Later that evening, after Sumire had gone to find a hotel and promised to return the next day, Hiro's phone buzzed again.
He expected it to be her. Instead, it was a name he hadn't seen in a while.
Shun.
I heard about the injury. Are you okay?
Hiro stared at the message. Shun—his childhood friend, the goalkeeper for Real Sociedad. They had grown up together at Kawasaki Frontale's youth academy, two kids who dreamed of Europe and somehow made it.
I'm alive, Hiro typed back. The surgery went well. Recovery starts now.
A few seconds passed. Then the phone rang.
Hiro answered.
"You sound like a robot," Shun's voice came through. "Don't do that. I know you better than that."
Hiro felt something loosen in his chest. "Shun—"
"Don't. Don't try to be strong with me." There was a pause. "I saw the tackle. I watched it ten times. You didn't see it coming. That's not like you."
Hiro closed his eyes. "I was distracted."
"By what?"
