Baro Shoei stood at the edge of the soccer field, his eyes scanning the game unfolding before him. It was a simple practice match—nothing special. His older brother had always told him he had the potential to be great, but Barou knew better than anyone that greatness wasn't handed to you. It was something you clawed for, something you fought for.
He grinned to himself as the ball flew past the defenders, the sound of the crowd roaring in the distance. This was what he was born to do: score, dominate, and leave no one in his wake. The wild dog that was Barou Shoie would never be shackled by the rules of teamwork or humility.
"Baro, pass the ball!" a voice yelled from across the field. It was his teammate, one of the more vocal players from the local soccer club.
Baro lip curled slightly in disdain. Pass the ball? He wasn't some cog in the machine. He was the machine. No one understood that yet, but they would. He had his sights set on the goal, and nothing else mattered.
"Shut up," he muttered under his breath. His eyes locked onto the ball as he pivoted, weaving through defenders with ease. Every step was calculated, every move designed to exploit the slightest opening. The defenders closed in around him, but Barou didn't hesitate. He thrived in chaos, and he'd prove it.
With a swift flick of his foot, the ball soared past the keeper, hitting the back of the net with a satisfying thud. The crowd erupted in applause, but Barou paid no attention to it. He wasn't here for the praise. He was here to show them all that they didn't have what it took. Not yet.
"Did you see that?" one of his teammates shouted in awe, running up to him. "You just—how did you—"
"Don't act surprised," Baro cut him off, walking away without a second glance. He wasn't interested in their admiration. It was nothing but noise to him.
But as he walked off the field, a figure caught his eye. A man in his late thirties, with sharp eyes and a foreign accent, was watching him intently from the sidelines. This was the coach, a man who had only recently arrived at the school to take over the soccer team. Barou had heard whispers about him—how he was different from the others, how he saw things others didn't. But Baro didn't care. He wasn't here for some foreign coach's approval.
The coach approached Baro after the practice, his expression serious yet oddly calm. "That was impressive," he said, his voice low but firm.
Barou raised an eyebrow, not sure whether to take the compliment seriously. "Impressive? I just scored."
"Yes, but you scored in a way no one else could," the coach continued, his gaze never leaving Barou's. "Your dribbling, your control of the ball—it's something special. But you refuse to pass. That's a problem."
Barou snorted, folding his arms across his chest. "Passing is for weak players. I'm not weak."
The coach's eyes softened slightly, as if he were understanding something. "It's not about weakness, Baro. It's about trust. Trust in your teammates. You have the talent to be great, but you'll never reach your full potential if you keep playing alone."
Barou frowned. He wasn't used to hearing this kind of talk. He didn't need teammates. He didn't need anyone but himself. But there was something about the way the coach spoke—something about his unwavering confidence—that made Baro pause.
"I'm not interested in team play," Baro said, shaking his head. "I score, that's all that matters."
The coach tilted his head slightly, studying Baro. "I get it. You're a wild card. You do things your own way. But I'm offering you a chance to play on a team where your talent can shine even brighter. A team that will let you be… you. But only if you're willing to learn."
Baro hesitated, a flicker of doubt crossing his mind. The thought of playing alongside others, relying on them—something about that didn't sit right with him. But then he remembered his little brother, who had always been his biggest fan. The kid had begged him to play for the school team, to show everyone just how good Baro really was.
"Fine," Baro said, his tone gruff. "But I'm not passing. You want me on your team, you deal with that."
The coach smiled, a knowing look in his eyes. "Deal."
---
The next day, Baro arrived at the school soccer club, reluctantly dragging himself to the field. The coach was there, waiting with a few of the team members. They all looked at him with curiosity, as if trying to figure out what kind of player he was. Barou ignored their stares and walked to the center of the field.
"This is Baro Shoie," the coach introduced, his voice carrying over to the rest of the team. "He's joining us today."
Some of the players exchanged skeptical glances, especially Ryuu, who was always the first to speak up when it came to teamwork. "You're the guy who doesn't pass, right?" Ryuu asked, raising an eyebrow.
Baro didn't reply, his eyes narrowing. He wasn't here to explain himself to anyone.
They ran through some basic drills, with Baro mostly doing his own thing, his movements fast and unpredictable. His dribbling was a blur, his control of the ball almost unnatural. But still, he refused to pass, much to the frustration of his teammates.
During a practice match later that day, Baro found himself paired with Ryuu's team. As the game progressed, it became clear that Ryuu's team was growing increasingly frustrated with Baro refusal to pass. Every time Baro got the ball, his teammates shouted at him to give it up, but Baro ignored them. He was focused only on scoring, on proving that he didn't need anyone else to succeed.
But as the match wore on, Baro began to feel a strange frustration bubbling inside him. Despite his impressive shots and dribbling, he couldn't seem to get the ball into the net. Ryuu's team was playing well, and Baro teammates were starting to lose their patience. He wasn't used to being in this situation—where his individual skills weren't enough to secure the win.
For the first time, Baro thought about what the coach had said. Maybe it wasn't just about him. Maybe there was something more he could gain from playing with the team.
Frustrated, Baro decided to take matters into his own hands. As one of his teammates prepared to pass the ball, Baro sprinted in, stole it from him, and made a quick, lethal shot on goal. The ball flew past the keeper and into the net.
The team fell silent for a moment, watching Baro, who stood still, his expression unreadable. He had scored, but in doing so, he had also stolen the moment from his own teammate.
The coach watched quietly from the sidelines, his eyes focused on Baro. He knew this was only the beginning.
Barou shoei or Baro shoei?