Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The unfamiliar weight of civilian clothes felt strange against (Name)'s skin as she stood before the modest front door, a package clutched in her hands. Her usual work attire of crisp suits and skirts had been replaced by short grey shorts, a large desaturated navy zip-up hoodie, and a black cap pulled low over her hair.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, an unusual display of uncertainty from someone who typically approached every situation with mathematical precision. The package in her hands contained fanmail - specifically, a letter from a child addressed to Isagi Yoichi. She had discovered it while methodically clearing out the old Bastard Münchën bay, being her characteristically responsible self in ensuring nothing important was left behind.

The rational part of her brain had initially suggested discarding it. After all, fanmail wasn't technically her responsibility. But when she'd glimpsed the childish handwriting and the earnest drawing attached to the note, something had stirred in her chest - an emotion she couldn't quite calculate or categorize. Guilt, perhaps. Or maybe something softer that she refused to acknowledge.

The doorbell chimed with a pleasant melody that seemed almost too cheerful for her current mood. Within moments, she heard footsteps approaching, and the door swung open to reveal a woman in her forties with kind eyes and slightly flushed cheeks, clearly in the middle of preparing dinner.

"Oh!" the woman exclaimed, looking surprised but not unwelcoming. "Can I help you, dear?"

Before (Name) could respond, she heard a familiar voice from deeper in the house calling out with mild irritation, "Mom, who's interrupting dinner now? We just sat down and-"

Isagi Yoichi appeared behind his mother, his complaint dying mid-sentence as his eyes landed on (Name). His expression shifted through several phases - surprise, confusion, and then something that might have been pleasure, though he tried to mask it quickly.

"(Name)?" he said, blinking as if he couldn't quite believe she was standing on his doorstep. "What are you... how did you..."

(Name) straightened her shoulders, falling back on the formality that always served as her shield. "I apologize for the intrusion. I found this among the belongings left in the Bastard Münchën bay." She held up the package, her voice taking on its usual clinical tone. "It's fanmail addressed to you. From a child. I thought..." She paused, realizing she didn't actually have a logical explanation for why she'd felt compelled to deliver it personally. "I thought you should have it."

Mrs. Isagi's eyes widened with recognition. "Oh my! You're (Name)-chan, aren't you? Yo-chan's manager!"

"Yo-chan?" (Name) repeated, her brow furrowing slightly as she glanced between mother and son.

"That's what Mom calls me," Isagi explained, a faint pink tinge coloring his cheeks. "It's embarrassing, but she's done it since I was little."

Mrs. Isagi clapped her hands together, completely ignoring her son's embarrassment. "This is wonderful! Yo-chan talks about you non-stop about how amazing
you are with all those numbers and statistics. Please, please come in! You simply must join us for dinner!"

"That's not necessary," (Name) began, taking a small step backward. She could read the situation well enough to know that Isagi looked uncomfortable, and her limited people skills suggested that meant she was unwelcome. Well, at least that's what she thought.. "I should leave you to your family dinner-"

"Nonsense!" Mrs. Isagi was already reaching forward, gently but firmly guiding (Name) by the elbow. "Any friend of Yo-chan's is family here. Besides, we were just celebrating his success in Blue Lock. It's perfect timing!"

"Mom, she doesn't have to-" Isagi started, but his protest lacked conviction. In fact, there was something in his expression that suggested he wasn't entirely opposed to the idea.

"I insist, (L/n)-chan!" Mrs. Isagi continued, using the familiar suffix that made (Name) blink in surprise. No one outside of her immediate family had ever called her that. "We have plenty of food, and I'd love to hear more about Blue Lock from someone who's been working so closely with our Yo-chan."

Before she quite knew how it had happened, (Name) found herself being ushered through the entrance hall and toward the warm, inviting sounds and smells of a family dinner. She caught Isagi's eye as she passed him, noting the way he seemed to be studying her casual outfit with curious interest.

"Sorry about this," he murmured as they walked toward the dining room. "Mom gets... enthusiastic about guests. Especially ones connected to Blue Lock."

"It's fine," (Name) replied, though she felt anything but fine. The domestic atmosphere was so foreign to her that she might as well have been on another planet.
The dining room was small but cozy, with a table with 4 matching chairs and seat cushions. Mr. Isagi looked up from his bowl of rice as they entered, his face immediately brightening when he saw his son return with their unexpected guest.

"Well, well!" he said, setting down his chopsticks. "And who might this be?"

"This is (Name)," Isagi said, and something in the way he said her name made her stomach flutter inexplicably. "She's the manager for Bastard Münchën. The one I've been telling you about."

"(L/n)-chan brought Yo-chan some fanmail that got left behind," Mrs. Isagi explained as she bustled about, quickly setting another place at the table. "Wasn't that thoughtful of her?"

Mr. Isagi's face lit up with the same enthusiasm his wife had shown. "The famous manager! We've heard so much about you. Please, sit, sit! You're just in time for my wife's celebration dinner for our all-star here."

(Name) found herself seated beside Isagi, acutely aware of how out of place she felt in her casual clothes among this warm, chattering family. She bowed her head appropriately and gave her thanks before the meal began, but the words felt strange in this context - too formal for the relaxed atmosphere, yet necessary for her own sense of order.

Isagi seemed to sense her discomfort and leaned slightly closer, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "Just relax. They're harmless, I promise."

The gesture was unexpectedly sweet, and (Name) felt some of the tension leave her shoulders. She watched as Isagi dug into his pork cutlet with obvious enthusiasm, his parents beaming at him with the kind of uncomplicated pride that (Name) had never experienced firsthand.

"Eat up, Yo-chan!" Mrs. Isagi encouraged, spooning more rice into his bowl. "You've been working so hard. You need to keep your strength up for the World Cup!"

"And you too, (L/n)-chan," Mr. Isagi added, turning his attention to (Name). "Being a manager must be exhausting work. All those statistics and strategies - it's like being a mathematician and a psychologist rolled into one!"

(Name) paused with her chopsticks halfway to her mouth. "I... wouldn't say psychologist. I'm not particularly good with people."

"Oh, but you must be!" Mrs. Isagi protested. "Yo-chan says you can predict exactly what the players will do before they even know it themselves. That takes understanding people, doesn't it?"

"That's different," (Name) said carefully. "That's just... patterns. Numbers. People are predictable when you reduce them to data points."

Isagi shot her a sideways look that was equal parts amused and exasperated. "You make it sound so cold when you put it like that."

"Isn't it?" (Name) replied, genuinely curious about his perspective.

"No way," Isagi said, shaking his head. "The way you analyze our plays, it's not just about the numbers. You see things that matter to us as individuals. Like how you noticed that Kunigami's shooting angle had changed after he came back, or how you adjusted Yukimiya's position rotations to accommodate his vision problems without making him feel singled out."

(Name) stared at him, genuinely surprised. She hadn't realized he'd been paying such close attention to her methods, or that he'd interpreted them as anything more than efficient management.

"That was just logical optimization," she said, but her voice lacked its usual certainty.

"Maybe," Isagi said, his blue eyes holding hers with an intensity that made her stomach flutter again. "But logic with heart behind it is something special."

The conversation was interrupted by Mr. Isagi, who had been listening with growing interest. "You know, we watched that first offer event where you got into that scuffle with the other manager. We were cheering for you the whole time!"

"You were defending Yo-chan's team," Mrs. Isagi added with approval. "That girl was being disrespectful, saying you didn't care about your players. Anyone could see how much you care just by watching you work."

(Name) felt heat rise in her cheeks - not quite a blush, but close. "I was simply... correcting misinformation. Her approach was inefficient and misleading to potential sponsors."

"See?" Isagi said with a grin that was part teasing, part fond. "Logic with heart."

Before (Name) could formulate a response to that, the doorbell rang again, interrupting the comfortable flow of conversation. Mrs. Isagi looked surprised as she rose to answer it.

"Who could that be at this hour?" she wondered aloud.

She returned moments later with a delivery person who handed over a package before departing with a polite bow. The package was clearly from Blue Lock - (Name) recognized the official sealing and labeling immediately.

"It's for you, Yo-chan," Mrs. Isagi said, setting it down beside Isagi's place at the table.

Isagi opened it carefully, revealing a plane ticket and an official letter bearing Ego's distinctive signature. Beneath those were several discs that made (Name) lean forward with interest.

"Match recordings," she said immediately, recognizing the labeling system. "Knowing Ego, probably footage of our upcoming opponents."

"Our upcoming opponents?" Mr. Isagi asked, his eyes lighting up with curiosity.

Isagi looked up from the letter, his expression a mixture of excitement and something more complex - perhaps trepidation. "The World Cup teams. The groups we'll be facing."

"What's that Ego fellow like?" Mrs. Isagi asked, settling back down at the table. "We hear his name so much, but we've never really understood what kind of person he is."

(Name) and Isagi exchanged a look, and she found herself speaking in unison with him:

"Totally unsociable and says what he means."

They paused, blinking at each other in surprise at their synchronization, then continued, alternating observations:

"Radical, with his own philosophy," Isagi added.

"Unconventional methods that somehow produce results," (Name) continued.

"He believes more than anybody that Japan will win the World Cup."

Isagi nodded, his expression growing more serious. "Jinpachi Ego is the craziest, most fascinating guy in the world," he said quietly. "And he's the benefactor of my dream."

The weight of those words settled over the table, and (Name) found herself studying Isagi's profile as he spoke. There was something in his voice - a depth of gratitude and determination that made her chest tighten unexpectedly.

Mr. Isagi reached across the table to pat his son's shoulder. "You know, Yo-chan, no matter how much you change, no matter how far this dream takes you, the fact that we're your family will never change."

Mrs. Isagi nodded earnestly, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "You're in a world of competition now, where you might get hurt or have to hurt others. But no matter what happens, your father and I will always be watching over you. This will always be your home - the place you return to."

Isagi's composure cracked slightly at his parents' words, and he bowed his head. "Thank you," he said quietly. "Both of you. For everything."

(Name) watched this exchange with something approaching fascination. The easy affection between the three family members was so foreign to her own experience that it felt like observing an entirely different species. Yet there was something about it that made her chest ache in a way she couldn't quantify.

She began to shift slightly, preparing to excuse herself from what was clearly a private family moment, when Isagi's voice stopped her.

"Aren't you staying to review these videos with me?"

The question hung in the air, and (Name) found herself meeting his gaze again. There was something in his blue eyes - not quite pleading, but hopeful in a way that made her heartbeat stutter.

"I..." she began, then stopped, trying to organize her thoughts logically. "It would be beneficial to have multiple perspectives on the analysis. Your tactical instincts combined with my statistical processing could yield more comprehensive insights."

It was a perfectly rational explanation, she told herself. The fact that something in Isagi's expression when he'd asked the question had made her stomach flutter was entirely irrelevant.

"Exactly," Isagi said, and his smile was soft in a way that made her feel slightly breathless. "Come on. My room's upstairs."

Mrs. Isagi beamed at them both. "What dedicated young people! Though don't stay up too late, (L/n)-chan. You need your rest too."

As they made their way upstairs, (Name) found herself hyperaware of Isagi's presence beside her. His room was exactly what she might have expected - neat but lived-in, with football magazines stacked on his desk and a Blue Lock training schedule pinned to his bulletin board.

"Sorry it's not much," Isagi said, settling cross-legged on the floor beside his low table and patting the space next to him. "But it's got everything we need for video analysis."

(Name) sat down beside him, acutely conscious of how the casual setting made everything feel more intimate than their usual professional interactions. When Isagi leaned over to insert the first disc, she caught a whiff of his shampoo and found her concentration wavering in a decidedly non-mathematical way.

The first video began playing, showing highlights from various international youth teams. Immediately, both of them fell into their respective analytical modes - Isagi pointing out tactical formations and player movements while (Name) rattled off statistics and probability calculations.

"Look at their defensive line," Isagi said, pausing the video. "They're maintaining a 4-3-3 formation, but watch how their left-back keeps drifting forward during attacks."

"Creating a numerical disadvantage in defensive transitions," (Name) observed, her mind automatically calculating. "Based on their average recovery speed, that leaves them vulnerable to counterattacks for approximately 3.7 seconds per forward movement. If we could time our transitions properly..."

"We could exploit that gap consistently," Isagi finished, his eyes lighting up with understanding. "See? This is why I wanted you to stay. You see the numbers behind what I'm feeling instinctively."

As they continued watching, their discussion gradually shifted from pure analysis to broader reflections on their entire Blue Lock experience. The formal distance that usually characterized their interactions began to dissolve, replaced by something more natural and comfortable.

"I never thought I'd end up here," Isagi admitted during a pause between videos. "When I first failed that high school match, I thought it was over. That I'd never get another chance like this."

"Probability suggested you wouldn't," (Name) said matter-of-factly, then caught herself. "I mean... statistically speaking, the odds of someone in your position making it to this level were quite low."

"Thanks for the confidence boost," Isagi said with a laugh that held no real offense.

"But," (Name) continued, surprising herself, "statistical probability doesn't account for... variables that can't be quantified."

"Like what?"

She found herself studying his profile as he looked at the paused screen. "Determination. The ability to adapt and evolve. That thing you do where you figure out exactly what you need in the moment and somehow make it happen."

Isagi turned to look at her, and she was startled by the intensity in his blue eyes. "You've been paying attention."

"It's my job to pay attention."

"Is that all it is?"

The question hung between them, loaded with implications that (Name)'s logical mind struggled to process. She felt heat rising in her cheeks and turned back to the screen to avoid his gaze.

"We should continue the analysis," she said, her voice slightly strained.

If Isagi noticed her deflection, he didn't comment on it. Instead, he reached for the remote and started the next video. But (Name) found herself stealing glances at him throughout the continued viewing, noting details that had nothing to do with football strategy - the way he unconsciously bit his lower lip when concentrating, the animated gestures he made when explaining a particularly exciting play, the genuine enthusiasm that lit up his entire face when he talked about the game he loved.

"I'm glad we met," Isagi said suddenly, during another pause in the videos. "I know Blue Lock brought us together for professional reasons, but... I'm glad it was you who ended up as our manager."

(Name) felt that fluttering in her chest again, stronger this time. "The statistical probability of our specific pairing was quite low, considering all possible combinations..."

"(Name)."

"Yes?"

"You don't have to turn everything into math to make it safe to talk about."

The observation hit closer to home than she was comfortable with, and she found herself looking down at her hands. "I don't know how else to talk about things."

"Maybe that's okay," Isagi said gently. "Maybe that's just how you process the world. But... sometimes the numbers don't tell the whole story, do they?"

Before she could formulate a response to that unsettling observation, exhaustion began to creep over her. The emotional intensity of the day - from the airport goodbye with Kaiser to this unexpectedly intimate evening with Isagi's family - was taking its toll. Her eyelids grew heavy as they continued watching the videos,

Isagi's steady commentary becoming a soothing background hum.

She didn't realize she was falling asleep until she felt herself listing sideways, her head coming to rest against something warm and solid. In her drowsy state, she was dimly aware of Isagi going very still beside her, then carefully adjusting his position so she could rest more comfortably.

The last thing she was conscious of was a gentle whisper that might have been her imagination: "I'm going to make you the proudest manager in Blue Lock, (Name). Just wait and see."

When she drifted fully into sleep, her usually sharp features softened into something peaceful and unguarded. Isagi found himself studying her face in the dim light from the television screen, noting how much younger she looked without the constant tension she carried during their Blue Lock days.

He carefully extracted himself from beside her and helped her settle more comfortably on his bed, pulling a light blanket over her sleeping form. Then he returned to his spot on the floor, determined to spend the rest of the night analyzing every frame of footage they hadn't gotten to yet.

After all, he had promised to make her proud. And Isagi Yoichi never made promises he didn't intend to keep.

As the night wore on and the videos continued playing, he found his gaze drifting regularly to the girl sleeping peacefully in his bed - the girl who saw the world in numbers and probabilities but somehow still managed to see him, really see him, in ways that mattered.

The girl who had traveled across town just to deliver a piece of fanmail from a child she'd never met.

The girl who calculated everything except, perhaps, the variables of her own heart.

Chapter Text

(Name)'s consciousness returned slowly, like numbers gradually coming into focus on a calculator display. The first thing she registered was wrong—the ceiling above her wasn't the sterile white of her Blue Lock dormitory. This ceiling had a slight crack running diagonally across it, and there was a faint scent of something unfamiliar lingering in the air.

Her eyes snapped open fully, and she sat up with mechanical precision. The room around her was small, lived-in, with football posters covering most of the walls. A desk cluttered with notebooks and pens sat in one corner, and beside it was—

"Isagi," she said flatly, her voice cutting through the quiet morning air.

The blue-haired striker was hunched over his desk, still in yesterday's clothes, surrounded by scattered DVD cases and a laptop displaying freeze-frames of football footage. His shoulders were rigid with exhaustion, and (Name) could see the telltale signs of someone who'd been awake far too long—the slight tremor in his hands as he paused the video, the way his head bobbed slightly as he fought against fatigue.

"You stayed up all night." It wasn't a question. (Name)'s tone carried the same disapproval she reserved for players who ignored tactical instructions during crucial moments.

Isagi turned in his chair, blinking rapidly as if trying to focus his tired eyes. "(Name)! You're awake. I was just—"

"Being an idiot." She stood up from his bed, her movements sharp and efficient despite having just woken up. "Athletic performance requires adequate rest. Sleep deprivation affects reaction time, decision-making, and physical coordination. You know this."

"I wanted to finish reviewing—"

"The tapes will still exist after eight hours of sleep." (Name)'s glare intensified, "Your body needs recovery time to process information effectively. Staying awake doesn't make you more dedicated, it makes you less efficient."

Isagi had the decency to look sheepish, running a hand through his already messy hair. "I got caught up in the analysis. There were patterns I wanted to track, and the way the Spanish strikers position themselves is—"

"Fascinating, I'm sure." (Name)'s attention was caught by movement in her peripheral vision. Isagi was pulling clothes from his dresser and folding them into a suitcase with practiced efficiency. "What are you doing?"

"Packing." He held up a plane ticket, the Blue Lock logo clearly visible on the boarding pass. "You remember the ticket in the parcel?."

(Name) felt something cold settle in her stomach. She reached into her hoodie pocket and pulled out her own ticket—the one Ego had delivered to her apartment the previous evening. Her eyes scanned the details: Barcelona, same flight number, same departure time.

"Ego," she muttered, and somehow managed to pack an entire dissertation of annoyance into those two syllables.

Isagi looked up from his packing. "You got one too?"

"Adjacent seats." She showed him the ticket, her expression flat but her mind racing through calculations. The probability of this being coincidental was approximately zero. Ego's manipulations were usually more subtle than this, but perhaps subtlety wasn't the goal here.

"Makes sense," Isagi said, though he was trying very hard not to look directly at her. "We work well together. For analysis and strategy, I mean."

(Name) studied his face with the same intensity she applied to statistical projections. There was something in his expression—a carefully controlled neutrality that reminded her of herself when she was hiding her reactions. The realization was oddly uncomfortable.

"I need to go home and pack," she said, already moving toward the door. "And you need to sleep on the plane. Your performance metrics will be compromised otherwise."

"(Name), wait—"

She paused at his bedroom door, not turning around. "What?"

"Thanks. For bringing the fan mail yesterday. And for... staying to watch the tapes with me."

Something in his voice made her glance back. Isagi was looking at her with that same expression from the night before—determined and excited, but also oddly vulnerable. Like he was trying to memorize something he was afraid of losing.

"It was strategically beneficial," she said, which was true but not the complete truth. "I'll see you at the airport."

 

Her household was never particularly lively in the mornings, but today it felt especially quiet as (Name) slipped through the front door. Her mother was in the kitchen, already dressed for work, reading something on her tablet while sipping coffee.

"There you are," her mother said without looking up. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd been kidnapped."

"I was analyzing footage with a teammate." (Name) headed for the stairs, already mentally cataloging what she'd need to pack for an indefinite stay in Spain.

"A teammate?" Her mother's head snapped up, and there was something almost comically shocked in her expression. "You mean you have friends now?"

(Name) paused on the bottom step and turned to give her mother the kind of look reserved for particularly stupid mathematical errors. "I have always had adequate social connections for my professional requirements."

"Professional connections, yes. But friends?" Her mother set down her tablet entirely, focusing on (Name) with the intensity of someone witnessing a rare natural phenomenon. "Real friends who invite you to dinner with their families?"

"It wasn't—" (Name) stopped herself. Explaining the circumstances would require admitting she'd felt something resembling guilt about a child's fan mail, which would lead to questions she didn't want to answer. "I need to pack. I'm traveling to Barcelona today."

"Spain? Barcelona?" Her mother's voice rose an octave, hands clasping together in delight. "Oh, (Name), how wonderful! And here I was worried you weren't making friends."

"It's work-related," (Name) corrected, though something about her mother's genuine happiness made her chest feel tight. "Training camp."

"Work, fun, what's the difference when you're seventeen?" Her mother waved a dismissive hand, already moving around the kitchen with renewed energy. "You have to promise me you'll actually enjoy yourself. Buy souvenirs, try the local food, maybe send a postcard to that handsome Noel Noa on my behalf..."

The mention of Noa made (Name)'s jaw clench slightly. Her mother's infatuation with the German striker had been an ongoing source of secondhand embarrassment, though she'd learned not to comment on it directly. Her mother's romantic interests were as volatile and unpredictable as her temper.

"I'll..." (Name) hesitated, then forced herself to continue. "I'll look for something you'd like. In Barcelona."

The words felt clunky and awkward coming out of her mouth, but she meant them. Despite everything, despite the arguments and the emotional chaos that seemed to follow her mother everywhere, (Name) did care. She wanted to bring back something that would make her mother smile the way she was smiling now.

But her mother's expression suddenly changed, the animated excitement freezing into something sharper, more calculating. Her head tilted slightly, eyes studying (Name) with an intensity that made her want to step backward.

"Wow," her mother said slowly, and there was something in her voice that made (Name)'s stomach drop. "You really care for your own mother now?"

The words hit like a physical blow. (Name) felt her carefully constructed composure crack, just slightly, enough for confusion and hurt to seep through. The tone wasn't grateful or touched—it wasn't even accusatory; it was just pure apathetic amusement, as if her care was something foreign.

"I..." (Name) started, then stopped. What was she supposed to say? That of course she cared, that she'd been caring for years while watching her mother cycle through emotional breakdowns and explosive arguments? That she'd learned to be the stable one, the responsible one, because someone had to be?

Her mother was still watching her with that strange expression, as if she was looking for something in (Name)'s face that she couldn't find. As if the simple act of offering to bring back a souvenir was somehow incomprehensible.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with years of miscommunication and unspoken resentments. (Name) realized, with the cold clarity that numbers provided, that her mother truly didn't understand her. Had never understood her. All those years of thinking her mother could read her intentions, could see past her stoic exterior to the caring beneath—it had been wishful thinking.

Numbers didn't lie. People did, even when they weren't trying to. Even when they were your own mother.

"I should pack," (Name) said finally, her voice perfectly level despite the hollow feeling expanding in her chest.

Her mother nodded, the strange moment passing as quickly as it had come. "Of course, of course. Don't forget sunscreen—Spanish sun is stronger than Japanese sun."

(Name) nodded and headed toward her room, each step feeling heavier than the last. Behind her, she could hear her mother humming as she started making breakfast, apparently unbothered by the tension that had just passed between them.

In her room, (Name) methodically packed her suitcase with the same precision she applied to everything else. Clothes folded into perfect squares, toiletries organized in a clear bag, her laptop and charger secured in a protective case. Each item had its place, its purpose, its function. Unlike human emotions, packing made sense.

She was zipping up her suitcase when her phone buzzed with a text from Isagi: "Meeting at the airport in two hours?."

"Affirmative," she typed back. "Try to stay on schedule."

She stared at the message for a moment before hitting send, then gathered her things and headed for the door. Her mother called goodbye from the kitchen, voice bright and cheerful as if nothing had happened. (Name) responded automatically, but the words felt hollow in her mouth.

Outside, the morning air was crisp and clear, and she could calculate exactly how long it would take to reach the airport, accounting for traffic patterns and departure protocols. Numbers were reliable. Numbers made sense.

People, apparently, did not.

 

The airport was exactly as sterile and efficient as (Name) preferred public spaces to be. She found Isagi easily enough—he was hard to miss, standing near their gate with his distinctive blue hair and an expression that suggested he was trying very hard not to look as tired as he felt.

"Did you sleep at all after I left?" she asked as she approached.

"A little," he lied.

"Your reaction time is going to be compromised for the next twelve to sixteen hours," she informed him matter-of-factly. "Whatever Ego has planned in Spain, you'll be operating at suboptimal capacity."

"I'll manage." Isagi shouldered his bag as their boarding group was called. "I always do."

"Managing and excelling are not the same thing." (Name) followed him toward the gate, her own luggage rolling smoothly behind her. "Adequate performance won't be sufficient if Ego is involved. His training programs are designed to push players beyond their normal limits."

They handed over their boarding passes and made their way down the jet bridge. (Name) had flown before—Blue Lock's budget apparently extended to comfortable travel arrangements—but she still felt a familiar spike of anticipation as they boarded the plane.

Their seats were indeed adjacent, and (Name) couldn't help but notice that they were in business class. Ego's manipulations extended to ensuring they'd be comfortable during the long flight to Madrid.

"Window or aisle?" Isagi asked, though he was already moving toward the window seat.

"Aisle. I prefer easy access to facilities." (Name) settled into her seat and immediately began organizing her carry-on bag. She'd brought her tablet, several notebooks, and a collection of pens arranged by ink color and tip size.

Isagi was looking out the window as other passengers continued boarding. "It's weird, isn't it? A few months ago, I was just another high school player. Now I'm flying to Spain for some mysterious training as 'Blue Lock's prodigy'..."

"Probability and preparation intersected with opportunity," (Name) said, pulling out her tablet. "Your improvement metrics have been consistently above average since joining Blue Lock. This outcome was statistically likely."

"You make it sound so mathematical."

"Because it is mathematical. Success in football, like everything else, can be quantified and predicted through proper analysis." She opened a spreadsheet displaying Isagi's performance data over the past several months. "Your shot accuracy has improved by twelve percent, your field awareness ratings have increased by eight percent, and your ability to adapt to new tactical systems has shown a twenty-three percent improvement."

Isagi leaned over slightly to look at her screen, and (Name) became suddenly aware of how close he was. Close enough that she could smell his shampoo and see the individual eyelashes framing his blue eyes.

"You track all of that?" he asked, his voice quieter than usual.

"I track everything relevant to team performance." (Name)'s voice remained steady, but she felt oddly warm despite the airplane's air conditioning. "It's my job to maximize the probability of victory."

"Is that all I am to you? Performance metrics and probability calculations?"

The question caught her off guard. (Name) turned to look at him properly and found herself facing that same intense expression from the night before. As if he were searching for something specific in her face.

"You are the striker with the highest potential value among Blue Lock participants," she said carefully. "Your ability to evolve during matches and adapt to new circumstances makes you strategically significant."

"That's not what I asked."

The plane began to taxi toward the runway, and the flight attendants started their safety demonstration. (Name) watched the presentation with apparent focus,

but her mind was racing through calculations that had nothing to do with football statistics.

What was Isagi, exactly, beyond the numbers and metrics she tracked so carefully? He was dedicated, certainly. Determined to the point of obsession. He had a way of looking at complex tactical situations and finding patterns that even she sometimes missed. He was also frustratingly optimistic, prone to emotional decision-making, and had an annoying habit of pushing himself past reasonable limits.

But there was something else—something in the way he'd whispered to her sleeping form the night before, thinking she couldn't hear. Something in the careful way he'd made sure she was comfortable in his room, the gentle pat on the shoulder he'd given her during the press conference, the look in his eyes when he'd asked if she was staying to watch the tapes with him.

"You are..." (Name) started, then stopped. The words she wanted to say felt too large, too complicated for her usual precise language. "Strategically important," she finished lamely.

Isagi was quiet for a long moment, staring out the window as the plane picked up speed for takeoff. "Right. Strategically important."

Something in his tone made (Name)'s chest feel tight. She didn't like the sensation—it was imprecise, unquantifiable, impossible to solve with formulas or statistics. She opened her mouth to say something else, to maybe try to explain what she couldn't quite articulate, but the plane lifted off the ground and the moment passed.

A flight attendant interrupted the silence, asking if they wanted anything to drink. (Name) ordered coffee, optimal for maintaining alertness during long flights.

Isagi got apple juice, which was so predictably normal that it almost made her smile.

As the flight progressed, they fell into an easy rhythm. (Name) reviewed match footage on her tablet while Isagi watched over her shoulder, occasionally pointing out plays that caught his attention. Their observations complemented each other naturally—her mathematical precision highlighting patterns that his intuitive understanding could interpret and expand upon.

"Look at this passing sequence," Isagi said, pointing to a particularly complex play. "The timing is incredible, but the spacing..."

"Is calculated to maximize pressure while minimizing defensive coverage," (Name) finished, her fingers flying across the tablet as she pulled up related statistics.

"Average success rate of 78.3% when executed under similar conditions."

"Exactly. But watch how the striker moves—there's something almost instinctive about it that the numbers might not capture."

It was this kind of collaboration that made their partnership so effective. (Name) could provide the mathematical foundation, but Isagi's intuitive understanding of football added dimensions that pure statistics couldn't account for.

Hours passed without her realizing it. At some point, the flight attendants dimmed the cabin lights and most passengers settled in to sleep or watch movies.

(Name) found herself oddly reluctant to return to her individual analysis, comfortable in this shared space where her logical mind could work alongside Isagi's instinctive understanding.

"Want to watch something?" Isagi asked, pulling out his tablet and offering her one of his earbuds.

"We should continue reviewing footage," she said, though without her usual conviction.

"Come on, we've been working for hours. Even machines need maintenance breaks."

The comparison to a machine should have been insulting, but coming from Isagi it felt almost affectionate. He was already scrolling through the available movies, his movements casual and unhurried.

"My Neighbor Totoro?" he suggested, and something in his voice suggested this wasn't a random choice.

"Seriously?" (Name) said, though she found herself accepting the offered earbud.

"Not everything has to be analytical," Isagi pouted, before starting the movie with a smile that was becoming dangerously familiar.

As the opening credits began, (Name) told herself she was only watching to ensure Isagi got adequate rest before their arrival in Barcelona. It was purely practical—an exhausted player was a liability, and maintaining his optimal performance was her responsibility as his manager.

But as the story unfolded, she found herself drawn into the simple magic of it. The way the young girl faced uncertainty with determination, the bonds between family members, the moments of wonder that existed outside logical explanation.

"I always wanted a little sister after watching this," Isagi said quietly during a particularly touching scene. "Someone to dote on, you know?"

"Haru essentially fills that role now," (Name) replied without thinking. "Though her energy levels far exceed those of a typical sibling dynamic."

Isagi laughed—a soft sound that seemed to resonate in the space between her ribs. "True. Though I'm not sure anyone could handle Haru's energy levels long-term."

They continued watching in comfortable silence, the movie's gentle pace a stark contrast to the usual intensity of their Blue Lock environment. (Name) found herself stealing glances at Isagi's profile, noting the way he smiled at the characters' small victories, the unconscious way he relaxed as the story progressed.

When the credits rolled, neither of them moved to put their tablets away. The cabin around them was quiet, most passengers lost in sleep or their own entertainment. Outside the small window, clouds drifted past like cotton balls against the deepening sky.

"The sunset looks incredible from up here," Isagi said, leaning closer to peer out the window.

(Name) followed his gaze, taking in the explosion of orange and pink that painted the sky in shades no mathematical formula could adequately describe. It was beautiful in a way that transcended analysis—pure aesthetic appreciation that required no logical justification.

"It's... optimal viewing conditions," she said, which was perhaps the least romantic way possible to describe a sunset at 35,000 feet.

Isagi's quiet laughter told her he understood exactly what she meant.

"So," he said, settling back in his seat but remaining angled toward her. "What do you think Ego's real plan is? With this trip, I mean."

(Name) considered the question, her mind automatically running through possible scenarios and motivations. "Enhanced collaboration between manager and player. Exposure to European tactical approaches. Team bonding exercises disguised as work assignments."

"Team bonding," Isagi repeated, something thoughtful in his expression. "Is that what this is?"

"Statistically, shared experiences outside the competitive environment do improve working relationships," she replied, though the clinical explanation felt inadequate for whatever was happening between them.

"Right. Working relationships."

There was something almost wistful in his tone that made her look at him more closely. His blue eyes were fixed on the window, watching the last traces of sunset fade into darkness, but she could see the reflection of her own face in the glass.

"Isagi."

He turned back to her, and for a moment the space between them felt charged with possibilities she couldn't quite calculate. The rational part of her mind was screaming warnings about maintaining professional boundaries, about the complications that personal relationships could introduce to their carefully balanced team dynamic.

But another part—a part that seemed to grow stronger every time he looked at her with that soft, determined expression—whispered that maybe some things were worth the risk.

"Yes?"

The question hung between them, simple and complex all at once. (Name) found herself studying his face, noting the way his attention focused entirely on her when she spoke, the patience in his expression as he waited for her to organize her thoughts into words.

"The match tomorrow," she said finally, falling back on safer ground. "Barcelona's striker has a 67.8% success rate from the penalty area, but drops to 34.2% under high-pressure defensive coverage."

If Isagi was disappointed by her retreat into statistics, he didn't show it. Instead, he nodded thoughtfully, already shifting into the analytical mindset that made their collaboration so effective.

"We should pay attention to how they create space, then. If their success rate drops under pressure, it means they're not adapting their positioning effectively."

"Exactly. Though their midfield compensation strategies might account for some of that deficit..."

They spent the remaining hours of the flight like this, moving seamlessly between tactical analysis and comfortable conversation. (Name) found herself relaxing in ways she rarely allowed—letting her guard down just enough to appreciate the easy rhythm they'd developed, the way Isagi's presence made even the most routine tasks feel somehow more engaging.

When the pilot announced their descent into Barcelona, (Name) felt an unexpected flutter of anticipation that had nothing to do with the upcoming match analysis. Fifteen hours in close quarters with Isagi had introduced variables into her mental equations that she was still struggling to solve.

As they gathered their belongings and prepared to disembark, Isagi caught her eye with that familiar warm smile.

"Ready for Barcelona?"

(Name) adjusted her carry-on bag and straightened her shoulders, falling back into her usual composed efficiency. But underneath the familiar mask of professional competence, new calculations were running—complex equations involving proximity and collaboration and the dangerous possibility that some partnerships transcended mere strategic advantage.

"Ready," she said, though she suspected the word meant something entirely different than either of them was prepared to acknowledge.

The plane touched down in Barcelona as the sun began to rise, painting the Spanish sky in shades that reminded her of the sunset they'd watched together hours earlier. And despite all her careful analysis and logical preparation, (Name) couldn't shake the feeling that this trip was going to change her calculations in ways she hadn't anticipated.

But for once, the uncertainty didn't feel like a problem to be solved.

It felt like a possibility to be explored.

Chapter Text

The hotel room door clicked shut behind them with a finality that made (Name)'s stomach twist in an unfamiliar way. She stood frozen in the entrance, her black cap still pulled low over her eyes, surveying the space Ego had arranged for them. Two beds, thankfully, but the room felt smaller than any dormitory at Blue Lock. More... intimate.

"Well, this is cozy," Isagi said, dropping his suitcase with a thud that seemed to echo in the silence. He moved past her with that easy confidence he'd developed since joining Blue Lock, already claiming the bed nearest the window.

(Name) remained by the door, her mathematical mind automatically calculating the square footage, the distance between beds, the precise angle of afternoon sunlight streaming through the curtains. Anything to avoid acknowledging the strange flutter in her chest that had nothing to do with statistics.

"You can have first shower if you want," Isagi offered, already unpacking with the methodical efficiency she'd come to associate with him. "I want to check out the view anyway."

She nodded curtly, grabbing her toiletries and disappearing into the bathroom before he could see the flush creeping up her neck. This was ridiculous. She was (Name) (L/n) - human calculator, stoic manager, someone who viewed emotional variables as unnecessary complications in otherwise elegant equations. She didn't get flustered by shared hotel rooms or the way Isagi's hair caught the Spanish sunlight.

The hot water helped clear her head, washing away the exhaustion of the fifteen-hour flight and restoring some of her usual composure. When she emerged, Isagi was standing at the window, silhouetted against the Barcelona skyline, and for a moment she allowed herself to simply observe. To catalogue the way his shoulders had broadened since joining Bastard Münchën, how his stance had shifted to something more confident, more... mature.

"The city's incredible," he said without turning around. "All those buildings, all those people... and somewhere out there is Camp Nou."

"Statistically speaking, Barcelona receives approximately 15.6 million tourists annually," (Name) replied automatically, then immediately felt stupid for reducing his wonder to numbers. "I mean... yes. It's quite impressive."

He turned then, flashing that grin that had become increasingly dangerous to her carefully maintained emotional equilibrium. "Come look. You can probably calculate the exact population density from up here."

Despite herself, she found her feet carrying her to the window. Barcelona sprawled before them, a living organism of stone and light, and for once her mind went quiet. No numbers, no probabilities, just... beauty.

"Tomorrow's going to be incredible," Isagi said softly, and she could hear the anticipation thrumming in his voice like a tuning fork. "FC Barcha versus Chicorid. Real professional football, not just Blue Lock matches."

"The probability of witnessing exceptional plays increases significantly when observing top-tier professional leagues," she agreed, then paused. "Though I admit, I'm curious about the tactical formations they'll employ."

"See? You're excited too, even if you won't admit it properly."

She shot him a withering look, but there was no real heat in it. "I'm professionally interested. There's a difference."

"Sure there is." His grin widened. "Just like you were 'professionally interested' when you fell asleep watching match footage in my room."

Heat flooded her cheeks. "That was... I was tired from the flight preparations and—"

"(Name)." His voice was gentler now, almost fond. "It's okay to be excited about things. It's okay to be human sometimes."

She wanted to argue, to retreat behind her usual walls of statistics and stoic professionalism. Instead, she found herself looking out at Barcelona again, at this city that seemed to pulse with possibility, and something inside her chest loosened just slightly.

"The tactical analysis should prove... enlightening," she conceded.

Isagi laughed, the sound bright and warm in the golden afternoon light. "That's the most enthusiasm I've ever heard from you."

"Don't get used to it."

But even as she said it, (Name) wondered if maybe, just maybe, letting her barriers down a fraction wouldn't be the catastrophic variable disruption she'd always assumed it would be.

The next morning arrived with Spanish sunlight streaming through their hotel room windows and Isagi practically vibrating with excitement. (Name) had been awake for exactly forty-seven minutes, having calculated the optimal sleep duration for their upcoming activities, but Isagi had clearly been up even longer based on the meticulous way he'd arranged his clothes and the fact that he was already dressed.

"Ready for some authentic Spanish breakfast?" he asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet in a way that reminded her uncomfortably of Haru's puppy-like energy.

"Breakfast is a meal. Location doesn't significantly alter its nutritional necessity," she replied, but she was already reaching for her jacket. Something about his enthusiasm was... infectious, though she'd never admit it aloud.

The Barcelona morning was crisp and bright, the city awakening around them in a symphony of Spanish voices and the scent of fresh bread. (Name) found herself walking closer to Isagi than strictly necessary, telling herself it was simply efficient navigation through the crowded streets.

"There," Isagi pointed to a small restaurant with cheerful yellow awnings and the warm glow of occupied tables visible through large windows. "That looks promising."

The interior was cozy and bustling, filled with the rapid-fire Spanish that made (Name)'s head spin. She prided herself on linguistic precision, but languages had always been her weakness - too much emotional nuance, too many cultural variables that couldn't be quantified.

They settled into a small table by the window, and (Name) immediately frowned at the menu. The Spanish words swam before her eyes like an unsolvable equation, which was particularly irritating since equations were supposed to be her specialty.

"Can you read any of this?" Isagi asked, holding up his own menu with a helpless expression.

"I can calculate the probability of us ordering something terrible based on random selection," (Name) replied dryly. "But no, I cannot read Spanish."

Isagi laughed, and the sound was warm enough to make something in her chest flutter uncomfortably. She ignored it, focusing instead on scanning the restaurant for visual cues. At a table across from them, a young man was enjoying what looked like a rice dish with seafood, his expression one of genuine satisfaction.

"That looks good," Isagi observed, following her gaze. Before (Name) could stop him, he was standing up and approaching the stranger's table with that fearless determination that had gotten him through Blue Lock.

(Name) watched, equal parts mortified and impressed, as Isagi attempted to communicate through gestures and broken Spanish before offering one of his Mikage translators. The man seemed amused. He was young, maybe the same age as Akane, with distinctive lavender hair and scars marking his face in a pattern that spoke of either accidents or deliberate choices. Through their conversation (Name) caught something about "auedif" and football, and Isagi's passionate explanation of why they were in Spain.

She found herself leaning forward, listening as Isagi described football with the same fervor she felt when solving complex probability equations. His eyes lit up as he spoke about the sport's ability to transcend language and culture, about the pure mathematics of strategy and the beautiful chaos of human unpredictability.

(Name) watched this exchange with growing fascination. The stranger's expression had shifted subtly, something melancholic flickering behind his eyes even as his smile remained fixed. (Name)'s analytical mind filed away the contradiction between his words and his initial demeanor, but before she could process it fully, the man was bidding Isagi goodbye.

Isagi returned to their table with triumph written across his face. "He said it was called auedif. I'm going to order that."

When the waiter arrived, Isagi proudly requested the "auedif," only to be met with confused looks and rapid Spanish. Eventually, through much pointing and gesturing, they ended up with a large pan of fideua – which, (Name) realized with a mix of annoyance and amusement, was simply "auedif" spelled backwards.

"He played us," she said, but there was no real irritation in her voice as she watched Isagi's face cycle through embarrassment and laughter.

"Well, it still looks good," he said, digging in with chopsticks that the amused waiter had provided specifically for the Japanese tourists.

The fideua was actually delicious – a saffron-scented rice dish with prawns and mussels that reminded (Name) that food could be about more than just fuel for optimal performance. As they ate, she found herself pulling out her phone to take photos, remembering her mother's enthusiastic instructions about souvenirs and postcards.

"What are you doing?" Isagi asked, pausing mid-bite.

"Documentation," (Name) replied, but that wasn't entirely true. She angled the phone to capture both the golden dish and Isagi's curious expression. "My mother insisted I take photos."

"Can I see?"

She handed over the phone, watching as Isagi scrolled through the few images she'd captured. His smile was soft, almost tender, as he looked at a photo of her concentrated frown while studying the menu.

"You should smile more," he said quietly. "You look... different when you're relaxed."

(Name) felt heat rise in her cheeks and quickly took her phone back. "Efficiency doesn't require smiling."

"Maybe not," Isagi agreed, but his eyes held that same gentle expression that made her want to look away and lean closer simultaneously. "But Spain might be a good place to try it anyway."

After dinner, they walked through the narrow streets toward the hotel. The evening air was warm, carrying the sounds of laughter and music from open windows above. (Name) found herself slowing her usually brisk pace, allowing the unfamiliar atmosphere to wash over her analytical mind.

"We should get souvenirs for tonight," she announced suddenly, stopping in front of a sports shop with Barcelona merchandise displayed in the window.

Isagi blinked in surprise. "Souvenirs?"

"For the match," (Name) clarified, though she wasn't entirely sure why the idea had occurred to her. "If we're going to observe European football culture, we should participate in the full experience."

The shopping district was a riot of color and noise, street vendors hawking everything from football scarves to hand-painted ceramics. (Name) moved through it with systematic precision at first, calculating the most efficient route to cover maximum ground, but Isagi's wandering curiosity soon derailed her logical approach.

"Look at this," he called, holding up a Barcelona jersey with exaggerated awe. "Official merchandise. We should get matching ones for the game."

"That's ridiculous," she said, but she found herself examining the shirts anyway. They were well-made, the fabric soft under her fingers, and when Isagi held one up against her shoulders, she didn't immediately pull away.

"Perfect fit," he declared. "Come on, it'll be fun. When else are we going to be in Barcelona together?"

The words hit her with unexpected force. When else indeed? After the World Cup, after Blue Lock's ultimate conclusion, would there be other trips like this? Other shared meals in foreign cities, other moments where her carefully constructed walls felt less necessary?

"Fine," she heard herself saying. "But I'm also getting a proper hat. This sun is problematic for my complexion."

What followed was perhaps the most frivolous hour of (Name)'s life. She found herself accumulating an absurd collection of Barcelona merchandise: sunglasses with the team logo, a headband in the club colors, scarves, keychains, even a small stuffed mascot that Isagi insisted looked exactly like her when she glared.

"You're enjoying this way too much," she told him as he helped her balance her growing pile of purchases.

"You're the one buying half the store," he pointed out reasonably. "I think you're enjoying it too."

She wanted to argue, to insist this was merely efficient souvenir acquisition, but caught sight of herself in a shop window - decked out in Barcelona gear with her arms full of bright merchandise, Isagi grinning beside her in matching colors - and felt something warm unfurl in her chest.

Maybe enjoyment wasn't such a terrible inefficiency after all.

As they made their way toward the stadium, (Name) found herself taking more photos. Not for her mother this time, but because something about the day felt worth remembering. The way the morning light caught Isagi's profile as he watched a group of children playing football in a small plaza. The intricate patterns of the stadium's architecture as it grew larger in their view. The controlled chaos of thousands of people unified by their shared anticipation.

"(Name)," Isagi said as they approached the stadium entrance, his voice carrying a note of something she couldn't quite identify. "Thanks for coming with me."

She looked at him, this boy who had somehow become more than just another Blue Lock player in her careful calculations. His blue eyes were bright with excitement and gratitude, and for once, she didn't feel the need to analyse the expression or predict its implications.

"Don't thank me yet," she replied, adjusting her ridiculous sunglasses with mock seriousness. "Wait until you see how many notes I'm going to take during this match."

But as they walked into the stadium together, surrounded by the roar of passionate fans and the promise of world-class football, (Name) realized that for the first time in her systematically organised life, she was looking forward to something that couldn't be reduced to numbers or probabilities. She was looking forward to simply experiencing it – with Isagi beside her, both of them far from Blue Lock's calculated pressures, just two seventeen-year-olds watching beautiful football in Barcelona.

The stadium was a cathedral of sound and colour, thirty thousand voices rising in unison as the teams took the field. (Name) pulled out her tablet to take notes, but found herself distracted by the sheer scale of passion surrounding them. This wasn't the clinical analysis she was used to – this was football as art, as religion, as pure human expression.

"Look," Isagi breathed beside her, pointing toward the tunnel.

Lavinho emerged first, his presence commanding even at this distance. The Brazilian's confidence was visible in every step, every gesture, and (Name) found herself calculating his movement patterns out of pure habit. But then her attention was caught by his teammate – the same guy from the restaurant the night before.

"(Name)," he said urgently, "that's him. The guy from the restaurant."

She followed his gaze to see the lavender-haired stranger from that morning, now in full Barcelona kit, moving through pre-game drills with the easy confidence of elite athleticism. The scars on his face seemed more pronounced under the stadium lights, lending him an almost dangerous beauty.

(Name) quickly accessed the match information on her tablet, cross-referencing player profiles with facial recognition algorithms she'd developed for Blue Lock analysis. The results made her straighten in her seat.

"Bunny Iglesias," she announced, reading from the screen. "New Generation World XI forward. Eleven goals this season."

"Eleven goals," Isagi repeated, his voice carrying the kind of reverence usually reserved for legendary numbers.

As if summoned by their attention, Lavinho passed the ball to Bunny with the casual precision of world-class players. What followed was a moment of pure football poetry – Bunny's jump seemed to defy gravity itself, his body positioned with mathematical precision to meet the ball at its optimal trajectory point.

The goal was inevitable from the moment his feet left the ground. (Name)'s mind automatically calculated the angle, the force, the probability of success, but for once her analytical processes felt secondary to the sheer beauty of the moment. This was why people fell in love with football – not for the statistics or strategies, but for these transcendent moments when human skill touched something approaching perfection.

"Twelve goals now," she murmured, updating her notes.

But Isagi wasn't looking at her tablet. His attention was fixed completely on the field, on Bunny's celebration, on the roar of approval from thirty thousand voices.

His expression held the same fierce determination she'd seen throughout Blue Lock, but now it was tempered with something else – a recognition of how much further he still had to go.

"There are still bigger stages," he said quietly, almost to himself. "So much more to reach."

(Name) watched him as he watched the match, noting the way his hands clenched with each spectacular play, the way his breathing changed during moments of high tension. He was absorbing everything – not just the technical aspects, but the atmosphere, the passion, the sheer scale of elite European football.

For the first time, she understood why Ego had sent them here together. Not just to observe world-class players, but to understand what they were truly working toward. Blue Lock was preparing them for this – for stadiums full of passionate fans, for opponents who could bend physics with their skill, for the kind of pressure and beauty that existed at football's highest levels.

"Your journey in football has a long way to go," she said, echoing his earlier thoughts.

Isagi turned to look at her, and his grin was so bright it rivaled the Barcelona sunshine. "Yeah," he agreed. "And I can't wait."

As the match continued around them, (Name) found herself splitting her attention between her analytical observations and something she rarely allowed herself – simple enjoyment. The Barcelona sun was warm on her face, the crowd's energy was infectious, and beside her sat someone who understood her dedication even if he didn't share her methods.

She took one more photo – not of the field or the players, but of Isagi's profile as he watched Bunny Iglesias work his magic on the pitch. In the image, his expression held all the hunger and determination that had gotten him through Blue Lock, combined with the wonder of someone seeing their dreams made manifest in real time.

His smile could have powered the stadium lights.

Later, when they returned to Japan and Blue Lock's calculated pressures, she would analyze this match frame by frame. She would break down every tactical decision, every statistical anomaly, every measurable aspect of world-class football. But right now, surrounded by thirty thousand voices singing in Spanish and sitting beside someone who made her want to experience things instead of just calculating them, (Name) allowed herself to simply watch and wonder.

The final whistle blew with Barcelona victorious, and as the stadium erupted in celebration around them, (Name) realized that some of the most important data couldn't be measured in numbers. Sometimes the most valuable analysis came from understanding not just how something worked, but why it mattered.

"Ready to head back?" Isagi asked as the crowds began to disperse.

(Name) looked around the stadium one more time, committing the scene to memory with the same precision she usually reserved for mathematical formulas.

The Barcelona merchandise felt less ridiculous now – it was proof that she had been here, that she had allowed herself to be part of something larger than Blue Lock's isolated world.

"Yes," she said, standing and gathering her things with characteristic efficiency. "But we're getting dinner first. I want to try that fideua place again."

"Even though we know it's not really called auedif?"

"Especially because we know it's not really called auedif," (Name) replied, and for the second time that day, she found herself smiling without calculating whether it was strategically advantageous.

As they made their way out of the stadium, two seventeen-year-olds carrying bags of souvenirs and heads full of dreams, (Name) reflected that perhaps her mother had been right about experiencing youth and making memories. Some data, it turned out, was worth collecting not for analysis, but simply for the joy of having lived it.

The Barcelona streets welcomed them back with the same warm energy they'd offered that morning, and as Isagi launched into animated commentary about Bunny's technique, (Name) found herself looking forward to tomorrow. Not because she was eager for the day to end, but because she was ready to learn about more of what they were all working toward.

World-class football wasn't just about perfecting statistics or optimising strategies. It was about moments like Bunny's impossible goal, about stadiums full of people united by pure love for the beautiful game, about the kind of magic that happened when human skill touched something approaching art.

And maybe, just maybe, it was about finding someone who could make even the most analytically-minded person want to experience wonder instead of just calculating its probability.

Chapter Text

The morning sun filtered through the hotel curtains as (Name) stood before her suitcase, staring at the bikini her mother had insisted she pack. The fabric seemed to mock her with its colour, so unlike her usual muted tones. She could practically hear her mother's voice echoing in her mind: "You're seventeen, (Name). Live a little."

A knock at the connecting door interrupted her contemplation. "(Name)? You ready for today?" Isagi's voice carried through the thin wall, tinged with excitement that made her stomach flutter in an unfamiliar way.

"Almost," she called back, shoving the towel into her beach bag with more force than necessary. She pulled on a loose white button-up over her bikini and grabbed her sunglasses—the ridiculous ones she'd bought yesterday with Spanish flags on the frames that had made Isagi laugh until he nearly choked on his drink.

When she opened the door, Isagi was waiting with a grin that could power half of Barcelona, wearing swim trunks and a Blue Lock tank top, a cooler bag slung over his shoulder. His hair was already tousled from the morning breeze coming through his open window.

"Beach day!" he announced, as if she might have forgotten their plans from last night's discussion over room service paella.

(Name) adjusted her sunglasses, hiding the way his enthusiasm made her want to smile. "The Mediterranean isn't going anywhere, Isagi. Contain yourself."

But even as she said it, she found herself matching his pace as they headed toward the hotel lobby, her own anticipation building despite her best efforts to remain composed.

The beach was a fifteen-minute walk from their hotel, past narrow cobblestone streets lined with cafes already bustling with locals enjoying their morning cortados. (Name) had insisted they stop at a market to gather supplies—because apparently, her brain couldn't turn off its calculating tendencies even on vacation. She'd mapped out the most efficient route, calculated the optimal time to arrive for the best spot, and estimated how much sunscreen they'd need based on UV index and skin type.

"You know," Isagi said, watching her methodically arrange their beach supplies in precise formation on the sand, "sometimes I wonder if you apply mathematical formulas to breathing."

"Don't be ridiculous," (Name) replied, not looking up from her systematic unpacking. "Breathing is autonomic. Though the respiratory rate can be calculated using minute ventilation divided by tidal volume—"

"(Name)."

"What?"

"It's a beach day. Not a physics exam."

She paused, a bottle of sunscreen halfway out of the bag, and looked up at him. He was sitting cross-legged on the towel beside her, that soft expression on his face that made her feel like he could see straight through all her carefully constructed walls.

"I don't know how to turn it off," she admitted quietly, so quietly she wasn't sure he'd heard her over the crash of waves.

But of course he had. Isagi always heard her.

"Then don't," he said simply. "Just... add beach fun to the equation."

Despite herself, (Name) felt the corner of her mouth twitch upward. "That's not how equations work."

"Says who? You're the math genius."

She smiled at the title as she squeezed the white cream onto her palm and began spreading it across her face, using the camera on her phone as a makeshift mirror. The angle was awkward, and she could feel she was missing spots, particularly around her temples and the bridge of her nose.

"You're going to burn," Isagi observed, watching her struggle.

"I have it under control," (Name) replied, though she could see in the phone screen that her application was uneven at best.

Isagi moved closer, extending his hand. "May I?"

(Name) froze, the question hanging in the salt-tinged air between them. She looked at his earnest blue eyes, then at her reflection showing the streaky sunscreen application, and logic won out.

"Fine. But be efficient about it."

Isagi's hands were surprisingly gentle as he smoothed the sunscreen across her cheeks and forehead. His touch was careful, methodical, making sure to cover every inch of exposed skin. (Name) found herself studying his concentrated expression, the way his eyebrows drew together slightly as he worked.

"There," he said, stepping back. "Now you won't turn into a lobster."

She shook her head, but finished unpacking with slightly less rigid precision. When she was done, she surveyed their setup: two towels, an umbrella positioned at exactly the right angle for optimal shade, snacks arranged by nutritional value and practicality, and enough sunscreen to protect a small army.

"Adequate," she declared.

"Perfect," Isagi corrected, and something in his tone made her look at him again. He wasn't looking at their beach setup. He was looking at her.

The moment stretched between them, filled with the sound of children laughing in the distance and the rhythmic pulse of waves against sand. (Name) felt heat creep up her neck that had nothing to do with the Spanish sun.

"We should explore," she said abruptly, standing and brushing sand from her shorts. "For educational purposes. Marine ecosystems are fascinating from a biological standpoint."

Isagi's grin returned full force. "Right. Educational."

They wandered along the shoreline, and despite her initial excuse, (Name) found herself genuinely enchanted by what they discovered. Tiny hermit crabs scuttled between rocks, their shells glinting in the sunlight like scattered jewels. She crouched down to examine a tide pool, watching sea anemones pulse with the rhythm of the waves.

"Look at this," she called, her voice losing its usual monotone as she pointed to a small crab. "The way it moves—the efficiency is remarkable. Each leg movement calculated for maximum speed with minimal energy expenditure."

"You sound excited," Isagi observed, crouching beside her.

"I'm not—" she started, then stopped. She was excited. The realization hit her like a cold wave. When was the last time she'd felt this way about something that wasn't work or winning?

"It's okay to be excited about things," Isagi said softly. "It's okay to just... enjoy them."

She looked at him, this boy who saw the game in everything but also saw her—really saw her, beyond the calculations and the cold exterior. "The crab's carapace width suggests it's a juvenile Mediterranean shore crab. Carcinus maenas. They're actually invasive in many—"

"(Name)."

"What?"

"Do you want to eat it?"

She blinked. "What?"

"You've been staring at it for five minutes with this expression like you're wondering what it tastes like."

Heat flooded her cheeks. "I was not—I was observing its behavioral patterns—"

"You were thinking about crab legs, weren't you?"

"...Maybe."

Isagi burst out laughing, the sound bright and infectious. "Come on, let's find you some proper food before you start hunting tide pool creatures."

They made their way back to their setup, but got distracted by a family nearby. A father was kicking a football with his two young children while their mother watched from a beach chair, occasionally calling out encouragement in Spanish. The kids—a boy about eight and a girl maybe six—were clearly struggling with basic ball control, but their enthusiasm more than made up for their lack of skill.

"¿Puedes jugar con nosotros?" the little boy called out when he noticed Isagi watching. Even (Name)'s limited Spanish could translate that one.

Isagi looked at her questioningly. She shrugged. "Go ahead. Just don't injure any small children. I don't want to explain that to Ego."

What followed was possibly the most wholesome thing (Name) had ever witnessed. Isagi, the boy who could outmanoeuvre professional players and score impossible goals, got down on his knees in the sand to patiently show the children how to control the ball with the inside of their feet. He demonstrated passes in slow motion, cheered enthusiastically for every small success, and high-fived both kids like they'd just won the World Cup when they managed to pass the ball back and forth three times in a row.

The parents, Maria and Carlos, were charmed. They insisted on watching their belongings when (Name) and Isagi decided to swim, and Maria pressed a container of homemade churros into (Name)'s hands "for the sweet couple."

"We're not—" (Name) started, but Maria had already turned back to her children, and Isagi was tugging her toward the water.

"Come on, before the tide changes!"

The Mediterranean was shockingly cold against her sun-warmed skin, and (Name) gasped as a wave larger than expected crashed against her legs, soaking the hem of her cover-up.

"It's freezing!" she protested, but Isagi was already diving headfirst into the next wave like the water temperature was personally challenging him to a competition.

"It's perfect!" he called back, surfacing with his hair plastered to his forehead and that ridiculous grin still in place. "Come on, the human calculator can handle a little cold water!"

"I am not—" Another wave hit her, this one larger, and she stumbled backward with a yelp. "The ocean is trying to murder me!"

"It's just water! You've handled worse!"

"Worse than hypothermia?"

"Worse than Kaiser's ego!"

Despite herself, (Name) snorted. "Point taken."

She took a deep breath and waded deeper, her body gradually adjusting to the temperature. The water was actually refreshing against the heat of the Spanish sun, and once she got used to the rhythm of the waves, she found herself relaxing into the gentle sway of the sea.

They floated and swam, splashing each other like children. Isagi showed off by diving down to collect shells, surfacing with treasures that (Name) immediately began categorizing by species and formation patterns. She was in the middle of explaining the geological processes behind shell formation when something slimy and definitely alive brushed against her foot.

"ISAGI!" She shrieked, launching herself toward him without thinking. Her arms wrapped around his neck, legs around his waist, clinging to him like he was the only solid thing in a world gone mad. "Something touched me! Something with tentacles! Or fins! Or—"

"Whoa, hey!" Isagi's arms came up to steady her automatically, his hands settling at her waist. "It's okay, it's probably just seaweed—"

"I don't care what it probably is! Get me out of here!"

She was pressed against him now, close enough to see the droplets of water on his eyelashes, close enough to feel the warmth of his skin through the cold water.

His eyes were wide with surprise, but also something else—something that made her stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with fear of sea creatures.

"I've got you," he said quietly, and suddenly they weren't talking about the ocean anymore.

For a moment, they just floated there, her arms around his neck, his hands steady at her waist, the waves gently rocking them both. (Name) was acutely aware of everything—the salt tang in the air, the way the sun caught the blue of his eyes, the solid strength of him holding her up.

Then a particularly large wave knocked them both sideways, and the spell broke. Isagi laughed, the sound breaking the tension, and before she could protest, he was carrying her toward shore, her arms around his neck, while his supported her like she weighed nothing at all.

"My hero," she said dryly, though her heart was beating far too fast for comfort.

"Always," he replied, and something in his tone made her look at him sharply. But he was grinning again, that easy, uncomplicated expression that made it impossible to read anything deeper into his words.

He carried her toward shallower water – bridal style, (Name) realized with horror – while she clung to him and tried to ignore how solid and warm he felt beneath her hands.

"It's just seaweed," Isagi said gently, reaching down to unwrap the green strands from her ankle. "See? Totally harmless."

(Name) looked down at the innocent plant matter and felt her face burn with embarrassment. "I knew that."

"Of course you did," Isagi agreed solemnly, though his eyes were dancing with amusement. "Very dangerous seaweed. Good thing I was here to protect you from it."

"Put me down," (Name) muttered, though she made no move to untangle herself from his arms.

"Are you sure? There might be more seaweed lurking around here."

Despite herself, (Name) felt her lips twitch upward. "You're insufferable."

"And you're braver facing down Ego than a piece of kelp."

They made it back to the beach, where the local family was watching their interaction with fond smiles. The children giggled and whispered to each other in rapid
Spanish, and (Name) didn't need a translator to guess they were commenting on the obvious dynamic between her and Isagi.

"Surfing lessons?" Carlos suggested, pointing to where an instructor was setting up equipment further down the beach.

Isagi's eyes lit up immediately. "What do you think?" he asked (Name).

An hour later, (Name) found herself lying prone on a surfboard in the sand, learning the basics of popping up to a standing position. The instructor, a patient woman named Carmen, demonstrated the movement while Isagi picked it up with annoying ease.

"Football balance," he explained when (Name) shot him a glare after his third successful attempt.

"Mathematical precision," (Name) countered, though her first attempt at popping up resulted in her falling sideways off the board.

In the water, things went about as expected. Isagi managed to catch several small waves, whooping with joy each time he stayed upright for more than a few seconds. (Name)'s attempts were less successful but more analytical – she could see the physics at play, understand the mechanics of balance and momentum, but her body refused to cooperate with her mind's calculations.

Still, when she finally managed to ride a wave for a full 5 seconds before tumbling into the foam, the rush of accomplishment was unlike anything she'd felt solving even the most complex mathematical equations.

"You did it!" Isagi cheered, paddling over to where she was floating in the aftermath of her wipeout.

"It was adequate," (Name) replied, but she couldn't quite suppress her smile.

They returned their equipment as the afternoon began to wane, their limbs pleasantly tired and their skin tinged with sun despite the sunscreen.

They buried their feet in the sand and people-watched, (Name) making statistical observations about beach behavior while Isagi pointed out interesting cloud formations.

"Look," he said at one point, pointing at a cloud that looked vaguely like a football. "It's a sign."

"It's condensed water vapor," (Name) replied, but she was smiling as she said it.

"Same thing."

They shared the churros Maria had given them, along with the sandwiches they'd packed and way too many of the local oranges Isagi had become obsessed with. As the sun began to sink toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that reminded (Name) of the sunsets back home, she found herself actually relaxing for what felt like the first time in months.

"We should head back soon," she said reluctantly as the beach began to empty around them. "Early flight tomorrow."

"Yeah," Isagi agreed, but neither of them moved to pack up their things.

Looking past the physics of atmospheric scattering and purely at the warm splash of colour in the sky, it reminded (Name) of Isagi's determined expression during matches; she found herself reaching for her phone.

"What are you doing?" Isagi asked, watching her adjust the camera angle.

"Documentation," (Name) replied. "For... records."

But that wasn't entirely true. She wanted to remember this – the way the light caught in Isagi's still-damp hair, the relaxed set of his shoulders, the genuine happiness in his expression. She wanted to remember how it felt to let her guard down, to panic over seaweed and laugh at her own ridiculousness.

"Records," Isagi repeated, moving closer so they were both in frame. "Of course."

They took several photos – some of the beach, some of their sand art, some selfies with the sunset behind them. In each one, (Name) looked more relaxed than she could ever remember being, her usual stoic expression replaced by something softer, more open.

"I document everything because I want to remember," she admitted instead, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "Usually it's just data, statistics, things that matter for winning. But this..." She gestured vaguely at the beach, at him, at the camera in her hands. "I want to remember this too."

"Good," Isagi said softly. "Me too."

They packed up their things as the sun finally disappeared beyond the horizon, the beach now lit only by the warm glow of the resort lights behind them. (Name) found herself walking slower than usual, reluctant for the day to end.

Back at the hotel, she made a beeline for the shower, desperate to wash the sand from every crevice where it had somehow managed to embed itself. She'd never understand people who found sand romantic—it was gritty and got everywhere and was impossible to completely remove. But as she stood under the hot water, she found herself smiling at the memory of Isagi's shocked expression when she'd launched herself at him in the ocean.

When she emerged from the bathroom in her pajamas – practical navy blue cotton – she found Isagi on the small balcony of her room, looking out over the city lights. He'd showered too, his hair still damp and curling slightly at the edges.

"The view is better from your room," he explained when he noticed her questioning look.

(Name) joined him at the railing, the evening air warm against her freshly scrubbed skin. Barcelona spread out below them, a tapestry of lights and life that seemed to pulse with its own rhythm.

"Tomorrow we fly back," she said, the reality settling over her like a weight.

"Yeah." Isagi was quiet for a moment. "Back to Blue Lock. Back to training and competition and..."

"Reality," (Name) finished.

"This was real too," Isagi said softly. "Today. This trip. It was real."

(Name) looked at him, at the serious expression that had replaced his earlier playfulness. In the hotel lighting, his eyes seemed darker, more intense than their usual bright blue.

"It was an anomaly," she replied, though the words felt hollow. "A deviation from our normal parameters."

"Sometimes deviations are good," Isagi said. "Sometimes they show you possibilities you didn't know existed."

He was talking about more than just beach days and tourist activities. (Name) knew that, understood it with the same clarity she brought to mathematical proofs.

The knowledge sat in her chest like a warm stone, both comforting and terrifying.

"We should get some sleep," she said instead. "Early flight tomorrow."

Isagi nodded, but he didn't move immediately. "(Name)?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks. For coming here. For... today. All of it."

She wanted to deflect, to make some comment about professional obligations or efficient use of time. Instead, she found herself saying, "Thank you too. For the sunscreen assistance. And the seaweed rescue."

His laughter was soft in the Barcelona night. "Anytime you need rescuing from marine vegetation, just call me."

After he left, (Name) sat on her bed scrolling through the photos on her phone. Each image captured something she hadn't expected to find – spontaneity, joy, a version of herself that existed outside of statistics and strategies.

In one photo, she was mid-laugh at something Isagi had said, her head thrown back and her guard completely down. In another, they were both concentrating seriously on their sand art, working together with unconscious harmony.

But it was the last photo that made her pause. The Spanish family had taken it just before sunset, capturing her and Isagi sitting close together on their towel, sharing the last of their picnic. They weren't looking at the camera – instead, they were looking at each other, and (Name)'s expression was softer than she'd ever seen it, while Isagi's face held something that looked remarkably like wonder.

She stared at that photo for a long time, memorizing every detail. Tomorrow they would return to Japan, to Blue Lock, to the world of competition and analysis that defined their lives. Tomorrow she would be Manager (Name) (L/n) again, stoic and efficient and focused solely on results.

But (Name) found herself hoping they'd have more moments like this. She'd built her entire life around calculations and predictions, around knowing the probable outcome of every situation. But with Isagi, she was flying blind, and for once, that didn't terrify her.
It excited her.

She fell asleep with sand still somehow in her hair and the taste of salt on her lips, her camera full of memories she actually wanted to keep forever. And if she dreamed of blue eyes and warm hands and the feeling of being carried through cold water by someone who would never let her fall, well, that was just another variable in an equation she was finally ready to solve.