Bluelock x OC:The Oracle's game

Hikaru perspective:

The atmosphere in the locker room was electric. Victory had a way of amplifying everything — the laughter was louder, the smiles wider, and the sense of belonging stronger.

"Woooo! That's how you play football, man!" Shion's voice echoed off the walls as he dropped onto a bench, wiping his face with a towel. He leaned back, arms spread, basking in the feeling of a clean sheet and a dominant win. "They really thought experience alone was gonna carry them. Nah. Not against us."

"Don't act like you didn't get spun twice," Raito quipped as he peeled off his sweat-drenched jersey, revealing his chiseled physique. "Bianchi had you doing salsa lessons out there."

"Shut up, Raito," Shion shot back, eyes narrowing as a sly grin crept across his face. "I locked him up the second half, though. You saw it. You saw it."

"Yeah, yeah," Raito snorted, sitting next to him. "Keep telling yourself that, tactical genius."

Luka sat in front of his locker, his head down, hands tapping rhythmically on his knees. Deep in thought. That was Luka — always replaying the match in his head, looking for mistakes to correct. His face was calm but focused, like he was still in the middle of the game.

"You good, Luka?" I asked, leaning against the wall nearby.

He looked up, his eyes sharp. "Yeah. Just thinking." He glanced around the room, his gaze stopping on me for a second before moving on. "We won, but we didn't control the middle as much as I wanted. We let Bianchi run too much."

"True," I admitted, wiping the back of my neck with my towel. "But when we did lock him down, they had nothing. That's why they started crossing so much."

"Credit to the backline," Luka muttered, nodding toward Shion, Raito, Sandro, and Riccardo. "They handled it."

"Damn right we did." Sandro's deep voice cut through the air as he stood up, still drenched in sweat. He cracked his neck and rubbed his hands together. "Nothing gets through me, you know that."

Raito grinned. "Except for that one cross."

"Watch it, Raito," Sandro shot him a look that had just enough menace to keep it playful. "Don't forget, I'm your partner back there."

"Yeah, yeah, 'big bad Sandro,' I know the speech," Raito smirked, pulling on his training jacket. "You talk more than you defend, man."

The door swung open, and everything quieted. Coach stepped in. His eyes scanned the room, calm and unreadable as always. He didn't need to say a word to get attention. Silence. Focus. Respect.

His hands were behind his back, his face as stoic as ever. "Good win," he said plainly. His tone wasn't celebratory. It was measured. Focused. Coach didn't do 'celebrations.'

"You handled yourselves well. Played with patience, and when it was time to attack, you didn't hesitate." He paced slowly, his gaze landing on each of us for a few seconds before moving on. "But."

There it was. The "but."

"You lost control of the midfield for too long," he said, his eyes briefly resting on Luka, then me, then Bianchi. "If you give a player like Bianchi space, he'll punish you. Today, you got away with it. Next time, you might not."

Bianchi, sitting on the other side of the room with Marco and Gio, tilted his head and grinned. "He knows."

"Yeah, I know," I muttered, shooting him a glance. "Don't worry, next time, you won't get a touch."

"Ohoho, big words," Bianchi said, nudging Marco with his elbow. "Hear that, Marco? Kid's got confidence."

"Yeah, yeah, he can talk," Marco muttered, still upset after being subbed out for Simone earlier.