CHAPTER 51 : — AFTERMATH & NEW FAULT LINES
After the Win: When Adults Lose Their Dignity
The victory didn't end on the field.
It followed Haruya into the school like a shockwave.
By the next morning, the corridors buzzed with a different kind of noise. Not gossip this time—reverence. Teachers walked faster. Staff members lingered near classrooms longer than necessary. Even the usually bored security ladies stood a little straighter when Haruya passed by.
The boy who was already rare had become valuable.
And everyone knew it.
Haruya sat at his desk, posture calm, expression gentle as always, completely unaware that he had become the most contested "resource" in the building. He listened quietly as the homeroom lesson began, pen moving neatly across his notebook, mind still replaying moments from the match—angles, passes, timing.
Outside the classroom, however, sanity was collapsing.
It started with voices.
Raised ones.
"You can't just claim him like that!"
"I absolutely can. He's my student."
"He played football under my supervision."
"That doesn't make him yours."
Three teachers stood in the hallway near the staff room, arms crossed, tempers flaring. One was from the sports department, tracksuit half-zipped and pride still burning from the match. Another was a senior PE coach, already imagining trophies and interviews. The third was Haruya's homeroom teacher, arms folded tight, eyes sharp enough to cut glass.
"He stays in my class," she said coldly. "Anything involving Haruya goes through me."
The football coach scoffed. "With all respect, sensei, that boy is a natural. Do you know what it means to have a male player dominate like that? The press will eat it up. The principal will—"
"I don't care about the press," the homeroom teacher snapped. "And I care even less about your ambitions, I spit on your ambitions."
Another coach leaned in, voice lowered but no less aggressive. "You're being unreasonable. This is bigger than one trash classroom like yours."
That's when the shouting began.
"I discovered his potential!"
"You used him for personal benefits."
"I trained him, you narrow minded piece of shit."
"I protected him, you trash."
"I guided him!!!"
Hands waved. Papers nearly flew. Someone's clipboard hit the floor.
At one point, two teachers actually grabbed each other's sleeves.
"Unhand me!"
"You started it!"
"This is harassment!"
"Don't twist the narrative!"
A passing student froze in horror as one teacher's neatly tied hair bun came loose in the scuffle.
"HEY!" a vice-principal shouted from down the hall. "WHAT IN THE WORLD IS GOING ON HERE?!"
Silence fell—briefly.
The homeroom teacher straightened her coat, adjusted her glasses, and spoke with terrifying calm.
"We're discussing Haruya-sama future."
The vice-principal paled.
"…Ah."
That explained everything.
Inside the classroom, Haruya felt a strange chill run down his spine. He paused mid-sentence, blinking softly "what was that feeling".
"…Weird," he murmured to himself. "Did the temperature drop?"
Saeko, seated a few rows away, glanced at him, then toward the door, sensing something was wrong. Reina, closer to the window, already looked irritated, as if she could smell trouble approaching.
Outside, the argument resumed—quieter, sharper.
The homeroom teacher took a step forward, voice low and dangerous. "Haruya-sama does not join clubs without my approval. He does not attend 'special training' without my presence. And he most certainly does not become a mascot for your ego."
The football coach bristled. "You're acting like he's your personal property."
Her smile was thin. "I'm acting like his guardian, you baboon ass."
That did it.
Two teachers shouted at once. Someone knocked over a chair. A hand reached out—hair was pulled.
"STOP THIS IMMEDIATELY!"
The principal herself appeared, eyes blazing.
Every teacher froze.
She surveyed the scene: scattered papers, disheveled staff, red faces.
"…You're fighting over a student," she said flatly.
No one answered.
She pinched the bridge of her nose. "All of you. My office. Now."
As they shuffled away, the homeroom teacher cast one last look toward Haruya's classroom door—protective, possessive, victorious.
Inside, Haruya kept writing, unaware that half the school's authority figures had just embarrassed themselves over him.
He only smiled faintly, thinking about football.
---
Ayame in the Corridor: Pride, Tears, and Teeth Bared
The corridor outside the locker rooms was brighter than it needed to be.
Sunlight poured in through tall windows, bouncing off polished floors, making everything feel exposed. Ayame walked a few steps behind the flow of students, her head slightly lowered, shoulders stiff, every footstep measured.
She shouldn't be crying, she knew that.
She had told herself that a hundred times already.
Strong lady don't cry.
Leaders don't cry.
Vice-presidents don't cry—especially not in front of a boy.
And yet her eyes still burned thinking that see cried infront of haruya.
Her chest felt tight, like something heavy was pressing down on it, refusing to let her breathe normally. Every time she remembered the moment—Haruya standing there, calm and sincere, offering his number like it was the most natural thing in the world—her emotions tangled into a mess she didn't know how to handle.
Happy.
Ashamed.
Relieved.
Humiliated.
All at once.
She clenched her fists inside her sleeves and kept walking.
That was when she heard it, Whispers.
Beside her.
Sharp. Deliberate. Enjoying themselves.
"Did you see Ayame earlier?"
"Yeah. I did."
"Tch. I didn't expect her to cry like that."
"In front of Haruya-sama, no less."
Ayame's steps slowed.
Another voice joined, quieter but crueler. "She always acts so strong. Vice-president this, perfect student that… and then she breaks down in front of the male god."
A soft laugh followed.
"How do you know?" someone asked.
"Oh, come on," the girl replied smugly. "There are photos. Everyone's sharing them."
Ayame's nails dug into her palms.
Another voice chimed in, dripping with contempt. "That's pathetic. If I were her, I'd die of shame. I wouldn't even show my face at school again."
The laughter this time was louder.
Something inside Ayame snapped.
She stopped.
Slowly, deliberately, she turned around.
Her eyes were wet—but they were no longer weakness.
Three girls froze when they saw her face.
The air changed.
"What did you just say?" Ayame asked.
Her voice was low. Flat. Dangerous tone.
The girls stiffened, exchanging uneasy glances. One tried to laugh it off. "W-We were just talking—"
"Talking?" Ayame took a step forward.
Her presence pressed down on them like a weight.
"Say it again," she said. "Say it clearly. I want to hear it."
The girl swallowed.
Ayame's eyes rage in anger.
"I don't care what you whisper," she continued, her voice rising. "I don't care what photos you share. And I don't care what you think you know."
She leaned in just enough for them to feel it.
"But if I hear any of you talking about me again—"
"—I will beat the living shit out of you."
Silence.
The corridor felt suddenly very small.
The girls went pale.
"T-That's not—"
"Get," Ayame said quietly.
They didn't wait for her to finish.
Shoes scraped against the floor as they practically ran away, fear replacing mockery in an instant.
Ayame stood there, breathing hard.
Her hands were shaking again—but this time, not from weakness.
She looked away, jaw tightening.
"…You'll never understand," she whispered to the empty corridor.
They hadn't seen the nights she spent trying to be better.
They hadn't felt what it was like to be overlooked every single time.
They hadn't stood across the field from someone they loved—and lost anyway.
She straightened her back.
Wiped her eyes.
At least… he noticed me.
---
Ayame's Phone: A Name, a Future.
Ayame didn't go back to the locker room.
She was training in ground.
She walked past it, past the noise of celebration and arguments and laughter, until she found a quiet stairwell where the echoes of the school softened into something manageable. The door clicked shut behind her, sealing her inside a narrow space that smelled faintly of dust and disinfectant.
Only then did she take out her phone.
Her fingers hesitated above the screen.
She had saved the number the moment he gave it to her. Not because she was impulsive—but because she was afraid that if she didn't do it immediately, she would lose the courage to ever do it at all.
The contact screen glowed.
New Contact
Name: Haruya
She stared at it.
Just his name. Simple. Ordinary.
Her thumb hovered,That won't do.
Ayame bit her lip, then slowly edited it.
Haruya (Future Husband)
She froze the moment she finished typing.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
"…Idiot," she muttered under her breath, but there was no real regret in her voice.
Instead, a small, embarrassed smile crept onto her lips.
It was ridiculous. Too fast. Too hopeful.
And yet—
She locked the phone and hugged it lightly against her chest, as if afraid someone might see what she'd written.
A notification buzzed.
Nothing from him.
Of course not.
He'd just won a match. He was surrounded by people. He had Saeko and Reina right there, always close, always visible.
Ayame sat down on the step, back against the railing, and unlocked her phone again.
Should I message him first?
No, that's desperate.
But what if he thinks I'm not interested?
What if he forgets?
Her thumb hovered over the message icon.
She typed.
( Hi… this is Ayame.)
She stared at the screen, Too plain.
Delete.
She typed again.
(Thank you for earlier. You were really amazing today.)
Too much?
Delete.
Her shoulders slumped.
Why is this harder than facing a football field?
She exhaled slowly and typed once more.
(It's Ayame. I hope you're resting well after the match.)
She stared at it for a long time.
Then, finally, she hit send.
The message whooshed away.
Her breath caught as if she'd just jumped from a height.
Now she waited.
Every second felt stretched.
Her phone didn't buzz.
Did I say something wrong?
Was that too formal?
Too cold?
Too eager?
She imagined him reading it, smiling politely, replying hours later—or worse, not replying at all.
Her chest tightened again.
Ayame looked down at her hands.
They were steady.
But of hope.
Footsteps echoed in the stairwell.
"Ayame?" Nana's voice called out, cautious. "You disappeared."
Rika appeared beside her a second later, arms crossed, eyes sharp but concerned. "You've been weird since the match. What's going on?"
Ayame looked up.
For a moment, she almost told them everything.
About the number.
About the way her heart felt like it was being pulled apart and stitched back together at the same time.
About how close Haruya felt—and how far.
But then she remembered the field.
Saeko standing near him, eyes shining.
Reina guarding his space without saying a word.
Obstacles... But not enemies.
"I'm fine," Ayame said, standing up smoothly. Her tone was calm, practiced. "I just need some air."
Nana frowned. "You didn't even argue back there. That's not like you."
Rika studied her face more closely. "You're hiding something."
Ayame picked up her bag and walked past them.
"Don't overthink it," she said lightly. "I'm just tired."
It was a lie.
And they both felt it.
Nana and Rika exchanged a glance as Ayame walked away, her steps measured, her back straight.
"…She's pulling away," Rika muttered.
Nana's jaw tightened. "Yeah. I felt that too."
They didn't follow her, Ayame didn't look back.
As she walked down the hallway alone, her phone buzzed softly in her hand.
She stopped, her breath caught.
Slowly, she looked down.
Haruya (future husband):
( I am! Thank you for asking. You played really well today too.)
That was it.
Simple. Kind. Haruya, Ayame's vision blurred.
She pressed the phone to her chest again, this time tighter.
He replied.
He noticed.
Her lips trembled into a smile—small, fragile, but real.
Saeko and Reina appeared in her mind again.
Not like enemies, But like walls.
And for the first time, Ayame thought—not with anger, but with resolve:
I won't disappear this time.
She wiped her eyes, straightened her posture, and walked forward.
Quietly.
Carefully.
But with a future already named in her phone.
— To be continued...
Author note 🧾
Have any questions regarding New chapter, ask freely my dear readers.
—king_fuzu_