’ video, so I will deliver.” Sae forces a smirk. 

He steps away from the camera, and towards a glass sliding door. His hands reach for the handles and he pulls it open, a gust of cool air flowing into his apartment. The majority of Madrid is still asleep, but even so, there is still the light sound of traffic polluting the silence. “First, I open a window. For fresh air.” 

He inhales slowly, counting in his head “1, 2, 3, 4…” before he exhales. Although it’s subtle, he can feel the tension leaving his body. He lets it. He won’t let the camera steal his moment. 

“And for just a few seconds, I try not to think of football–” Sae looks into the camera, “For the most part, I am unsuccessful.”

He smirks again, this time, it’s real.

He takes a step away from the window and settles on the mat on the ground. It is dark grey, clean, and perfectly aligned to the wood grain of the floor.

Yoga was supposed to be something short term– something suggested to him by his physician after a long season– but it stuck. He didn’t do it for relaxation, he did it for the precision; the control. To him, it was more honest than any drills were. 

“I don’t know if this will come as a surprise to many, but I do yoga,” Sae says into the camera. “It’s supposed to be good for unwinding, and preventing injuries.” 

He pauses for a moment before continuing. “I don’t do it for any of those purposes.”

His body slowly transitions through different positions; Downward dog, Warrior, and finally the King Pigeon pose. The poses are held in a way that demonstrates that they are not for show. His breathing stays even and measured.

“This,” He finally continues, effortlessly holding a pose, “Isn’t for clearing my mind. It’s for reminding  my body of who's boss.” There’s something almost meditative about the way he moves—sharp edges softened by control, intensity turned inward instead of outward.

“Then, Meditation.” He speaks into the camera.

After he finishes, he sits cross-legged on his mat, resting his hands on his knees. His posture is erect, and his eyes slowly shut. 

This is the part that the fans expect to be deep– enlightening. They expect words of insight from the Japanese prodigy… but all they get is stillness.

Many thoughts cross his mind, past matches, headlines– even his brother; but he lets them pass. He doesn’t force them out of his mind, because he knows that control is not equivalent to force. Minutes pass, and the view count begins to die down. Leaving only the most “loyal” fans in the chat. 

“Meditation isn’t about peace,” Sae says, breaking the silence. He opens his eyes and looks into the camera. “It’s about focus,” he pauses, “And silence.” 

He pauses once more, “I think that many of you would benefit from being silent.” He smirks to himself, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. “I’m kidding.” He says, flatly. “Or am I?” For a moment, the watchers can almost see amusement cross his face; a glimpse of the past in his eyes.

His face goes flat.

He stands up from his mat and walks out of frame, returning with a glass of a cloudy amber liquid. “This is Salted Kombucha,” he frowns at it. “This is how I end my morning routine.” He takes a calculated sip, his lip twitching ever-so-slightly. The familiar taste of fermentation hits his tongue, the salt hitting him immediately after. His face tightens in a way that would be imperceptible to anyone that didn’t know him, but he doesn’t flinch.

He takes another sip. “This is good for digestion, electrolytes and balance.”

He takes a final gulp, and stares into the camera, as if he is trying to prove something– to his viewers, to himself, or maybe to the past self that would have rejected it because he didn’t like it.

“And before you ask, no, I do not like the taste.” He sighs, ”But I don’t always do things because I like them.” He sets the glass down on his desk, and addresses his fans. “That’s all. Now I train.”

The stream goes black.

–––

ALRIGHT!!! THAT WAS IT GUYS!! I really hope you enjoyed! The link to the fic is down below :3

user12345: DID ITOSHI SAE & HIS LONG-TERM GIRLFRIEND BREAK UP????

itoshino1fan: OMG SAE & Y/N NO LONGER FOLLOW EACH OTHER

saeglazer101: OOOPP TROUBLE IN PARADISE??! 👀 HERE’S MY CHANCEE 😜

gossip & tea pages were already running with the narrative. fan accounts started reposting each other. tiktok edits of your “failed relationship” started flooding everyone’s feed.

and unfortunately for you, the news had travelled all the way to spain.

sae had just finished his morning run when his phone started exploding with notifications from multiple people & journalists. even shidou who he has not spoken to in weeks somehow sent him a screenshot of the news with the caption:

💬: so she finally dumped you? 💀

for a few seconds, he simply stood there with his phone in hand trying to figure out how the internet had somehow came to the conclusion that he’d been dumped. the last thing you’d sent him before he went out for his run was a picture of the lunch you made, so there was absolutely no way you’d broken up with him in the short span of three hours (and without his knowledge too).

still, when he opened instagram & saw that you really weren’t following him anymore… something in his chest dropped.

immediately, he tapped on your contact & started calling you.

the ringing echoed through the speaker until the call eventually ended on its own. no answer. his jaw tightened as he tried again.

beep

the line disconnected, so he tried again.

beep

and again.

beep

by the time the tenth call went unanswered, his text messages had already started flooding your chat.

sae ♡: answer your phone

sae ♡: ???

sae ♡: y/n

sae ♡: i’m serious

sae ♡: we need to talk

sae ♡: hello?

back in japan, however, you were peacefully asleep; completely unaware that half the internet had assumed you’ve broken up with your famous mid-fielder boyfriend, or that said boyfriend was currently having the worst few hours of his life.

—

three hours later when you finally woke up and reached for your phone, your lockscreen lit up with 30 notifications from sae.

20 unanswered texts.

10 missed calls

and approximately 100 notifications from all your social media combined of posts that you were tagged in from strangers on the internet mourning a breakup that never actually happened.

“… what the hell?” you muttered in complete disbelief as you sat upright in bed.

you immediately started calling sae back, and he answered within the first ring. “amor...” the relief in his voice hit you so fast that you nearly forgot why you’d called in the first place.

“sae?” you blinked. “what happened?”

there was a brief pause before he let out a slow exhale. “you unfollowed me.”

“… what?”

“you unfollowed me.”

“no? i was literally asleep.”

“check my profile.”

you stared at your screen before immediately going to his profile. and there it was… that mocking ‘follow back’ button staring back at you, clearly showing that you did in fact unfollow him.

“oh shit…”

“exactly what i said,” he replied flatly.

“i-i’ll fix it, okay? i’ll put up a statement on my story. hold on,” you said quickly.

immediately, you tapped onto your story and typed out a short statement— hoping it would stop the rumors before they spiraled any further.

after posting it, you let out a relieved sigh. you knew people were parasocial when it came to professional soccer players, but you certainly didn’t expect thousands of people to reach the conclusion that you’d broken up over one misplaced tap of your thumb.

“… there.” you murmured, staring at the freshly uploaded story. “crisis averted.”

“mhm.”

his response was immediate, but something about the way he said it made you anxious.

you frowned.

“a-are you still mad?” you asked, fiddling with the corner of your pillowcase.

there was a brief silence on the other end of the line. “i’m not mad.”

“sae.”

“… what?”

“that doesn’t sound very convincing.”

another pause.

then you heard him exhale quietly. “i said i’m not mad, amor.”

“… promise?”

this time, the sigh that left him sounded almost resigned. “yes amor,” he replied, the edge in his voice finally softening.

“i promise.”

only then did some of the tension leave your shoulders. you sank back against your pillows, finally relaxing. “… okay,” you murmured. “that’s good to know.”

somehow the call grew quiet again, but this time it felt comfortable rather than tense. neither of you seemed particularly eager to hang up.

“… i-i miss you, sae.” you finally broke the silence.

for a second, all you could hear was the faint sound of movement from his side of the call before he spoke again, his voice noticeably softer this time. “i miss you too, amor.”

the two of you stayed on the phone for another hour before his schedule eventually caught up with him. he listened to you ramble about your day while simultaneously packing his training bag, occasionally responding with a quiet hum to let you know he was still listening. eventually, you ended up curled beneath your blankets with the call still connected, smiling whenever his voice drifted through the speaker.

. . .

the distance between spain and japan still felt unfair.

but somehow, it was hard to dwell on the miles between you when he still felt so present in your everyday life.

⨳ 𝓷𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: finally a bllk post. not proofread