“yoichi isagi is not my boyfriend!” you chirp into the ambience, only to receive a pointed stare from your manager. “we’re just talking. where is he? the game’s not supposed to be for another hour —!” your gaze finally lands on the screen, emerald green glass and blurs of blue flash across it.

the chants echo through, similar to that of what you’ve heard from fans at your concert tonight. you’ve missed nearly half of the japan’s first game so far during your performance. “shit! turn it up! turn it up!”

the match ticks up in volume.

“it’s half time, one - nil. let’s get you out of this. also, you can’t stand in front of the screen like a toddler. your eyes will go bad—” your manager starts unclipping parts of your finale outfit. a little baby blue number, tightened with bows and lace and a number of moving parts you’d struggle to deal with on your own. especially now that you’ve rooted yourself in front of your match. “hold on, are you calling him?”

you’ve magically obtained a phone. who knows where from.

a month into tour means you’ve not been in the same place at the same time. your Europe leg starting just as the World Cup kicked off in the states. the two of you, just talking. not dating. have been making it work over facetime dates and phone calls that are hardly kept pg — you feel closer than ever even with the distance.

“i call him before every game — but i couldn’t this time. he’ll pick up, i know he will.” your eyes scan the screeb whilst the phone rings. luckily enough for you a camera decides to zoom in closely on yoichi isagi. number eleven himself. midnight blue bangs now shaggy over his eyes, dark blue spandex stretched across his chest clinging to each pectoral muscle as he catches his breath off to the side. “there he is! my diamond boy.”

your heart smiles when you see him, sweaty, but his eyes burning with that familiar crazed sense of passion, he looks at the pitch the same way he looks at you, something he adores with every fibre of his being.

someone hands him a phone and you can’t help the giddy grin slipping into your cheeks.

“hello?”

“yoichi,” you breathe easy. “hey, hi. i’m sorry, i couldn’t call. how’s it going?”

you see his body physically light up, tension rolling off his back as if your voice has kneaded it out of him. the crease between his brow eases too and soccer star glows under intense light, shining eyes and his golden skin fill your screen. “second half will be better now that i’ve heard your voice.” a pause. “i miss you, your pretty face.”

“shut up, you’ve been doing just fine without me,” the phone presses into your ear, as if pushing it any closer will bring isagi closer to you. your eyes flutter shut and you can picture him here with you, fingers slinking around your waist to bring you close, teasing lips ghosting over the shell of your ear. “you’re going to win. you always do.”

“i’m always better because of you, though. i’ll show you in the next half.” the words are smug on his tongue, tinged with affection that the striker saves only for you. it’s impressive, how easily he’s able to switch from this intense monster on the field to the charming, boy next door you’ve been dating in secret for months.

yoichi doesn’t deny the victory on the horizon. he knows he’ll take it. his confidence in his ability, his freak instinct on the field is somewhat addicting — enticing. he burns for it — soccer — and everything that he does, even for you. isagi isn’t a half hearted kind of guy, you’ve come to know, he’d drop anything just to make you smile with the same dedication he’d display on the pitch. he’s all about you, he’s waited this long to even get a chance with you — he cares about one thing aside from winning and that’s how he makes you feel.

“i don’t believe you!” you purr down the line in a teasing tone, cheesing to yourself. staff flitter around you, helping tug off more of your outfit but your focus remains on your little boyfriend on tv.

he shifts on his kleets, rotating around the stadium in search for the nearest camera — it finds him first and you feel as though he’s looking straight at you. yoichi winks, deep blue eyes swirling with danger and desire. to win or for you. to isagi, they’re practically the same thing.

“what will it take?” he says, determined. hungry. loud and clear over the chanting and the cheers and the stomping feet.

butterflies flood your tummy at the lopsided smirk that slants on his plush lips. isagi raises a brow — rendering you weak in the knees. challenging you on live tv.

you chew on your bottom lip, gloss trapped under your teeth. “bicycle kick? score from five metres. then i’ll believe you.” is what you settle on. matching his intensity, daring his ability as japan’s diamond in the rough.

yoichi shakes out his fringe, pursing his lips at your dare, milling it over.

“your wish is my command, precious girl,” number eleven whispers huskily into the phone. you wonder if he looks as sexy to the rest of the world as he does to you, glistening as he locks the sweat from his cupid’s bow — hazy eyes and struggling for clear breath in the heat. the camera captures every twitch of his, each quirk of his lips, but it can hardly tell that all of it is because of you. isagi’s just as much yours as you are his. “call me after the game? wanna talk dirty to you as my prize when i win.”

“promise, and you can do more than just talk to me, yoichi. i’ll show you what you winning does to me,” your stylist unzips your heels and you step out of the constricting leather, glad to be back on your feet. a small, gentle mewl slips down the line right into yoichi’s ear. for a second, his cheeks flush pink through the camera lens. “fuck.” you gasp in relief.

“dirty girl, don’t get me excited, i’ll be thinkin’ about it for the rest of the game.”

“sorry,” comes your giggle.

“you’re not at all,” isagi’s cheery voice barely hides his visceral desire building for you. yet, you see it in his stance — squared shoulders and locked jaw. “keep your eyes on me, kay?”

“always.”

you end the call just before half time finishes up. the screen floods with other players from the japan team, nagi who you recognise and rin as well — friends of your boyfriend not boyfriend. they shove at his shoulders — teasing him no doubt for his sudden amped up motivation but it seemingly lifts the spirits of his entire team.

a makeup wipe is tossed your way, you swipe it off in trance and with a shaky hand as you anticipate isagi’s next move. whether he does manage to score a goal or not, you’ll be waiting for his call after ninety minutes all the same.

you quickly find out — ten minutes into the second half, that isagi takes bets just as seriously as he does his intentions towards you. along with thousands of others, you watch him kick off grass into the air — power wound up into his thick thighs as his legs sweeping upwards in a scissor motion. he strikes the ball directly into the top left corner of his options goal with ease. hitting the ground with a dull thud.

you still. the world stills.

and then: he sits up, grass and mud struck across his tanned cheek — ocean eyes looking for you in the camera once more. yoichi winks, blowing a kiss your way from across the globe.

“that one’s for you, baby.” he says with pride.

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