Despite the Youth Football Association's attempts to cover it up, news of Hillman's death eventually broke out, causing a frenzy. "Not even the Holy Emperor is safe," some have cried out. "Football is on the verge of collapse!" Of course, most consider these claims pure hyperbole, the concoction of conspiracy theorists rattling on about the dangers lurking within the confines of the world of sports. Regardless, the incident has left many across the country worried about what the future holds for football.

While Japan mourns for Mr. Hillman, the Association is forced to move on and choose a new Holy Emperor to represent them. After much debate, they make an unexpected decision. "Introducing your new Holy Emperor, president of Garshield Industries and renowned Saint of Samaritans, Dulana Rice!"

Stepping forward to center stage—or center pitch—he smiles serenely as he gives his speech. "Thank you, thank you. As some of you might be aware, Garshield Industries has not had the best history. My father, Zoolan Rice, once tried to use this beloved sport for his own selfish means, and sullied our family name as a result of his crimes. As his successor, there are those who expect me to follow in his footsteps. Well, I stand before you in defiance. I will not ignore or deny what's been done eleven years ago, but I will learn from the experience and use football to unite people and make the world a better place. I, Dulana Rice, will make football great again!"

Sam turns off the television and turns to Tod, sitting on a hospital bed. "I dunno what it is about that kid, but he just rubs me the wrong way."

"I can't disagree with you," Tod replies. "But that kid did get me out of a tight spot a couple of years back, so I can't hate him, either."

"You've gotta be kidding me," he mumbles under his breath. Out loud, he says, "They're calling him the 'Saint of Samaritans'. You gotta admit that's pretty ridiculous in itself. I mean, what is he, the second coming of Jesus?"

"I doubt he wanted that name himself. But compared to his dad, he does look pretty saintly." Tod pauses to look at his curly-haired friend as he stands up and starts walking. "Sam, is there something wrong? You can talk to me… Hey, wait! Where are you going?"

Sam heads out onto the terrace for a smoke, but instead of feeling calmer, he feels unusually cold. Not cold as in aloof or insensitive, but almost literally cold. His fingers tremble as he picks out a cigarette from the pack, and not even the warm flame of the lighter can soothe him. There's an air of constant unease, one that threatens to kill him faster than any carcinogenic substance. This air continues to grow colder and colder, until…

"Hey," a soft, chilling voice whispers in his ear.

His heart leaps straight to his throat, causing him to drop his cigarette. Slowly, he turns his head to face the source of the voice. A tall, shady-looking figure looms over him like a shadow, or perhaps the grim reaper himself. But the longer he stares at the figure, the more his heart rate drops, as he comes to recognize who it is. "Oh, Jim, didn't expect you here. So what's up?"

"I was on my way to visit Tod and give him this." Jim holds up a gift basket, filled with fruits, flowers, and packaged sweets. "And you?"

"Same, minus the fruit basket." He crosses his arms. "Hey, is it possible for someone to be a saint?"

The willowy man, blinking behind his blinding bangs, asks, "Pardon? I'm not following."

"Lemme rephrase the question. It's impossible for anyone to be perfect, right? So why do certain people come across as such?"

Jim twirls his hair with one hand as he comes up with an answer. "Well, it depends, really. But I guess if you don't know someone well enough, they can appear perfect because you don't see their flaws. On the other hand, you can know a person and see them as perfect, despite or even because of their flaws." He takes out one of the flowers in the basket—a yellow rose—and holds it close to his face, taking in its fresh, subtle fragrance. "Roses have thorns that prick and bleed if handled improperly, yet people love them regardless, and some learn how to handle them so they won't get hurt. On second thought, maybe that wasn't the best example—I mean, one can remove the thorns from a rose, but you can't do the same with a person."

"I thought it was pretty good, actually." He swaps out the box of cigs with his cellphone. "You can go ahead; I got to make a call."

In the gymnasium of Raimon Jr. High, Timmy is about to start class when his phone starts to buzz. He checks the name on the small screen, and puts it away. It's probably not important, he tells himself. But he's not fooling himself one bit. He cannot point it out, but something about that call feels off-putting, like something bad will happen if he takes it. After the fifth buzz, he caves in and picks it up. "Hello," he says with a quiver.

"Hey, it's Sam. Are you busy after school? There's a great cafe we can go to. There's this green tea cake that's to die for!"

Tim bites his lower lip.That does sound delicious. "I can't talk much right now. Can you text me the address?"

Once school and club activities ceased, Timmy follows the typed address to a currently-popular cafe known for its cute waitresses. He never quite saw the appeal of these sorts of places—as long as the food's good, does it really matter how the servers are dressed? His question is answered the second he spots Sam, shamelessly flirting with a petite brunette sporting the cafe's trademark uniform. Apparently, food quality isn't of absolute importance. Expectations swiftly lowered, he takes the seat in front of them.

As they wait for their orders, Timmy speaks up. "About last night, I just wanted to apologize—"

"No no no, it's my fault. I shouldn't have kicked you out like that, 'specially after throwing that big bombshell on you. If anything, I should've expected that sort of reaction."

"Why are you apologizing? You told me your deepest, darkest secret, and I just brushed it off and called you a liar. I was the rude one, not you!"

"Knowing how scummy I can get, I honestly deserved it—"

"You're still my friend, scum and all! I should have trusted you in the first place." Eyes overflowing with tears, he wipes them away with the back of his hand, but stops when Sam hands him a clean handkerchief.

"You were half-right about last night," Sam says as Timmy takes the handkerchief. "Even with everything that's happened to me in the past, I shouldn't have let that affect how I treated you lot. Hell, the fact that you still consider me a friend is a surprise."

Cleaning himself with the hand cloth, he smiles softly. "Yeah, Jim does lose his patience with you sometimes, and Max likes to tease you about it, but you're not nearly as bad as you think. We don't know you as well as you do, but we know more about you than most people. For better or worse, you're a friend of ours, and that's all that matters."

Sam takes in the small man's words for a moment, then says, "Hey, you never said what you thought of me. Was that intentional?"

The comment stabs Tim right through the heart. He slings his long ponytail over his shoulder and starts combing through it with his fingers. "I never really understood you, even back then. But for whatever reason, I managed to put up with you, and…" He grips his hair tightly. "You might even be my best friend."

"'Best friend'?" His voice lowers, as if to hide his disappointment.

No further words are said until the waitress returns to give them coffee and green tea cakes. The young lady, eying Timmy, says to Sam, "Is this that friend you've been talking about? He's even cuter in person."

"Didn't I tell you? He's got a great personality. His jokes are terrible, though."

"I don't need to make any when I got you," Timmy retorts.

She giggles, and her smile spreads to Sam. "You two should form a comedy duo, you work so well together! Anyway, here's your bill."

Reading the bill, Sam says, "Hey, how 'bout I take this one? It's the least I could do."

Timmy, flustered, blurts out, "No, I can't let you do that! I'll pay!"

"Suit yourself." With a smirk, he slaps the slip of paper in front of Timmy, changing his mood for the worse.

"What? No way! You pay for your half, at least!"

Tapping his chin, he shrugs and says, "Okay. How 'bout this: you pay for my half, and I pay for yours?"

"That's basically the same thing."

"Huh. So it is. Well, anyways…" He fumbles through his wallet and slaps some change. "That should cover my half, plus tax. See ya!"

Timmy counts the money Sam left behind, mentally calculating the remainder, when he notices that some of the bills and coins are a larger amount than at first glance, enough to cover the bill to the last cent. "Stupid Sam," he mumbles, feeling slightly cheated.


Author's Note: Hi, everyone! If you're wondering why you're seeing this on Monday instead of the usual Tuesday or Sunday, that's because a) I'm considering changing my update schedule a bit, and b) I just feel impatient (again). Anyways, that's all I can think of saying for now. Thanks for reading!

(Blahblahblah, insert Dulana Trump joke here.)