Rumors of Monsters
“So… basically, I should think of it as you being first-year age but starting as a second-year. Right?”
“Right.”
“Then just say it that way. Why do you have to drag it out and confuse people? You want to die?”
“You’ve gotten scarier lately. You talk rough a lot.”
“Be grateful I’m only saying it.”
Having sorted through Yohan’s long-winded bragging about making it into Esordienti, Hailey scolded him and popped a piece of cake into her mouth.
Yohan spoke up in a worried voice.
“How many pieces are you eating? If you eat too much, you’ll gain weight. It’s not good for you, either.”
“Says the guy who loves ice cream and cake just as much…”
“Oh. Now that you mention it, you’re right. Give me just one bite.”
“No. That’s your punishment for putting me in a bad mood.”
“That’s sad.”
“You don’t look sad at all.”
As if deliberately teasing him, Hailey chewed her cake right in front of his face—then her eyes suddenly lit up.
She’d remembered her discussion with Emma earlier that day.
“Hey, Turtle.”
“Yeah?”
“What would you do if someone badmouthed me?”
“I feel like you’d handle it yourself without me doing anything.”
“Forget that. What do you think you’d feel?”
“I don’t know…? You’ve never been badmouthed by anyone, so I can’t really say…”
“Oh, for—! Just answer properly! Imagine it if you have to, and tell me what kind of feeling you’d get!”
“Okay, okay. Um… I’d be mad, right? Of course I would, if my friend was getting insulted.”
“That’s it? You wouldn’t step in?”
“I’d step in. If it was a fight between friends, I’d try to break it up from the middle.”
“You wouldn’t take my side?”
“If you were fighting someone you didn’t know, of course I’d take your side.”
“Even if I started it?”
“Yeah.”
That was unexpected.
The Yohan Hailey knew hated unfairness more than anything.
And yet he’d take her side even if she was the one in the wrong?
It was a surprisingly pleasant answer. She liked it.
“What if I just walked into a shop and started cursing out a clerk who hadn’t done anything? Would you still take my side?”
“Sure.”
“For real??”
“Yeah.”
To Hailey, “taking her side” meant fighting alongside her.
But that wasn’t what Yohan meant at all… In his mind, it also included calming the situation down and then talking her out of it.
Their interpretations differed, but their interests aligned—so Hailey was thoroughly delighted by his answer.
“Here. Eat.”
She cheerfully pushed the cake plate toward him.
“You just told me not to.”
“Never mind that. If it’s not enough, I’ll get you more, so eat as much as you want.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. You’ve got to eat lots and lots so you grow taller than me.”
“I’m already taller than you. Want to measure?”
“No, I’m not.”
Yohan genuinely couldn’t understand why Hailey insisted on turning facts into fiction.
The whole concept of protecting one’s pride was beyond him.
But the person handing out delicious food was always right.
So he decided to agree with her.
“Weren’t you supposed to be on some kind of meal plan, though? Is it okay to eat like this?”
At Hailey’s follow-up question, Yohan froze.
The club’s recommended—not mandatory—meal plan didn’t include anything like cake.
I’m in trouble…
His eyes went round. He fretted for a moment, then decided today would be a cheat day.
The plan did say desserts were allowed every now and then.
Pushing kids too hard to sculpt their bodies only bred resentment, after all.
That was also why Yohan occasionally—not often, but sometimes—ate the ice cream Hailey bought him.
What do I do…
The cake was so good it could honestly be called heavenly.
The kind of taste that made your whole mouth happy… hard to give up.
And so Yohan did exactly what a child faced with irresistible temptation would do.
“It’s fine. I’ll eat a lot today and just not eat any next time.”
“You think you can do that?”
“Yeah.”
“Then do whatever you want. Want more?”
“More.”
“Alright, then.”
“I’m nervous…”
“Same.”
At the Esordienti training center, Yohan and Bianchi told the staff member their preferred jersey numbers.
The popular numbers were still taken. Bianchi, who had worn number 10 before, reluctantly settled for something else with tears in his eyes.
Yohan’s number, however, remained 39.
It was a number players almost never chose unless it marked some meaningful anniversary, so he claimed it without any trouble.
“Does that mean kids like us who came up from Pulcini can never wear number 10? The waiting list must be huge.”
“No idea. Maybe you can ask when the player wearing 10 transfers or something? Of course, a lot of players will want it.”
“So we’d have to compete for it again. Annoying.”
“Just show them what you can do. You’re good.”
“Once you’re here, nobody knows how it’ll go. You can be great in Pulcini and still flop here.”
Bianchi was right.
Esordienti fielded two more players than Pulcini.
Seven became nine.
That meant faster decision-making, better positioning—far more mental demands than Pulcini had required.
Fundamentals were a given; the vast majority of players here had trained for years and were already excellent.
You could play here until age thirteen, and given how quickly kids grew at this stage, physical development went without saying.
To survive here, you had to be far better than you’d been in Pulcini.
From this level on, teams usually split further.
U-11 and U-13. Esordienti operated as those two sides, and Yohan and Bianchi had been placed in the U-11 team.
The overwhelming majority of U-11 players were eleven years old, with a few smaller twelve-year-olds mixed in.
Yohan and Bianchi were ten.
Only a year of difference—but at an age of rapid growth, the other kids were simply bigger than them.
Yohan, in particular, had the worst physical profile of anyone in U-11.
He’d grown since last year, but he was still slight.
The body is one thing. I can’t even guarantee my technical ability…
It would have been natural to feel intimidated, but Yohan didn’t think much of it.
He would grow too, after all.
And he wasn’t particularly worried about technique, either.
Playing matches in Pulcini, doing the things he wanted to do, training hard—it had all built up his confidence.
“Haa… Fine. I’ll just crush everyone. That should do it.”
Bianchi was the same. He’d started with a few deflated complaints, but once he accepted reality, his competitive fire flared right back up.
“Let’s do that. Though ‘crush’ sounds a little extreme—maybe just say we’ll work harder than everyone else.”
“What are you talking about? You’ve got to crush them to make your debut.”
“That’s also true. Okay. Let’s crush them.”
Muttering to each other, the two of them headed into the training center and ran into a player their own age already in uniform.
He looked like a U-11 player. As the boy approached, Yohan raised a hand and grinned.
“Hi.”
A greeting full of open friendliness.
The player looked briefly startled, then—
“Hi.”
—returned the greeting out of politeness and walked past them.
Yohan watched his broad back with open admiration.
“He’s huge.”
“Must be a defender.”
“Should I have asked his name?”
“You’re too nice to people—that’s your problem. What are you, a golden retriever? Being friendly with just anyone?”
“Isn’t it better to get along? Teamwork improves, too.”
“We’re competitors.”
“If our positions are different, there’s nothing to compete over… And besides, aren’t you and I each other’s real competition?”
“Now that you mention it. Though if you count all the Esordienti players, the list gets longer…”
“But they give playing time fairly. That’s the rule in youth teams.”
“I know. That’s how even someone worse than me like you gets to play regularly.”
“No. I’m way better than you. Like the difference between a head and a foot.”
“Hilarious. You and I are heaven and earth. And score some goals before you talk.”
“I have more assists than you.”
“For a striker, goals are everything.”
“Assists matter too.”
Ordinarily, Yohan would have conceded a silly argument like this—but when it came to football, he refused to back down. He held his ground.
They kept bickering until Bianchi, still arguing every point, seemed to remember something.
“Hey, you know about this? There’s a kid in Lazio’s U-11 who scores three goals a game as a baseline.”
“What…? Three goals a game?”
“Yeah. He’s in Esordienti U-11. Though if he moved up to U-13 this time, we might not face him. There’s a similar guy at Milan, too—supposedly a total freak who scores more than five a game.”
“F-five goals…? For real…?”
“Why would I lie about something like this? Apparently he’s insanely famous right now…”
“…..”
“…..”
Without anyone needing to say a word, both of them fell silent at the same time.
Standing here among monsters, they suddenly felt endlessly small.
But only for a moment. Bianchi and Yohan’s eyes lit up with fire.
“Then we just beat them. We got here because we’re better than the rest.”
“Right. If we meet them, we win.”
“I just said we might not meet them.”
“I said if we meet them.”
“Fine.”
Having steeled themselves together, the two answered in unison when a familiar staff member called their names.
“Lee, Bianchi. There you are. Come over here. We need to measure your kit sizes.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
They glanced at each other and grinned.
Excitement, and the competitive spirit rising with it.
The serious faces from a moment ago were long gone.