Chapter Text
No matter how many games Gojo Satoru plays, nothing will ever dim the pregame adrenaline, when every sound from the field roars through his body like a wave, then collapses in on itself to yield a singular, quiet focus as soon as his feet touch the field. The stands could be on fire, but nothing would shake the impenetrable bubble of determined energy around him.
Even though he is a coach now, the same feeling persists. The rhythmic clicking of cleat studs on the locker room floor. The glowing brightness at the end of the players’ tunnel. The crisp scent of freshly watered turf. The low rumble of of noise that crescendos into a symphony of chants. He drinks all of it in with unbridled joy.
Today is his first El Clásico as a coach. He’s played in many before, but it’s an entirely new experience wrangling a whole team’s nerves and directing their play. It’s an odd but satisfying feeling coaching some of the young men he took under his wing while he was still a player. He watches with pride as his newest protégée, Itadori Yuuji, walks onto the field for his first clásico. The directors didn’t want the talented youngster, seeing that he was selected from a D-tier high school squad and hadn’t trained at any elite soccer academies. But Satoru had fought to bring him onto the first team, telling them that if he didn’t perform well, they could cut him at the end of the season. His bargain only fueled whispered complaints about his reckless coaching style, but he doesn’t care. He’s determined to keep the pink-haired teenager, no matter the cost.
Although the players have already been announced, the crowd still roars when Satoru steps on the field. The screen above him plays highlights from his club career — a glint of white hair flashes against the green. He retired from playing recently, so he still has thousands of fans in the stands wearing his uniform and screaming his name. With an assured smile, he shakes hands with the referees and walks over to his box on the sidelines. As he surveys the crowd, he senses a familiar presence hovering near him, just across the midfield line. Once upon a time that figure ran beside him on the field on the same side of the pitch. But no matter the circumstances, the grass still smells the same, and he is all too familiar.
“Satoru,” the man calls out.
The years condense into a single point.