The Coaching System-Chapter 239: A Day with Rin Itoshi

Date: Sunday, 14 December 2025Location: Bradford City Centre

Morning laid itself gently over Bradford, the light stretched thin by a gauze of mist. City center stirred slowly — Christmas lights blinked against the grey, weak sunlight pooling in puddles along the narrow streets. Shop windows frosted over from the inside, little bursts of warmth trapped behind glass.

Rin Itoshi pulled his hoodie a little lower over his brow and slipped his hands into his pockets, letting his footsteps set no particular rhythm. No training. No bus rides. No weight of tactics humming at the back of his skull. Jake had given them the Sunday off after the demolition of Watford.

The others would be sprawled in their apartments or crowding a breakfast diner somewhere, laughing over pancakes too big for the plates. Walsh probably already halfway through teasing Richter into a coffee spill. Mensah calling dibs on an extra portion before it even hit the table.

Rin had gone the other way. Out into the mist.

There was something in his chest this morning that didn't fit noise or celebration. Not sadness. Not exactly.

A softness. A small ache, spreading slow.

He drifted down the rows of shops without aim. Passed a woman stringing garlands over a pub sign. Two kids kicking a crumpled Coke can down the alley, bundled up in coats three sizes too big.

The cold nipped at his fingers, but Rin didn't pull them out of his pockets. He liked the reminder that he was real, here, now, not just another body moving in the wash of Saturday night matches and flashing stadium lights.

Somewhere between a vintage record store and a bakery still steaming up its windows, Rin found it.

A bookstore. Old, tucked narrow between two coffee shops that smelled of burned beans and fresh scones.

He hesitated a beat, then ducked inside.

The air changed immediately. Thicker. Warmer. Dust and ink.

Shelves towered in uneven rows, half listing like crooked teeth. A small bell above the door jingled tiredly, and somewhere deeper in the maze, a cat gave a low, indifferent meow.

Rin moved through the aisles without thinking, the tips of his fingers brushing worn spines.

In the corner, barely bigger than a cupboard, sat the translation section. Foreign names. Familiar ones. freewёbnoνel.com

His hand paused on the black-and-white cover of a Haruki Murakami novel. English translation. Strange, seeing it that way — his own language bent into someone else's words.

The page edges were rough, uneven. It felt heavier than it should have in his palm.

Rin turned it over once, thumb tapping against the blurb, when a gentle voice pulled him from the book.

"Lovely, that one," said a woman, bundled in a thick knitted scarf that nearly swallowed her chin. She stood arm in arm with an older man, tweed flat cap pulled low.

The man smiled kindly, crinkles folding deep into his face. "If you like a quiet story that runs deeper than it pretends, you'll enjoy it."

Rin nodded once, shy. The English caught in his throat before it could stumble out.

"Thank you," he managed instead, voice low.

The woman beamed as if he'd recited poetry.

She leaned a little closer, in the conspiratorial way strangers sometimes do. "There's a little café just 'round the corner. Best strong coffee in Bradford. Warm seats, too, if you're planning to stay awhile."

The man chuckled. "Strong enough to wake the dead, that coffee."

They moved along before he could say more, leaving a thread of kindness trailing in their wake.

Rin stood there a moment longer, the book pressed against his ribs.

The memory of yesterday's match flickered behind his eyes. The feeling of flight in his legs when he'd sprinted past Watford's full-back. The thunder of the away fans when Obi's header crashed into the net. The sight of Mensah hammering in the fifth.

Not pride exactly.

More like distance.

As if all of it had happened just a few feet outside his skin.

The ache tightened a little as his thumb traced the book's cover again.

Back in Japan, his brother would be rising about now. Tying his boots for a semi-pro match on a muddy pitch that backed onto the ocean. No cameras. No roaring crowds. Just early frost, family, and the sound of gulls circling above the goalposts.

Rin pulled his phone from his pocket, the screen cold against his fingers.

Snapped a quick picture of the bookstore cat, perched regally atop a philosophy shelf like it ruled the place.

Sent it without thinking to Walsh.

Almost instantly, the reply buzzed back.

Walsh:You're officially the team's weirdest winger now 😂.

Rin smiled without realizing it. Small. Soft. Real.

He paid for the book with a few crumpled bills, nodding politely at the cashier, who gave him a knowing look, as if she'd seen a hundred boys like him walk in alone on misty mornings, and let them leave without asking questions.

Outside, the mist had thickened into a fine snow.

Tiny flakes clung to the shoulders of his hoodie, melting into dampness he didn't bother shaking off.

The coffee shop the old couple mentioned winked at him across the street, but Rin turned away from it.

Walked instead with no aim but forward.

Down side streets slick with ice. Past shuttered stalls where hand-knitted scarves swung gently in the breeze. Through an alley so narrow two people might struggle to pass shoulder to shoulder.

He stopped when he saw it.

A mural, half-worn from the rain, spray-painted across the brick of a crumbling wall.

Words, in jagged white script:

Home isn't where you started. It's where you find peace.

Rin stood there a little too long, the cold creeping through his sleeves.

Breath misted from his lips in slow clouds.

Peace.

He thought of Bradford, of cracked sidewalks and roaring fans and silent mornings in tiny bookstores.

He thought of his brother, chasing a ball across a muddy pitch half a world away.

He thought of the ache inside him—not heavy enough to crush, not sharp enough to tear. Just there. Just his.

Rin tucked the Murakami novel tighter against his chest, as if it might anchor him, and turned back toward the street.

Snowfall thickened around him, catching in his hair.

Somewhere behind the mist and stone and cold, Valley Parade stood waiting.

And Rin Itoshi, winger of Bradford City, walked home.