The sky over Tokyo was already turning grey when Ren Sakamoto kicked the last ball off the school pitch.
The other boys were gone. Some had left after drills, others during shooting practice. Their laughter still echoed faintly from the bike racks by the school gate. But Ren stayed.
He always stayed.
The dirt field behind Tōyō Junior High wasn't much. Just packed ground, faded lines, rusting posts. But for Ren, it was enough. He jogged to the goal, picked up the last ball, and dropped it in the mesh bag. His gloves, dusty and worn, hung heavy on his hands.
He looked down at them. The left thumb was peeling. Again.
A faint breeze blew through the goal net. The chains rattled against the post.
He liked that sound.
"Oi, Sakamoto," came a voice from across the pitch.
Coach Anzai stood with his clipboard under one arm, locking up the equipment shed. He wasn't the yelling type. Not the kind of coach who gave motivational speeches. Just nodded or grunted.
Ren jogged over.
"You didn't need to stay late," Anzai said.
Ren shrugged.
"Keepers always stay late?"
Ren nodded.
Coach paused, then tilted his head. "You remind me of someone."
Ren waited, hoping for a name. None came.
Anzai handed him a bottle of water, then walked off toward the staff room. "Be careful going home. Rain's coming."
Ren watched him disappear behind the building.
He stood there a while, alone again.
Being a goalkeeper meant that.
Alone when you train. Alone when you save. Alone when you fail.
At home, his mother was asleep on the couch when he stepped in. She had pulled a night shift again. Her nurse's ID still clipped to her uniform. The news hummed softly on the TV—some story about Tokyo FC's under-18 squad getting scouted overseas.
Ren turned it down, walked quietly to the kitchen, and opened the fridge. Miso soup. Leftover rice. A note: "Warm this. Don't eat outside food again."
He smiled faintly.
After eating, he went to his room. On the shelf, behind a stack of books, sat his father's old gloves. Still clean. Still untouched.
Ren never wore them.
Not yet.
He pulled out his own gloves instead. Peeled off the worn tape, inspected the ripped thumb. He sighed.
He didn't have money for new ones.
But he had enough for tape.
He grabbed the roll, fixed the thumb, then set them near the window.
Outside, the Tokyo night glowed in neon silence. Rain tapped softly against the glass.
Tomorrow would be harder.
Another match. Another test. Another chance to stand between the posts and carry everything on his shoulders.
Ren lay down on the futon and stared at the ceiling.
People say keepers are the last line of defense.
But for Ren, it felt like something else.
Like a wall.
A place to stand when no one else will.