The following morning, Hiroshi woke up sore from the scrimmage at the park. His arms ached from throwing, and his legs burned from sprinting, but he didn't mind. The feeling was new, exhilarating even. It was the kind of fatigue that made him feel alive.
But as soon as he sat down at the breakfast table, the air in the room grew tense. His father sat silently, his hands folded in front of him. Naomi glanced nervously between them, sensing what was coming.
"Hiroshi," Akio began, his voice calm but firm, "we need to discuss this… new hobby of yours."
Hiroshi set his chopsticks down, bracing himself. "Father, it's more than just a hobby. Football is—"
"Football is a distraction," Akio interrupted, his tone sharp. "You are a prodigy, Hiroshi. A gift like yours is rare. Wasting it on some violent, unstructured sport is not only foolish but disrespectful to everything we've worked for."
"Worked for?" Hiroshi said, his voice rising. "Father, this isn't just about you. I've spent my whole life doing what you wanted. Chess was your dream, not mine."
Akio's expression darkened, but Hiroshi continued, the words spilling out before he could stop them.
"I love chess, but it's not the only thing I care about. Football is more than just brute force. It's strategy, teamwork, and leadership. It's—"
"Enough!" Akio's voice cut through the room like a knife. He stood, towering over the table. "You think you know better than me? You think this… game can compare to the discipline and brilliance of chess? You're chasing a fantasy, Hiroshi. And I won't allow it."
Naomi placed a gentle hand on Akio's arm. "Akio, please. Let him speak."
But Akio shook his head, his gaze fixed on Hiroshi. "No son of mine will throw away his future for something so meaningless."
Hiroshi stood, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. "If it's meaningless to you, then maybe you don't understand me at all."
The silence that followed was deafening. Hiroshi's chest heaved with anger and frustration as he looked at his father, a man who had always seemed unshakable, immovable.
Without another word, Hiroshi turned and left the room.
Hiroshi stormed into his room, slamming the door behind him. He paced back and forth, his mind racing. The clash with his father had been inevitable, but it didn't make it any easier.
His gaze fell on his chessboard, still sitting untouched on his desk. For years, it had been the center of his world. Now, it felt like a relic of a life he no longer wanted.
He grabbed the board and set it aside, replacing it with a stack of blank paper. Pulling out a pencil, he began sketching plays from memory, his mind consumed with ideas.
Football wasn't just a game to him anymore—it was an escape, a challenge, a chance to carve out something that was entirely his own.
The next day at school, Hiroshi sat in the cafeteria with Kenji and the other boys from the park.
"You did great yesterday," Kenji said, clapping Hiroshi on the back. "You sure you've never played before?"
"Never," Hiroshi admitted with a small smile. "But I've been studying. A lot."
"Well, it shows," Kenji said. "You've got a natural talent, especially for quarterback. You see the field better than most first-timers."
Hiroshi's smile widened. For the first time, he felt like he was good at something that wasn't chess—something that didn't come with the crushing weight of expectation.
One of the other boys, Riku, leaned forward. "We're playing again this weekend. You in?"
Hiroshi hesitated. He knew his father wouldn't approve, but the thought of playing again was too tempting to resist.
"I'm in," he said, his resolve hardening.
That evening, Hiroshi returned home later than usual. His mother was in the kitchen, washing dishes, while his father sat in the living room, reading.
Akio didn't look up as Hiroshi entered, but his presence was impossible to ignore.
"Hiroshi," Akio said, his tone icy. "We'll have a training session tomorrow morning. Six o'clock sharp. Don't be late."
Hiroshi paused, his heart sinking. He knew what his father was doing—trying to pull him back into the world of chess, to remind him of the path he was expected to follow.
"I can't," Hiroshi said, his voice steady.
Akio set his book down and turned to face him. "What do you mean, you can't?"
"I have something else I need to do," Hiroshi replied, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
Akio stood, his expression a mix of anger and disbelief. "You're choosing that game over your training? Over your future?"
"I'm choosing something that makes me happy," Hiroshi said firmly.
The words hung in the air, heavier than anything he had ever said to his father.
Akio's jaw tightened. "You're making a mistake, Hiroshi."
"Maybe," Hiroshi admitted. "But it's my mistake to make."
As Hiroshi climbed into bed that night, he felt a strange mix of fear and excitement. He knew the road ahead wouldn't be easy, but for the first time, it felt like it was his own.
The clash between his father's expectations and his newfound passion was far from over, but Hiroshi was determined to fight for what he wanted.
Football wasn't just a game anymore—it was his future. And he was ready to embrace it, no matter the cost.