04. PHYSICAL THERAPY

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Three days from that moment, and you have not made a single lick of progress. More or less, you either don't exist to the team, or you're only mentioned when a conversation about girls happens when they get changed. Locker room talk is something you do not want to hear, and you wish that you hadn't at this point.

To be fair, there were a few guys who didn't treat you as horribly as you described. The brutish, muscular guy, Kunigami, was nice enough to you—not more than being generally civil, but you took what you got—and that guy with a charming smile, Kuon, and even sometimes that jet-black haired boy, who you learned was Isagi, would greet you in the mornings and wave in the hallways. His friend beside him was a lot more friendly, it seemed because he was the crazy boy who kicked that baldie in the face.

"[name]! [name]!" Bachira stretched out the last syllable of your name the second time he said it, sitting by your side and pulling on your sleeve. "Lemme see your notebook!"

"For the last time—no!" You tug the book closer to your chest. It wasn't like you had any dirty secrets in there or anything, but you didn't want anybody to look through your personal stuff. This was a reasonable boundary, right? Not to Bachira.

"Whyyyyyy?!" His lips form into a childish pout, cheeks puffed out and swinging his bare feet around next to your head, making you shoot him a nasty glare (that you seemed to have picked up from bleach-head, go figure) and scoot over. "Unless you have any gross things in there... or any secrets... then I don't know why you would care if I see it or not!"

You shove his feet away from your head with your elbow, refusing to touch his bare feet with your bare hands. "Ugh—ew! Your feet are disgusting!"

Was it like you to be so blatantly rude to somebody? Not really. You usually knew how to hold your tongue to people but this—this was a type of person you absolutely could not stand. Isagi comes running in your direction, apologising to you loudly and grabbing Bachira by the ankles, ignoring how the other male started cackling wildly, screaming, "I'm ticklish! Stawwp!!! Isagiiii!!"

You take a seat back in your original spot, letting out a heavy sigh and slumping down, notebook discarded on the spot next to you.

What a hassle.

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Night fell, and you lay in your bed, eyes wide open and staring up at the ceiling. You find yourself mentally counting the dips in the paint, and you stop, thinking to yourself that you've really lost it now. Images flash in your eyes, and you remember the looks the others gave you when you had that encounter with the long-haired boy—the awkward expressions and uncomfortable stares haunt your thoughts. You scrunch up your face, cringing at the memories.

You jolt up from your lying position, sitting up in your bed and staring into the distance. You needed to do something. And your legs were starting to ache. You might as well do some physical therapy—since you had nothing else better to do. I'm sure Ego doesn't care if I use the training equipment or not.

You hop out of bed—still in your matching pyjama set that consisted of a tank top with shorts—and slip on some white slippers, locking your room door before you make your way to the training room, which was intended for soccer player use.

Oh well. I think I still count.

You switch on the lights, and place a towel and water bottle next to you, as you sit on a machine and begin. You stretch your legs out under the machine, biting back a wince from the strain (you had forgotten to do this for a few days now, so it was entirely your fault) and lifting them up and down.

You stare down at your legs. They aren't pretty. You wore tights every single day since you got many jagged scars from the crash. You never really minded the scars—it was just when others stared, it made you feel uncomfortable. If they couldn't see them, then they couldn't say anything—that was how you thought.

After a few more minutes of the same rep, you take a break, wiping your forehead and leaning back, breathing heavily. How long has it been? You've forgotten—and now, you're paying the price for it. You place your legs back under the machine and are about to start lifting again when there is a creak.

Despite looking so technological, it seemed that the doors here weren't all that good. They were loud—and that was what gave away the fact somebody was at the door, presumably watching you. You narrow your eyes at the dark crack between the door, and you can barely make out a figure standing there. "What?"

You don't break eye contact when a boy with bright red hair walks in, nor do you falter when he stares right back, face blank. You purse your lips, about to speak, when he does it for you—breaking the tense silence.

"Are you... working out?"

You scoff, turning your head away and removing your legs from the machine. "I don't think it matters if I am or not."

Chigiri doesn't react to your remark—or maybe he does, and you just didn't notice because you weren't looking at him—and only places his bag down, taking a seat on another piece of equipment across from you. "If you are, then that's the wrong set for leg muscles. You're using the wrong mode."

"I'm not trying to work out," you breathe out through your nose, feeling your chest tense up. You swallow thickly before speaking, "I'm doing physical therapy for my legs. I've forgotten since I've been here, and now I realise how stupid I was."

And now, you realise how stupid you sound, telling this to somebody who couldn't give less of a shit about you or your problems. You bite down on the inside of your cheek, staring down at a single spot on the floor.

He speaks while he unpacks a few things from his bag, yet doesn't look at you once, "I thought so."

You squint at him—at his ridiculously long hair—and tilt your head a little closer to him. "What?"

"It just looked like you were. Also, because your form is terrible if you did want to train your muscles," you can't help but think this is a call-back to your first-ever conversation, and you mentally cringe again, pressing your lips tightly together.

"I know," you place your legs back under the machine, shuffling a bit and leaning forward.

You both don't say anything after this, both working on your things in silence. It didn't feel as hostile as it did when he first entered the room, and it was more that you both just didn't acknowledge the other.

After your second rep, you lean back and let out a few heavy breaths. A thin layer of sweat sheens over your skin, and you feel your stomach tense. Despite that—your legs did feel better and didn't feel nearly as tensed up and tight as before. Curiosity gets the better of you, and you take a glance over the Chigiri's way, seeing that he is doing almost the exact same thing as you, except with only one of his legs.

You watch him for a little longer until he notices—or just stares back—and you quickly look away, choosing to avert your gaze in the other direction instead. He doesn't stop looking at you, though, and the longer he does, the more your stomach swirls.

You finally stare back at him, meeting his pretty pink eyes. "Are you... also doing physical therapy?"

He looks away, back to his leg before he answers you. "Yeah."

"Okay." You say, tapping your fingers against the leather of your seat. You keep doing this until he speaks again.

"If you're done, you don't have to stay here with me." 

Quickly, you turn your body back to your original direction, ears flushing hot as you murmur, "I'm not." You quickly get back to your third and final set of reps, trying your best to focus. But it's hard, especially when you're so curious. Curious about him.

Chigiri seemed to have finished his second set already, leaning back and taking a few seconds to catch his breath. You glance at him for a moment, then quickly look away, scrunching up your nose. "... What happened?"

He stares at you incredulously for a few seconds—like he can't believe you asked that, and frankly, you can't either.

Quickly, you add, "You don't have to. But... I'll tell you if you tell me."

Chigiri looks away, going back to his own thing, and you think you have your answer. This was embarrassing. You grab your water bottle and sip from it a few times, wiping your lips and putting it back into your bag, along with your damp towel. You sit there in silence for a few more seconds, before you turn the machine you were using back to its original setting, and get up.

"It was just a sports injury." He says, and you pause in your movement as soon as his boyish voice rings out through the room. You sit back down, staring at him as if to ask him to continue. You aren't too sure whether he could tell from your expression—but he does, anyway. "I tore a muscle and then fell, and broke something. Apparently, I have some sort of special bone, so, if I tear it just once more, I'll never be able to run around again."

You purse your lips, unsure of what to say. He speaks for you, "I don't want you to pity me or anything for it. I'm not even planning on running around a whole lot during the matches here. The only reason I came to Blue Lock was to find a reason to quit, anyway."

You glance at your shoes, then back at him. "... Then, you might as well sit out. I just don't understand. If you don't run, then you don't play. I don't think the rest of the team would care too much. They'll probably be happy with less competition."

Chigiri grips the edge of his seat tight, and his brows furrow and you suddenly feel a sense of deja vu—waiting for him to tell you to get lost or go away—when he doesn't. "I... can't. I can't just sit out. My body... won't let me."

You shrug, leaning forward in your seat. By this point, you two were facing each other, so you could stare at him easily, "Well, then it's simple. You do want to play."

He cringes, "It's not just that simple. I don't—"

"It is that simple," you cut him off swiftly and he stares at you in shock. You carelessly swing your feet across the tiles, something that bothers him. "You do want to play, you're just scared. I don't get why. It's just a sport. You can either do it or get off the field."

Your blunt words make a flash of anger fuel up within his eyes, and he grips his fist, scowling, "You..." But he stops, catching himself and looking down, hair covering his eyes. What is he even doing? This is stupid. You're stupid.

"I got into a car crash." You say suddenly, and very casually, as if this is second nature to you. Chigiri snaps out of whatever stupor he is in and listens. "A year ago. It messed up my legs. I used to play soccer too. After that, I couldn't even run properly, so obviously I couldn't play. I wasn't all that amazing at it and I didn't have an ego for it or anything, all I cared about was how much money I would get from each game. That's the only reason I'm here, too. I want the money."

Once again, your blunt and straightforward answer soothes a certain part of his heart, and the fact that he knows that you don't try to lie or sugar-coat things makes him respect you—even if it is just a sliver.

Chigiri purses his lips, also unsure of what to say. He knows that he hates it when people try to say that they're sorry this happened to him because that's not what he wants to hear. But now, that he's listening to you—with an injury worse than his—he isn't sure what else he can say.

"I mean, I don't think it's that big of a deal." You lean back casually. You look fine. Your tone of voice shows that you don't care. "I never really enjoyed soccer the way others did, anyway."

You say, and you look like you mean those words.

But Chigiri stares. He stares, and he watches how your eyes twitch, or even how you stare at the wall—like you're being enveloped in a memory that you wish to forget. That look—that careless, mindless look that he knows all well—shows how much you're trying to forget. But he doesn't know you. As much as he wants to say this—Chigiri barely knows your name, and he doesn't know the first thing about you, much less you do him.

"I..." He stops himself, not knowing what he is planning to say. His heart squeezes, and looking at your confused face—he feels like maybe, he was a bit too harsh to you in your first meeting. "I... think you would've been a great soccer player."

He says simply, words falling out of his mouth like vomit before he can stop them. You don't react for a few seconds, staring dumbly, before you smile, stretching across your lips in a wonderful grin. 

"Thanks, Chigiri," you say his name with a sense of fondness that makes him wonder how long it has been since you've told anybody about this—or ever had somebody that could understand you the way he could, he thinks, as he looks down at his leg. "I... think you're going to be a great soccer player as well."

Your use of present tense does not pass by him, but he decides against mentioning it. "... Thank you."

You give a curt nod and a small smile before you promptly pack up your things and leave in silence. Chigiri is now alone in the training room, and yet, he feels much less lonely than he did when he first came in.

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