Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate-Chapter 126: Clutch (2)

"Hoooh… Not bad…"

Aaron's voice came first, light and surprised, followed by the clap of his palm against Damien's back.

"You got it past him. That was clean," he said, breath still heavy but grinning. "Didn't look like much power, but you picked your spot."

Rin joined in, jogging up beside them. "Tch. Placed it just right. No spin, low curl—keeper didn't even see it coming. Nicely done."

Damien's smirk curled at the edge. "Beginner's luck."

Aaron laughed. "You're really gonna use that line?"

"Luck's a skill," Damien replied with a shrug. "Just rare to see it used properly."

A few more of the boys offered nods or light claps on the shoulder, the shared rhythm of team recognition settling in—brief, genuine. Damien didn't revel in it, but he let it happen. Let it soak just enough to be acknowledged. This wasn't just camaraderie.

It was acceptance.

They moved back into position, but something had changed.

Not just on the field.

Around it.

Rin frowned as he glanced at the crowd. "Why the hell are there this many people?"

He wasn't wrong. What started as a scattered ring of idle students had become a full-blown audience. The perimeter of the pitch was now lined with bodies—backs pressed to the bleachers, students crouching near the goals, others standing shoulder to shoulder. The buzz in the air was louder now. Focused.

Damien shrugged. "Guess we're entertaining."

But inwardly?

He knew better.

His gaze drifted to the far left of the crowd, where a group of girls stood just beyond the volleyball nets, their posture unmistakable. Even from this distance, he recognized her.

Iris.

Green hair tied back, vibrant red eyes watching with unblinking focus. She hadn't been there before—she'd been playing, running drills on the court behind the gym.

But now?

Now she stood still, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

'So the rumors pulled you in too…'

Not far from her, another familiar figure emerged between the shoulders of taller students.

Isabelle.

Class rep. Black hair pinned neatly behind her ears, brown eyes steady, arms folded beneath her blazer. She hadn't come with fanfare. No posse. No noise with her glasses. Just quiet presence—and her gaze was fixed squarely on the pitch.

On him.

Damien held the moment for only a second, then let it go.

The whistle blew again.

The game was about to resume.

He rolled his neck once, body already settling into motion, boots shifting lightly against turf. The ball would come again—whether from the kickoff or in five plays didn't matter. He'd be ready.

Because now the game wasn't just physical.

It was theatre.

The whistle rang sharp.

And like a spring pulled tight and then snapped loose, the players moved.

4-C took possession, shifting it sideways in short, quick passes—probing for gaps. Damien didn't lunge. He tracked. Light on his feet, scanning for angles, reading how the play would flow.

The pass came too central. Rin broke it up, clipped it backward, and Aaron seized the rebound, turning it wide. With one quick push, the ball was back at Damien's feet.

He didn't hesitate.

His touch was delicate—just enough to bring the ball to heel. Then his right ankle flexed inward, shifting the ball diagonally across his stride.

Tap-tap—thp.

A sharp inside cut, then a fluid outside flick. His boots whispered against the turf, skimming the surface like he was skating instead of running. He didn't go for flair—he went for mechanics. Everything compact. Everything clean. Ankles loose, toes firm, weight driving low and forward.

A 4-C defender closed in—too fast.

Damien stepped over the ball with his left foot, let it roll a breath longer, then snapped his right boot forward with a low, sweeping motion. The ball curved between the defender's feet—not a full nutmeg, just enough to pass by—and Damien was already gone.

He didn't shoot.

Instead, he spotted Lionel cutting in behind the defense.

Another defender tried to close the angle—but Damien's pass was already moving.

A quick, curving ground pass—whip-thp!—just ahead of Lionel's stride, threading the space like a needle through cloth.

Lionel didn't break pace.

He caught the ball with the outside of his right foot, tapped it once to settle, then spun his body mid-stride, catching the strike with his left.

FWUMP.

A clean, side-footed strike that buried itself in the bottom left corner of the net.

The field lit up with noise.

GOAL.

5-5.

"Let's go!" Lionel pumped his fist, turning toward Damien with a wide grin. "That pass—shit—that pass was perfect!"

Damien jogged up with a faint smirk, breath calm. "All yours."

And yet—even as the others regrouped, reeling in the wave of momentum, Damien didn't stop.

He pressed.

Hard.

Challenging every possession. Cutting angles. Covering lanes. Not with wild energy, but with intent. Every sprint was measured. Every drift was a trap. The other team started to falter—not because they were outclassed, but because Damien was everywhere. The pressure bent their timing, rushed their touches.

Another intercepted ball landed back in his control.

He didn't pause.

Not even when Kaine approached.

He kept the ball tight—two soft touches, knees bent low, ankles loose. His center of gravity dropped just enough to glide sideways. Kaine stepped in.

Damien cut left.

Kaine pivoted.

Damien cut back right, dragging the ball behind his standing leg. It was too fast—Kaine's hips turned too late.

He was through.

A clean break.

But then—

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PAT!

Something caught him from behind—low and hard against his calf.

Damien's balance shattered. His body jerked forward. The ground tilted.

Pain flared down his lower leg—sharp, sudden, biting.

He hit the turf.

Thud.

Air fled from his lungs for a second.

"Foul!" someone shouted.

The whistle blew again—shrill, angry now.

Damien stayed down for a breath, jaw clenched as he curled inward, hand reaching instinctively for his shin.

The pain was real.

Not a break—but enough to rattle the bone.

He sucked in a breath, slowly sitting up.

Kaine stood above him, arms raised in that smug, infuriatingly innocent posture.

"What?" he said. "Wasn't intentional."

"Pitu…"

"Pitu…"

Damien spat onto the turf, the metallic taste of adrenaline sharp in his mouth. He pushed himself up slowly, favoring his left leg slightly, the sting in his shin still hot but manageable.

"Yeah, yeah…" he muttered, brushing grass off his forearm as he stood, eyes never leaving Kaine's smug silhouette.

There was no apology in that stance.

No guilt.

Just arrogance dressed as indifference.

But Damien didn't rise to it—not yet. He waved off Rin's extended hand and turned instead to Lionel, already stepping up behind the ball.

"Take it," Damien said.

Lionel nodded without question. The whistle blew again—play resumed.

The free kick curved nicely, a low drive aimed at the near post, but it ricocheted off a defender's thigh and bounced out wide. A scramble followed—shouts, calls, cleats scraping in tight corners—but it was cleared.

Damien jogged back into formation, biting down the lingering ache in his leg. But something was different now. He could feel it in the way the defenders shifted when he moved. Their eyes were tighter. Their weight heavier.

They weren't just marking him.

They were targeting him.

The pressure came harder now—less clean, more physical. Every time he tried to make a run, someone's arm dragged across his chest. Every time he took a touch, a body leaned harder into the challenge. And it wasn't just one or two.

It was them.

The ones he'd already picked out before.

The simps.

The ones who never looked him in the eye before the match but now couldn't stop staring him down—thirsting for a reason to knock him off the pedestal Celia and Victoria refused to share.

He didn't break.

But he took note.

Each foul. Each trip. Each stray elbow "accidentally" digging into his side.

And then—

Ezra.

The ball came down the left this time, Damien trailing wide to receive it. Rin looped a pass, mid-air, bouncing once.

Damien caught it with his thigh and turned—

But Ezra was already there.

Not with a clean slide. Not with positioning.

With a shoulder-first lunge and a foot sweeping too far behind.

The contact took Damien off his legs completely.

CRACK—THUMP!

His back slammed into the field's outer fence. A jolt of cold metal shot up his spine—and then sharp pain sliced across his knees.

The chain-link tips weren't sealed. One of the rusted metal points split through the fabric of his pants and into the skin just above the kneecap.

He hit the ground hard, his breath punched out of him for the second time in five minutes.

Blood welled up fast.

"What the hell, man?!" Aaron shouted from midfield.

"Hey! That was dirty!" Rin was already running toward the sideline.

The ref blew the whistle—once, twice, three times. Long and loud.

Ezra stood there, arms half-raised, wearing the same infuriating expression Kaine had earlier—like the foul had tripped him, not the other way around.

"Didn't even push him that hard," he said coolly, brushing invisible dirt from his sleeve.

Damien sat up, both palms on the ground, blood leaking in a slow line down his shin.

This time?

He didn't smirk.

He didn't spit.

He just stared.

And the storm in his eyes—

It spoke.

Lionel ran up first. "You alright? That looked—"

"He tripped him into the fence," Aaron cut in, voice sharp. "We all saw it."

Rin turned on Ezra. "That was deliberate."

Ezra scoffed. "He was already off-balance."

"Bullshit," Aaron snapped. "You cut into him sideways. That wasn't defense."

A few more players began crowding around, the game stalling. Voices rising. The referee stepped in, trying to split bodies, arms outstretched—but no one backed off immediately.