Why Does My Teen Soccer Comedy Involve Plots and Penguins?

[Ave Dominus Nox]

Family gatherings are the worst. They're basically school wearing a different skin—same suffocating atmosphere, same forced smiles—except this one smells like soy sauce and old people perfume, and you're allowed to eat without pretending you're having fun.

The moment I step inside, I'm already a target. Auntie Zero-One swoops in like it's her daily quest, fingers clamping onto my cheeks. It actually hurts, but if I say that, I'm the rude kid.
"Ooh, Hachiman, you've gotten so tall!" she says, like height is some kind of achievement I worked hard for. Then comes the follow-up attack. "How's school? Made lots of friends?"

Friends.

The word just hangs there, shiny and fake, like something from a commercial.

At the word I have the urge to hurl.

I don't say anything. I just stand there while my face gets stretched into some stupid shape, staring at the wall and wondering when exactly lying became a required survival skill. If I say no, I'm pitiful. If I say yes, I'm lying. Either way, I lose.

In my head, though, I already know the answer. Friends are just people who laugh too loud at jokes that aren't funny and suddenly forget your name the second someone more popular shows up. They're experts at smiling while measuring where you rank. I don't need that. I'm not that desperate.

I swear, my classmates have some kind of secret rulebook I never got. They bunch up in tight little circles, heads pressed together like they're guarding national secrets, when it's just gossip about who's dating who or whatever dumb thing is in this week. Their voices drop the moment someone walks by, and then—click—those smiles snap on. Same smiles they'll peel off the second your back's turned. It's almost impressive. Almost.

That's why I don't get why people act like being alone is some kind of disease. Standing by yourself is way better than nodding along to conversations that feel like homework you didn't sign up for. At least when I'm alone, I don't have to pretend I care.

Across the room, Uncle's still going on about some ancient story to Dad, both of them laughing like its brand new. Mom catches my eye and jerks her chin toward the table.

Translation: You. Work.

So, I'm lining up plates like a restaurant robot while Komachi's already disappeared into a pack of cousins, her laughter popping up everywhere at once. She doesn't even try. People just orbit her.

I end up stationed near the snacks, half-guarding them, half-hiding behind them. Everyone else looks busy being normal, and I'm just there, pretending I'm deeply interested in a bag of crackers. If I stay quiet and don't move too much, maybe I'll blend into the background. And honestly? That's kind of the goal.

Of course it doesn't last. Grandma's eyes lock onto me like she's found a rare Pokémon.
"Hachi, why are you so quiet? Come on, smile a little."

Smile. Yeah, sure. Let me just flip the switch. I tug at my mouth for half a second, then give up. My face isn't built for that setting. Talking would just make it worse anyway, and explaining myself sounds like way too much effort.

School flashes through my head without asking. Same faces, same habits. People bending over backward for whoever sits at the top, laughing a beat too late, agreeing a little too hard. Watching it feels like chewing on something rotten. You don't even want to swallow, but you can't spit it out either.

I grab a fistful of chips and cram them into my mouth before anyone can say anything else. Crunching is useful—it fills the silence and gives me an excuse not to talk. Then I drop onto the couch, sinking into the cushions like maybe they'll absorb me if I stay still long enough.

Between this place and school, it's like I never get a break. Different building, same pressure to act normal. I stare at the ceiling and think that if disappearing was an option—just temporarily—I'd sign up without even reading the terms.

I sink deeper into the couch, shoulders curling in, like if I make myself small enough, I might slip between the cushions and disappear. Chips keep going into my mouth one after another. Crunch, swallow, repeat. As long as I'm eating, no one expects me to talk. It's a pretty solid strategy.

The room's full of overlapping voices. An auntie's still stuck on school stuff, tossing words like "future" around like she knows what she's talking about. Grandma's hovering near the table, rearranging desserts that were already fine. Komachi's laugh keeps popping up from the cousin cluster, light and easy, like she belongs there without trying. Figures.

Dad's by the stove, flipping food with that quiet, serious look he gets, like grilling is a mission that requires full concentration. Mom drifts around the room, smiling at everyone, collecting small talk like it's her job. None of it's new. Same people, same sounds. Normally I can tune it out.

Not today.

My brain won't shut up. That scene at school keeps replaying on loop, every awkward second stretched out until it hurts. Orimoto's voice, the way she looked all embarrassed—but not for me. More like for herself. By now, everyone's probably had a good laugh about it. Maybe she even got sympathy points out of it. Lucky her.

I crunch another chip a little harder than necessary and stare at the floor. Family noise, school noise—it all blends together until it feels like there's nowhere to hide. I don't want advice. I don't want pity. I just want everyone to stop looking, stop talking, and leave me alone.

Then a shadow drops over me.

I look up, and—of course—it's him. Uncle Reiji. Or "Aniki," if you're Mom. One second I'm minding my own business, the next he's just there, like he spawned in without footsteps or sound effects. Is that a grown-up skill? Because it's terrifying.

He must've been around for a while. Earlier, I saw him talking to Mom in that quiet voice adults use when they want to look important, all gentle and focused like the rest of the room didn't exist. When Komachi ran over, he even bent down and messed up her hair, not smiling, I don't think he could, but behaving like that was normal behaviour. Meanwhile, Dad might as well have been furniture. No eye contact, no greeting. Dad returned the favour perfectly. Watching them was like seeing two magnets flipped the wrong way—close but never touching.

Up close, Uncle Reiji's even worse. He's stupid tall, and his grey ponytail sways a little when he moves, like it's mocking me. Those black glasses cover his eyes, but I can feel the stare anyway. His face is stuck in this serious, don't-mess-with-me mode, and suddenly I'm pretty sure I've done something wrong.

The problem is… I have no idea what.

I'm just sitting here. Eating chips. Existing.
But the way he's looking at me, it's like I got caught red-handed.

"Looking at everyone and everything here with angry eyes is a poor look," he says, adjusting his glasses, that serious frown digging in a little deeper. "Especially since they are not the source of your frustrations, Hachiman."

…Okay, no. That's not normal. That's way too accurate.

My stomach tightens, and I scoot a few inches down the couch without thinking, like distance might help. How does he even know that? Did my face seriously give me away that badly? I avoid his eyes, because when I do look, it feels like he's staring straight through my skull, poking around like he's checking what's broken. It's creepy. Super creepy.

"Uh… what? I'm not angry or anything," I mumble. My hand freezes halfway to my mouth, then I awkwardly drop the chip back into the bowl like it betrayed me. I glance around the room, scanning for literally anyone who might interrupt. Anyone. Please. Right now, I feel like I accidentally locked eyes with a predator at the zoo, except there's no glass.

Inside my head, alarms are going off. Back off. Stop looking at me like that. I didn't do anything. I think.

"Lies have their use," Uncle Reiji replies, not raising his voice, not smiling, just saying it like it's obvious. "Though the trick is knowing when and where to tell them, along with who to tell them to."

Great. So, he knows I'm lying too.

I shrink into myself, shoulders stiff, wishing I could crawl behind the couch and live there forever. Seriously, can someone spill a drink? Start an argument? Set something on fire? Anything that gets this guy to stop staring at me like I'm some kind of problem he's already solved and just hasn't explained yet.

"I take it no one has bothered to ask, or if they have, bothered to listen." Uncle Reiji says it flat and bored, like he's commenting on the weather. Even with those sunglasses hiding his eyes, I can tell he looks off to the side—toward Mom and her parents. Then he scoffs. "I don't think I could have been more disappointed with her over this."

My chest tightens before I can stop it. Words jump out on their own, tripping over each other. "What's it to you?" I blurt, then immediately realize how bad that sounded. My throat goes dry. "…What's it to you, Uncle Reiji?"

"At this moment, nothing," he answers without missing a beat. "I need to hear it first."

I swallow. My fingers dig into the couch cushion like it might keep everything from spilling out. "It's just something childish," I say, forcing the words through, even though calling it that makes my stomach twist. Saying it out loud makes it sound small. Like it shouldn't matter.

But it does.

It hurts in that dumb, lingering way that doesn't go away just because you tell yourself you're being stupid. I keep my eyes down, staring at a stain on the carpet, pretending it's suddenly fascinating. Childish or not, the stuff they said stuck. It crawled under my skin and stayed there.

"Childish only means it lacks maturity," Uncle Reiji says, like he's correcting a mistake on a worksheet. "It does not describe the consequences, nor how far-reaching they can be."

…Great. He landed on the exact thought I was trying to avoid. I don't know why that bothers me so much, but it does. It feels like he skipped a few steps and ended up right where I didn't want anyone standing.

"Like I said," I mutter, staring at my hands, "it's childish." Saying it again doesn't make it feel any smaller. "But it started with a rejection."

"Do not insult my intelligence by attempting to play it off as merely a rejection that is the cause of your anger, Hachiman." His voice sharpens, not louder, just heavier. "I doubt you are so immature that you believe it is the end of the world and lash out over a girl not returning your feelings."

…Crap.

My shoulders stiffen. He didn't hesitate. Didn't guess. He just went straight for it, like he already knew the answer and was waiting for me to catch up. I bite the inside of my cheek, heat creeping up my neck.

So yeah. He saw through it.
Every dumb excuse. Every shortcut I tried to take around it.

"Which means it is less her rejection that stings," Uncle Reiji says, voice steady, "and more the manner in which she conducted herself afterwards."

I hate how easily he says it. Like he just picked the lock on something I've been jamming shut this whole time. He's way too good at getting to the centre of it, and I don't like being there.

"She let the whole school know about it," I say after a second. The words scrape on the way out. "Something they mocked me for."

Uncle Reiji lets out a short chuckle. It doesn't reach his face—he still looks bored, serious, like this is just another thing he expected. "You're right, boy," he says. "It is childish. Though she likely did it to gather sympathy from both your peers and hers."

Yeah. Sympathy. That stupid, warm spotlight everyone crowds around. She gets comforted, gets told it's not her fault, while I turn into the punchline. My fingers curl into the couch fabric, twisting it tight. People call it a mistake. Say it's just kids being kids.

From where I'm sitting, that sounds like a lie.

"So," Uncle Reiji drawls, sounding almost bored, "what have you done about it?"

The question slams into me.

I open my mouth, then close it again. My brain scrambles, like it's flipping through empty pages, hoping an answer will magically appear. What have I done?

Besides being mad?

Nothing.

The realization sits heavy in my chest. I've spent weeks replaying everything, sulking like the world ended that day. A whole month of staring at ceilings, clenching my teeth, pretending I didn't care when I obviously did. And for all that time, nothing changed.

If anything, it got worse.

The whispers at school didn't stop. The looks didn't either. They're still there, sticking to me like gum on a shoe. I sink back into the couch, fingers tightening in my sleeves, wishing I could rewind time—or at least fast-forward past this part.

"Given your reaction, I can guess you have wasted this opportunity," Uncle Reiji says.

…Opportunity?

I blink at him, my thoughts tripping over the word. Opportunity for what? Getting embarrassed? Becoming the class joke? If that's an opportunity, then yeah, I nailed it.

He shifts, and suddenly his shadow stretches over me. He doesn't actually step closer, but it still feels like the space shrinks anyway. I stiffen without meaning to.

"You have all that anger and frustration, and you just let it simmer," he continues, like he's pointing out something obvious. "And from what you have admitted without even saying it, you have done nothing with it."

My foot slides back on instinct. I don't even know why—I just want space. He stays where he is, but the shadow doesn't let me go. It clings to me, heavy and annoying, like it knows I can't argue back.

"If you are not using it, why keep it?" he asks.

My throat tightens. I don't answer. I don't have one.

I have been carrying it around, though. Every stupid comment, every laugh behind my back, all of it packed inside me like junk I don't know where to throw away. I thought holding onto it was normal. Like if I let it go, then it really meant none of it mattered.

"Use it?" I repeat, blinking at him. Is he seriously saying I should do something with this mess in my chest? Like turn it into a hobby or whatever? That kind of thing only works in manga. Real life doesn't come with training arcs.

"An outlet," Uncle Reiji says. "Not a means to cope, but something to use to excel in."

I frown. That doesn't clear it up. "I can use my anger to excel?" The words sound fake even to me. Like something a cool mentor says right before the opening theme kicks in. I've watched enough anime to know how this goes—and how it usually doesn't.

"Of course you can," he replies calmly. "I have been rather successful."

…Wow. Okay.

For a second I almost laugh. Is this a sales pitch? Because it really sounds like one. I'm a middle schooler, not some burned-out office worker looking for motivation posters. Still, something about how sure he sounds makes me straighten up a little.

I take a breath, feeling weirdly braver, and look up at him. "Then what did you make of yourself, Uncle Reiji?"

The question slips out sharper than I expect. But if he's going to talk like that, I kind of want to see the proof.

"Aniki was one of the Legendary Inazuma 11," Mom suddenly says, approaching us from the table, like she's dropping some huge reveal.

…Inazuma 11?
That sounds less like a sports thing and more like a secret attack name. Or a sentai squad. I glance at Uncle Reiji again, trying to see the glow or dramatic aura that's supposed to come with a title like that. Nothing. Just tall, serious, and scary.

Uncle Reiji clicks his tongue, clearly annoyed. "I was only a bench player, slotting as forward or midfield."

Only? He says that like it's nothing, but Mom looked way too proud a second ago for that to be normal. I squint at him, running a quick inspection. He is tall. Really tall. And skinny too. Not bulky like you'd expect from, you know, whatever a "legendary" athlete is supposed to look like.

"Did you play basketball, Oji-san?" I ask, making sure my tone's polite now that Mom's watching. Tall people usually play basketball. That's just common sense. Plus, if this was from a long time ago, Japan's sports scene was probably even messier than it is now.

The look Mom shoots me could probably end civilizations.

"Basketball?" Uncle Reiji repeats slowly, like he's testing the word to see if it offends him. Mom, on the other hand, just laughs.

"Soccer," she corrects. "Though it is also called football."

Oh.
That actually makes sense. You use your feet. Not your hands. Calling it football is way more logical, but I most people I think call it soccer, at least here. I nod to myself like I've solved something important, filing it away while trying not to think too hard about the fact that the scary guy looming over me used to be some kind of sports legend.

Figures.

"Yes," Uncle Reiji says, agreeing, but his voice has that clear let's-drop-this edge to it. "I was more going to talk about how I am the head coach and one of the primary board members at Teikoku Gakuen."

…Head coach? Board member?
Those sound like words adults use to win arguments. I don't totally get what they mean, but they definitely sound important. I glance at him again, trying to line that up with the scary uncle currently standing in front of me. Yeah, that checks out. Of course he's some big deal.

"I liked you in Raimon colors," Mom cuts in, completely ignoring the warning tone. She looks way too pleased with herself. "You were much fiercer back then."

"I wasn't," Uncle Reiji says immediately, flat and annoyed.

Mom doesn't even hesitate as she counters, "you and the rest of the team, after your bus crashed, dragged yourselves to the finals while battered and bleeding."

…Wait.
Bus crash?

I freeze.

My brain latches onto the image whether I want it to or not. A wrecked bus. Injured players. And this guy—this guy—as a teen still standing up and going to a finals match like it's no big deal. That's not normal. That's not even sports anime normal. That's full-on shounen protagonist nonsense.

"I wasn't on the bus, and the match was forfeited," Uncle Reiji says, voice flat, like he's closing a door.

Just like that, the air snaps back into place. No explosions. No dramatic flashback music. Reality, apparently.

"You were, on that bus," Mom pushes back immediately. "You have scars along your arms and legs from where the glass and metal cut you. That's why you wear long sleeves even in summer."

…Scars?

My eyes flick down to his arms before I can stop myself. Long sleeves. Even now. Even indoors. I'd noticed it before, but I never really thought about it. Adults wear weird stuff all the time. But now my brain starts filling in the blanks on its own, and I kind of hate it. Twisted metal. Shattered glass. Blood. The whole thing plays out like a panel ripped straight from a manga.

"I am the head coach of Teikoku Gakuen," Uncle Reiji says again, firmer this time. That's it. Final answer. He's clearly done with this topic, like he's shoving that whole story into a box and taping it shut.

I don't say anything. I just sit there, staring at him, feeling this strange mix of disbelief and annoyance. He talks about anger like its fuel, like something you're supposed to use. And meanwhile, he's apparently walking around with proof carved into his skin, pretending none of it matters anymore.

Adults are seriously unfair. They act like stuff just stops hurting one day.

"So, you coach a sport?" I ask, mostly because my brains still stuck on what he said earlier about using anger. If he's serious about that, then this is probably where the explanation starts… right?

"And am a senior board member," Uncle Reiji adds, like he's correcting a detail on a resume. Then his attention shifts to Mom. "Say, my most precious imouto—"

He really drags out precious. Mom shoots him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

"I hear Hachiman here is dealing with a lot of bullying from his peers."

My shoulders tense immediately. Great. Just say it out loud. Why not. I keep my eyes on the floor, already regretting existing in this exact spot.

"Ah," Mom says, sounding more bothered than concerned. "Is he still going on about that?" She waves it off like I complained about the weather.

My fingers curl into my sleeves. Still going on about it. Right. Like it's a phase. Or a bad habit.

"If it is still happening, I don't see why not?" Uncle Reiji replies calmly. "But perhaps a change of scenery and venue might be helpful?"

I blink. Change of scenery? Venue? Are they talking about redecorating? Moving? Exiling me?

"I'm not certain, aniki," Mom says after a second. "Teikoku is really expensive and elite."

Teikoku.

The word hangs there, heavy. I don't fully get what's being discussed, but I can tell it's big. Adult-big. The kind of conversation that decides stuff without asking the person it's about.

"The former is easy to handle," Uncle Reiji says, calm like this is some simple math problem, "and the latter—are you telling me you didn't raise your son to want to excel and be better than his peers?"

Mom's face tightens. Not angry exactly. More like she just stepped on something she forgot was there. I don't know what history they're tripping over, but it's obvious this isn't a new argument. Just an old one dragged back into the light.

"Hachiman isn't really one to stand out," she says, glancing my way.

Ouch.
I mean, she's not wrong, but hearing it said like that still stings. I sink a little into myself, like maybe I can prove her point by vanishing on the spot.

Uncle Reiji lets out a scoff. "He is sticking out like a sore thumb here, quite fine," he says. Then his voice dips, colder. "I expected more from you."

The room feels tighter after that. Mom straightens, her expression turning serious in a way I don't see often. It's the kind she uses when something actually matters.

"What are you suggesting, Aniki?" she asks.

I hold my breath without meaning to. My name's been bouncing around this conversation like a ball, and I really don't like where it seems to be heading.

"Transfer him to Teikoku," Uncle Reiji says. No hesitation. "I'll see to it that he gets a fresh environment, one conducive to helping him excel."

…Transfer?

My brain lags for a second, then starts racing. New school. New people. New place where nobody knows me—or where everyone might. My hands clench at my sides. I don't say anything. I'm not even sure I'm allowed to.

They're talking about my life like it's a piece on a board.

"You know I hated that place," Mom says, and the way she says it makes it sound personal, like the building itself did something to her. "They're obsessed with perfection, the lot of them. Why did you ever transfer there in the first place?"

So, she's been there.
That explains a lot. I glance between them, trying to keep up. Teikoku isn't just some school name anymore—it's a place with history, and apparently bad memories.

"To increase yours and the others' standard of living, last I checked," Uncle Reiji replies, sounding mildly annoyed. Like the answer should've been obvious. "I am far from pleased with how content you are with your life as it is."

That sentence feels heavier than it should. I don't fully get it, but it sounds like one of those adult arguments where both sides are right and also mad about it.

"I'd rather not have to rely on you for everything," Mom says. She tries to keep it calm, but there's an edge there, a warning that they have had this argument over dozen times already. "Least of all for a promotion."

…Hold on.

Promotion?

I stiffen. Did he just casually offer to help Mom move up at work? My eyes flick back to Uncle Reiji, reevaluating him again. Coach. Board member. Apparently, someone who can just do that, this is starting to feel unreal.

My chest tightens a little. If he has that much pull, then this whole transfer thing suddenly feels way more serious. Like it's not just talk anymore.

And that's… kind of terrifying.

"You're good at your job," Uncle Reiji says, not bothering to soften it, "but unless someone puts in a good word for you to the right ears, you and your husband are never going anywhere in that company."

The words land hard.

I feel it before I really understand it—this sharp edge under his voice when he mentions Dad. Like Dad's just an extra detail, something inconvenient. It makes my stomach twist. I don't like it. But… I kind of get it too, which is worse.

I sneak a glance at Dad across the room. Same calm posture, same quiet focus. He looks solid. Steady. But standing next to Uncle Reiji's confidence, it's like they exist in totally different worlds.

And that's when it clicks.

If Uncle Reiji can talk about promotions like they're favours you hand out—and he doesn't even work in the same field as Mom—then he's not just important. He's connected. The kind of person who doesn't knock on doors because they're already open for him.

Mom and Uncle Reiji keep going at it, voices rising and falling like I'm not even there. I can see their mouths moving, the tension in their faces, but the words stop sticking. It all fades into background noise.

Because something else is way louder in my head.

It starts as one thought, then stretches out, looping over itself. I keep looking at Uncle Reiji—at how sure he is, how easily he talks about people and places like pieces on a board—and my chest feels tight in a weird way.

I want that.

Not the yelling. Not the arguments.
That power.

The kind that doesn't need fists or shouting. The kind that reaches people without touching them. The kind that makes laughter die before it even starts.

If I had that, no one at school would look at me the same way. No whispers. No jokes. No turning me into a story they pass around for fun. I wouldn't have to pretend it doesn't hurt anymore.

And yeah… a small, ugly part of me wants payback. Wants them to feel just as small and stupid as they made me feel. Maybe worse.

The thought scares me a little.
But it also won't leave.

And the worst part?
Power like that doesn't just happen. You learn it. From someone who already has it.

My eyes drift back to Uncle Reiji without me meaning to.

"Those are some nice hateful eyes there," Uncle Reiji says, almost like he's giving me a compliment.

I flinch. I hadn't even noticed they stopped arguing. My chest tightens, like I got caught doing something illegal without knowing what it was.

He reaches up and takes off his sunglasses.

I stare before I can stop myself. No eyebrows. At all. That alone is weird enough, but it's his eyes that pin me in place. They're sharp and narrow, pupils tiny, packed full of something hot and ugly. Anger, probably. The kind that's been sitting there a long time.

The worst part is… it looks familiar.

Way too familiar.

"They look a lot like mine did at your age," Uncle Reiji says, and this time, he smiles.

I don't like it.

It stretches across his thin face, sharp and wrong, like it doesn't belong there. There's no warmth in it, no kindness—just satisfaction. Like he's found what he was looking for. The smile crawls under my skin, and I suddenly wish he'd put the sunglasses back on.

Because whatever he's seeing in me right now?

He likes it.

 

[The Hero Without a Name]

So we are probably getting Villain Arc Hachiman.