A Cancerous Mass
Hailey's friends were a mixed group of four or five, guys and girls together.
All of them were good-looking, and you could tell at a glance that they came from money. Given that the neighborhood itself was an affluent enclave, they were almost certainly the children of the wealthy.
Their basic personalities seemed lively enough, which was fine. The problem was that rudeness was mixed into that liveliness.
They weren't the type to cause enormous trouble. But in the small things, a lack of manners kept showing through—buying something tiny at a convenience store and casually tossing the wrapper on the floor, that sort of thing.
Every time it happened, Yohan told them not to, and they actually listened. There was no sense that they were only playing along for Hailey's sake. They would go back with genuinely apologetic faces and pick up whatever trash they'd left behind.
Judging by that, they didn't seem like hopeless delinquents beyond reform—but something about them still felt off.
For one thing, they were loud. On the way home after staying out late, they had belted out songs at full volume. They all drove nice cars, and more than once they'd floored the accelerator while idling, revving the engine hard enough to fill the street with noise. And they treated all of it as perfectly natural. Which meant they had no idea they were bothering anyone.
You could write it off as the thoughtless antics of teenagers. But from Yohan's perspective—someone the same age—he and they simply didn't fit.
After a stretch of rather uncomfortable days, the date of his return to Italy finally arrived.
Getting out of Hailey's car near the departure hall, Yohan said,
"Thanks for driving me."
"Of course I was going to drive you. Did you have fun? Did you get some rest?"
"Mm… I think so."
"What's with that wishy-washy answer?"
Yohan had been about to brush the conversation aside when he remembered something Hailey had said not long ago—that she couldn't understand what he was thinking unless he actually said it out loud. Recalling that, he decided that if it was the two of them, he could afford to be honest, and he steeled himself.
"When I was with you and your family, I really did have a great time. Even more so after the cameras left. I was laughing every single day."
"You know this big sister of yours dotes on you, right? That's why I looked after you."
"I know. But when I was with your friends, it wasn't great."
"In what way?"
"Since it's just the two of us, I'll be straight with you. Your friends and I don't click at all. The kids themselves are lively, which is fine—I mean our personalities don't match. I put up with it for a few days because they're close to you and tried hanging out with them, but… I'm not sure how to put this right now. Immature, maybe? That might be the closest word."
"Really? Like what?"
"Throwing trash wherever, the way they treat people… even the everyday stuff grates. Did none of that seem strange to you?"
"Me? Well… there were a few times I found it annoying, but I never took it as seriously as you. And trash, well… I toss things around inside and outside the house myself, so… the car too."
"Your house and your car and the outside world are completely different scopes."
"Are they?"
"Anyway, I'm not trying to lecture anyone. I just wanted to say they don't work for me."
"Got it. So basically, they're a mess?"
"Not that far…"
"I should think about this more carefully myself. Have I gotten too loose since coming to America? At this rate, if Mom shows up and sees the state I'm in, she's going to ship me straight back to Italy."
"I hope she does. You belong in Trigoria."
"Calling me a country girl?"
"That is absolutely not what I meant."
Hailey giggled at Yohan's startled face, then her expression suddenly turned serious.
"I'll go back and really think it over. Until now, I don't think I've been trying to notice those things."
"Don't. If you think your friends are good friends, isn't that enough?"
"I'll handle this myself, so stop glossing over it like that."
"That's not what I—it's just one part of your life—"
"Shut up."
"Okay. Sorry."
Yohan checked the time on the digital clock hanging from the departure board and went on.
"I should head in soon."
"Safe trip. Message me when you land."
"I will."
"Hug for your big sister."
Hailey stretched both arms wide. Yohan let out a soft laugh at the sight of her and slowly wrapped her in his arms.
"I'm going. Take care."
Just before stepping into the departure hall, Yohan turned his head toward Hailey and raised one hand. The smile that came with it carried a faint, almost detached quality.
Seeing it, Hailey's heart gave a sudden, sharp twist.
What was that…?
Yohan's expression had been deeply charged with meaning. She couldn't explain it precisely, but something about it felt uneasy—anxious, even.
While she was still turning that over, Yohan was already near the gate, giving fan service to a few people from Rome who had recognized him.
"Roma's results this season have been a little… you know. Hang in there."
"We'll bounce back."
"Please don't."
"Sorry? Why?"
"I'm a Lazio fan."
"Ah. Then why are you getting my autograph?"
"My daughter's a Roma fan… she likes you especially."
"You've raised her well. She'll be an outstanding person someday."
"And what about me? Am I a washout?"
"No. You've lived well yourself—you've got a daughter who's a Roma fan. How about rooting for Roma while you're at it?"
"My grandfather, my father, and I—three generations of Lazio supporters."
"Nothing in this world lasts forever, right? When the daughter you'd put before your own eyes is cheering for Roma, you've got to relocate your allegiance."
"What a terrible person…!"
The playful exchange with a rival team's fan drew chuckles from the people around them. And with that, Yohan returned to Rome.
The sense of loss he'd felt parting from Hailey was still there… but a little less than before. Just a tiny, tiny bit less. Probably because Hailey's house had been as chaotic as present-day Rome thanks to the filming, and he hadn't managed a proper rest.
"Hah… look at them go."
Miguel let out a long sigh. Beside him, Yohan wore a bitter expression.
"What do we do?"
Factions had formed inside the training ground.
One camp backed Richie, led by vice-captain Solomon. The other was the defensive unit, anchored by the veteran Nathan.
On the surface, everyone still looked like they were getting along. But it was only surface. The quiet sniping was obvious, and the atmosphere at training was foul.
Miguel, Vasten, Yohan, and two or three of the younger players belonged to neither side. Or rather, in the current situation, they were the neutral faction.
"Usually, when something like this starts, if you don't stamp it out hard at the beginning, the team can't recover until one of the groups collapses."
Yohan glanced up at Miguel's flat delivery.
"No way… that extreme…"
"It's true. Footballers are all kids—they never bend their pride. You think these guys are going to make up like adults? Not a chance. And when the captain who's supposed to hold the center is stuck in one of the factions… well. Game over. If this keeps up, I might start looking for a club to transfer to."
"That bad?"
"Once it gets this far, the manager has to play a hard card. Either seize the locker room so tightly the captaincy group can't interfere, or strip the captaincy—even temporarily—and put someone else in… or lean on the club to ship out a key figure from one of the factions. There are other options, but they're all extreme."
"…But our manager is…"
"Not that kind of guy. He's a good person. Put nicely, a virtuous leader. Put badly, hands-off. And the transfer window's almost shut, and the club isn't doing a thing. So we're screwed."
"Want to try working on it together…?"
"You know I've moved around a lot of clubs, right? Factions exist everywhere. Most of them barely even deserve the word—more like little playgroups. But this bad? First time for me. I think we should just write this season off."
Miguel's fears became reality.
In the very next match, the performance was eye-rotting.
In the locker room, they listened when Richie gave his speech. But it was only for show. On the pitch, there was no cohesion, and mistakes piled up.
The one who suffered for it was Yohan.
Down 2–0, he fought alone and tried to communicate. But even when he spoke kindly, no one listened, and Yohan's temper began to fray.
"For real…! Eki! There's no one marking you—why are you playing it sideways!?"
He raised his voice when defender Ekene Nwosu made a childlike error.
"Basti! Come on…!! You saw Mac on the other side!"
He seethed when Richie refused to pass to Mackenzie—who belonged to the other faction—and instead sent a useless ball to Yohan, who was shifting from a deeper position.
The next match was the same.
Coach Kruger made the unusual move of addressing the situation directly, warning that if it happened again he would hand down internal discipline—but the timing was already too late, and it accomplished nothing.
With no communication and nothing but friction, they were dragged around by the opposition. Roma went on to lose the first two matches of the second half without removing a single piece of the swelling cancerous mass.
And near the end of a third match that was already sliding toward defeat, the incident happened.
"Aagh…!"
Caught by a tackle, Yohan took a jolt to the ankle and rolled once across the grass. A sharp ache followed, but Roma were chasing and time was almost gone, so he simply scrambled back to his feet.
"Hey, you okay? Want the medics?"
Teammates came over, worried, but Yohan brushed it off as fine and burned with the will to keep chasing.
The match ended as it was.
A 1–0 loss to a weak side. Confronted with that insane result, Yohan screamed the moment the whistle blew.
"Aaaargh…!!"
There was none of the organic movement his teammates were supposed to produce. Having to pour every ounce of focus not into reading positions but into reading their mental states—having to walk on eggshells—was absurd in itself.
The stress of every single match had been crushing. And it had stacked, and stacked again.
"This is just too much!!"
Thud! Thud! Thud!
He dropped to his knees and pounded the grass with both fists.
The players who saw him looked visibly rattled and came toward him. Yohan shook off their supporting hands, walked into the locker room, and when they followed him in, he ground his teeth and raised his voice.
"All of you can go to hell!"
It was the harshest curse Yohan could manage—and the first piece of real profanity he had ever spat out.
"Why are you all just digging in your heels like five-year-olds!! Fight if you have to, but at least play as a team on the pitch! Our whole system only works if the movement is organic across the board—so why is everyone off doing their own thing!?"
None of them had ever imagined that the pure-hearted Yohan would break down like this, voice cracking as he poured out his frustration.
Whichever faction they belonged to, they all adored Yohan. Even in the middle of their sniping, if Yohan stepped in, everyone backed off a pace—they had deliberately tried to keep him out of it. That was how much they cared for him. And now that he had completely exploded, they all stood there, stunned speechless.
In that moment, the single thought that settled into every one of their minds was the same:
We're fucked.