"Aoyama! We’re starting the tactical scrimmage!" Kaoru Zaizen, the team's hot-headed but wealthy striker, roared from across the field. He wiped sweat from his forehead with a dirty sleeve, a sight that made Aoyama visibly shudder.
While Zaizen and the others cheered, Aoyama stood up, staring at the mud on his shorts with a look of pure existential dread. Before the team could even reach him for a celebratory huddle, he had already produced a portable vacuum and a bottle of high-grade sanitizer from his bag. "Good game," Zaizen grunted, offering a hand.
The match began. Aoyama moved like a ghost, weaving through defenders with a "clean playstyle" that relied on absolute precision rather than physical force. He avoided every tackle, twisting his body in mid-air to ensure no opponent’s sweaty jersey made contact with his own. When a stray ball headed toward his face, he didn't head it; instead, he performed a lightning-fast trap with his chest, keeping the impact minimal. Keppeki Danshi! Aoyama-kun
With a sudden burst of speed, he charged toward the goal. A defender lunged, kicking up a cloud of dust. Aoyama didn't flinch. He dove through the dirt, his white jersey staining brown as he connected with the ball in a perfect volley. The ball screamed into the top corner of the net. The whistle blew. A draw.
As the game reached its final five minutes, the atmosphere shifted. Fujimi was down by one goal. Aoyama’s eyes sharpened. This was his "clean freak" exception: his hatred of losing was the only thing stronger than his fear of germs. "Aoyama
"The victory," Aoyama murmured, his voice calm and melodic, "must also be spotless.".
The morning sun at Fujimi High School glinted off the soccer team’s equipment, though none of it shone quite as brightly as Aoyama-kun’s designated practice balls. While the rest of the team warmed up with standard drills, Aoyama was in the equipment shed, meticulously wiping down each ball with specialized disinfectant wipes. While Zaizen and the others cheered, Aoyama stood
Aoyama stepped onto the pitch with his signature poise—hair perfect, jersey immaculate, and a pair of pristine white gloves tucked into his waistband for any potential throw-ins.