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ballsandbabes · 11 days ago

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Egoist in motion

authors note: y/n = your name// not proof read// GIF not mine // Have fun <3

pairing: jinpachi "jin" ego x fem! baskeballplayer!reader

summary: A slow-burn rivals-to-lovers story featuring a younger Ego, set in the early stages of his career. A story where reader, a rising basketball star, is constantly compared to Ego for your ruthless dedication and individualistic drive. When a Japan Olympic promotion initiative forces you to work with him on a cross-sport interview series, things start icy—and slowly turn electric.

genre: Pre-Blue Lock Era, Japan National Sports Initiative // Sports drama, rivals-to-lovers, slow burn

Every time a reporter said it, you wanted to throw your water bottle at the wall or the reporter.

“Your work ethic is just like Jinpachi Ego’s.” “You two are practically the same—cold, mechanical, ruthless competitors.” “Shes the Basketball’s version of Ego, don’t you think?”

It didn’t help, that you’d never actually met the guy the world was comparing you with. You didnt know how this Ego guy was. You only saw the headlines—“tactical genius,” “philosopher of football,” “emotionless technician”—and every interview clip, where he stared into the camera like he wanted to burn it down with logic.

He didn't really look like a sporting genius. Compared to the other footballers you had already met, this Ego was rather slim with light muscles and hardly any fat on his body. Supernaturally tall, almost unreal-looking. It made you curious. Who was this guy? Why did everyone think you were like him? You were his copy in another sport. And you also had to find an answer to all the reporters' questions, because it was getting more and more intense.

___ _ _ _

So when the Olympic Committee announced a cross-sport collaboration campaign to promote Japan’s rising athletic stars, and you found out you’d be paired with Ego himself, your first reaction was a flat:

“No. Absolutely not.”

Absolutely yes. Your coach thought it would be a great idea to boost the friendly ties to other athletes and sports. Even better, when the people were already talking about you guys.

___ _ _ _

You met him in a private studio in Tokyo. Clean set, minimalist lights, national flags behind you. He walked in exactly how you'd imagined.

All sharp lines. Dark under-eye circles. Jacket zipped to his chin like he didn’t want to risk emotional contamination. Glasses gleaming with unspoken judgment.

He looked at you once. And snorted. “You’re the basketball prodigy they keep comparing me to?,”His voice was flat. Dismissive, “You don’t even play a real team sport. It’s just isolation moves and highlight reels.”

You narrowed your eyes, “And you’re the genius, or should i say nerd, who turned football into a math equation?”

His smirk was faint, but real, “At least my formula wins.”

You smiled sweetly, “Let’s see if that mouth can still move after I dunk on you in front of a camera.”

His jaw ticked. Yours tightened. The producer whispered: “Okay, chemistry’s spicy. Let’s roll with that.”

It didn’t stop.

Each interview was a clash of teeth and brilliance. You mocked his philosophy. He shredded your emotional playstyle. You called him a robot. He said feelings were for losers. But between the tension, something else crept in: Respect.

Because he watched you when you spoke—really watched. Not with admiration, but with analysis. Curiosity. As if trying to solve you. You saw him on his laptop once, before an interview. Code, plays, stats, hours of football simulations.

“You don’t sleep well, do you?,” you asked.

He didn’t look up,“Sleep is a tax on greatness.”

You laughed, despite yourself, “Still dramatic as hell.”

He cracked a smile. A real one. Just for a split second.

One interview was shot on a rooftop court in Shibuya. He stood off to the side, watching you warm up in silence. You dribbled hard, sweat glinting on your arms as you knocked down three-point shots back to back. Your muscles burned. You knew he was watching. It made you want to show off more.

“You’re obsessed,” he said softly, stepping closer.

“So are you,” you fired back, turning. He was closer than you realized. His breath ghosted your collarbone.

“Yeah,” he said, voice dropping,“But it’s rare to find someone else who’s addicted to winning the right way.”

You stared at him, “What does that mean?”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you like maybe, just maybe, you were the first person in years he couldn’t outcalculate. The next shot you took missed. You never missed.

___ _ _ _

It happened after a late-night media shoot—just for the two of you, waiting for a car, standing beneath a flickering streetlight. Tokyo buzzed quietly around you. Your bodies still buzzing from the work. Te weeks had been packed with training, matches and media tasks. You were sick of them by now. The team shootings of the U20 Basketball team were always fun, but the ones including Ego were always chaotic and robbed you almost of all your energy.

Still you’d been laughing—laughing—at one of his rare, deadpan one-liners. He looked at you like he was seeing you fully for the first time.

You looked back. No cameras. No script. Just... Ego. And you.

“You’re smarter than they say,” you murmured.

His voice was quiet,“So are you. You’re more than numbers.”

Your breath hitched. He stepped forward. “You still hate being compared to me?” he asked.

You looked at him. Calculating, intense, flawed and whispered, “…Not as much anymore.”

He didn’t kiss you. Not yet. But his fingers brushed your wrist. And it felt like the start of a war.

___ _ _ _

By the time the Summer Olympics officially had begun in Tokyo, your face and Jin’s had appeared together in no less than eleven pre-season interviews.

You never meant for it to happen. It started because the producers demanded chemistry. Then it turned into timing—he was always available when you were. Then it turned into comfort—you didn’t have to fake anything around Ego. You could argue, challenge, talk without softening your edges.

And maybe… maybe you liked the way he looked at you when you weren’t paying attention.

When your first game tipped off, he was there. Not loudly. Not even in the special VIP seats. But there. He stood off to the side with his arms folded, face unreadable—but he didn’t look away once. Afterwards, you met him outside the arena, towel around your neck, sweat slicking your jawline.

You teased him,“Didn’t think you cared about basketball.”

“I don’t,” he deadpanned. “But I care about data. And watching you in motion is high-value analysis.”

You smirked. “Right. Just purely tactical observation, then?” His silence said otherwise.

By the third game, he wasn’t the only one in the stands. Fans noticed the same tall, dark-haired coach-like figure attending your matches, arms crossed, lips tight. Then a clip leaked. From a post-game tunnel camera.

🎥: “JINPACHI EGO waits for Y/n courtside!” 📸: “Did he just hand her a towel??” 🧵Trending Hashtag: #EgoLock 📈: “Top ship of the Olympics?” Fan Comment: “Bro’s emotionally constipated but HE CARES.”]

The media team took one look at the numbers and started spinning their gold.Your agent texted first:

“New campaign idea: Dual Champions – Genius x Grit?”

Meanwhile Ego’s PR contact sent him a clipped message:

“The net loves you two. Go to her next game. Wear team gear.”

He resisted. He loathed being told what to do by anyone outside the field. But when he saw the clip of you beaming in the post-game press conference, flushed and breathless, saying:

“Yeah, Ego was there. He’s got the eyes of a tactician… He always notices what others miss.”

He showed up at your next match. In official gear. Front row.

___ _ _ _

Later that evening, under the same concrete stairwell the national teams used to exit the arena, you stopped beside him as your teammates loaded the shuttle.

“You know they’re turning us into a brand now,” you muttered.

He didn’t look at you, “They can try.”

“But you’re still here,” you stated with a smile in the corner of your mouth.

“I didn’t come for them,” His eyes finally met yours,“I came to watch you.”

It was simple. Blunt. Honest. Like everything he was. Your heart fluttered somewhere it shouldn’t, “…You staying for the medal rounds?”

He paused,“You at my next quarterfinal?”

“Always,” you whispered. Cheeks now heating up. Neither of you said the word for what this was. But it didn’t matter. You stood beside him as the hallway emptied, quiet and certain—two minds that had been built to fight suddenly aligned, orbiting one another.

Watching. Waiting.

Invested.

___ _ _ _

You’d just won your semifinals match. Your legs ached. Your lungs burned. But none of it mattered the moment you checked your phone.

“The Egoist’s team lost.” “One more game. If they don’t win, they’re out.”

The press hadn’t swarmed yet. Not fully. The headlines were still fresh, speculation flying about the genius strategist who had finally miscalculated. But you didn’t care about any of that. All you could think was: He doesn’t know how to lose.

Not like this. Not publicly. Not emotionally. You left your post-game routine behind. Skipped the cool-down. Still wearing your team jacket and medalist towel, you sprinted through the Olympic terrain—past archery, swimming, fencing—until you reached the athlete corridors.

The men’s football arena loomed ahead. The hallway was quiet, dimly lit. The buzz of lights above hummed like your heartbeat. And then—you saw him.

The heavy door creaked open. Steam lingered faintly in the air. Most of the team was gone. And there, at the edge of the bench, still half in uniform, sat Jinpachi Ego.

His hair was damp. His glasses were pushed up into his hands, face buried, elbows on knees. He didn’t hear you come in. He didn’t have to.

“...I thought you'd be celebrating.”

His voice was low. Strained. Unlike him. You walked in slowly. No teasing. No pride. Just one truth: “I couldn’t.”

He looked up then. Dark, exhausted eyes. Wet with something he would never, ever name. His jaw was locked like a soldier bracing for a firing squad. You didn’t speak. You just dropped to your knees in front of him. Gently—so gently—you reached up and cupped his face, tilting it toward yours. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull back. He just stared at you like he didn’t understand why someone would touch him like that.

“They don’t know you like I do,” you whispered. “They see tactics. Numbers. That look in your eyes like you’re already twenty moves ahead.”

He swallowed hard.

“But I’ve seen the other part. The one who watches every play. The one who doesn’t flinch from pressure. The one who... shows up. Even when no one’s watching.”

His throat worked as he tried—and failed—to speak. So you leaned in closer, “Listen to me, Ego,” you said, voice steady. “You are not your record. You are not one game. You are what people can’t predict.”

He blinked, eyes shining.

“You lose this next match?” you shrugged. “Then you find another way. You build again. You burn the world down until it listens to you.”

And then, softer, “But for now… go win.”

He exhaled like you’d cracked open his chest. And for the first time since the match ended—he nodded. He stood, slowly, like your words had realigned the gravity in his bones. His fingers brushed yours as he passed.

Then paused.

Turned. He looked down at you, hair falling into his eyes, and said nothing. But when he leaned down—deliberate, quiet, inevitable—you met him halfway.

It wasn’t wild. It wasn’t desperate. It was the kind of kiss that only came after long tension and real respect—slow, anchored, a contract sealed with breath. When you pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. “...I’ve never believed in luck,” he said.

You smiled. “Then believe in me.”

He nodded once, turned, and left the locker room. You stayed behind—knees on tile, heart full, eyes wet. The kiss lingered like a promise neither of you would ever break.

___ _ _ _

He did it. They won. You watched from the sidelines, a towel clenched between your fists, your throat hoarse from screaming. When the final whistle blew, Jinpachi Ego didn’t celebrate like the others. No leap. No cheer. He stood in the technical box, unmoving, a storm behind his glasses.

But when he turned, searching the chaos, his eyes found yours. And for a split second, it felt like the world stopped again. You didn’t kiss this time. The cameras were everywhere.

You just smiled, tears in your lashes, and mouthed,“You did it.”

And he mouthed back, “You helped me.”

But as it has been all the time, success changes things. The very next morning, the headlines weren’t about Ego anymore.

“RYOUKO SHINZOU — The Queen of Football!” “Star Player Jinpachi Ego and Ryouko: Olympic Duo of the Year and lovers?” #EgoRyouko trending

She was magnetic. Blonde streaks in her hair. Cool, layedback and just a stunning personality. A voice made for stadiums. The kind of charisma PR teams dream of. The media spun it instantly: “Fire meets Ice”, “Queen and King of the Soccer Field”, “Japan’s Power Pair.”

And just like that—you weren’t asked to appear beside him anymore. Not even once. cause the king had seemingly found his queen. You saw him less. Weeks passed in Olympic terrain. You were still training. Still playing. But he stopped waiting after your games. He stopped texting back quickly. Interviews with Ryouko became daily. You watched them on-screen together—how she nudged him during pressers, how the crowd roared when she called him a"hot Egoist" with a wink.

Your phone buzzed with fan edits. Some still clinging to you two. But most had moved on. You tried to swallow the hurt. Rationalize it. He was busy. This was temporary. This was tactical. But then one day, you passed him in the hallway. Brief. Accidental.

You whispered, “Hey.”

He blinked. Nodded. But didn’t stop walking. You stood there. Frozen. Like the person who once kissed you in a locker room had become just another name on a list of victories.

You couldn’t sleep that night. You stood outside the gym, where the women’s team had wrapped up a joint media shoot. He was inside, laughing at something Ryouko had said. And you just—couldn’t.

When he finally stepped out, you stopped him with one word, “Ego.” He froze. Turned. His expression unreadable.

“You ignoring me now?,” you said. Quiet. Raw. “Or are we just pretending that the kiss didn’t happen?”

He didn’t speak. So you stepped closer, “You kissed me like it meant something.”

His jaw clenched, “…It did.”

“Then why do I feel like I lost you the moment you won?,” you asked, eyes slowly tearing up. The silence was a knife. He looked away. “Because they want something I have to give.”

You stepped back. “So I’m not part of the plan anymore?”

His eyes met yours—and there it was. Hurt. Guilt. Confusion. But no answer. Just silence. You swallowed, turned, and walked away. And this time—he didn’t stop you.

The Olympics were nearing their end, but you felt no victory in your chest. You guys didnt talk anymore and soon enough the chance to do so would be over, when the both of you would go back to your regular lives. Every time your name was mentioned, it was in passing—star athlete, great record, loyal to her craft. But when they mentioned Ego, it was always with Ryouko now.

You’d almost stopped checking the media feeds. Almost. But something kept clawing in your gut like you missed something. Like something was off. So when your final training ran late and you passed the media building, you didn’t mean to stop.

You really didn’t. But you heard voices. And his voice made your legs lock in place.

You were tucked behind a backdrop panel, meant to hold sponsor logos and press lights. Beyond it, through the slit of the curtain, you saw Ego and Ryouko—alone.

Her arms were crossed. Her face tight. He looked tense, glasses shoved up his nose, hair half-tied from a rushed call time.

You didn’t breathe.

“Why do you keep acting like I’m the villain?” Ryouko snapped.

“Because you are,” Ego answered coldly.

“Pah. It’s business. I gave your numbers life. Made you a star. made you popular, little nerd.”

“You used me to inflate your brand," Jins voice lit up again.

“Well....your PR team let me..They also think you needed this. Thank me later,” Ryouko snapped back.

Silence.

“You’re not even trying,” she said after a beat. “Half those interviews, you barely speak. You look like you’re mourning someone.”

“…Because I am,” Ego muttered.

Your heart slammed into your throat. Ryouko rolled her eyes. “Still about her? You think the public cares about quiet little basketball girls when they have me?” She gestured to the lights. The press boards. The world.

“They do,” he said softly. “Or they would have, if I’d said something.” He leaned back against the wall, voice tight.

“I thought I could protect her from this. From the machine. So I said yes to the pairing, to the interviews, to all of it. I knew how she hated these interviews. Because I thought I could control it.”

“But the more I kept my mouth shut, the more I lost her,” his voice said.

Your nails dug into your palms.

“So why now fix it?,” Ryoukos voice asked sarcastically.

“Because now she thinks I chose you,” Jins voice said angrily. You stepped to see around the corner. He looked wrecked. And for the first time, Ryouko didn’t argue. She just sighed. Tired. Disarmed, “We’re not enemies, Ego. But we’re not… this. And the world knows it.”

“She never asked for attention,” he murmured. “She just wanted me.”

Then his voice faintly said, “But maybe it’s too late.”

You couldn’t stay hidden anymore. Your hand hit the backdrop by accident, and the fabric rustled. His head snapped around. You stepped out from behind the panel, your face flushed—not from embarrassment, but from the sheer weight of what you’d just heard.

He froze. “...How much did you hear?” he asked.

Your voice broke, “All of it.”

He swallowed. Hard.

“I thought I lost you,” you whispered.

“I thought I was protecting you,” he whispered back.

You stood there a moment, staring at each other, surrounded by a stage neither of you wanted.

Then, “I hated watching them put her next to you.”

“I hated being next to her,” he said. “I was looking for you in every crowd.”

He took a step forward. Another. “I never chose her,” he said, voice low. “I chose you. I just didn’t know how to fight for you and play their game at the same time.”

And before you could respond—before you could fall apart again—he pulled you into him. It wasn’t like before. This wasn’t quiet or careful. This was urgent. Apologetic. Heavy with weeks of ache. When he kissed you, it was like a promise unspoken: Never again. Never anyone else.

___ _ _ _

You didn’t sleep that night. Neither did he. which may also have been because you snuck into his hotel room. But also not after that kiss. Not after everything spilled out — the silence, the jealousy, the guilt. You stayed curled together in the empty corner of the Olympic garden, long after the staff had cleared out. No cameras. No interviews. Just two overworked athletes in love and finally saying it.

“Will it be a problem?” you asked quietly, fingers brushing through his dark hair. He didn’t look at you when he answered,“It already is.”

You exhaled. But he added....,“Doesn’t mean I won’t deal with it.”

It came out faster than anyone expected. A blurry backstage photo. You and Ego. The kiss. The moment. Someone had seen. Someone had posted. Within hours:

#EgoY/N trending #1 in Japan. #CoachConfession “The secret romance of the summer!” “Move over, Ryouko—Ego has someone else in mind.”

And then your inbox was flooded. Press. Interview requests. Your PR team panicking. His melting down. You and Ego were rushed into back-to-back meetings. “We need damage control.” “We need a joint statement.” “We can spin this. Just don’t post anything unapproved.”

You were sat on opposite ends of a PR table. Neither of you spoke. But when the room emptied out, he slid the statement aside.

“I’m done letting people speak for me,” he muttered.

And then he reached for your hand, publicly, for the first time. That afternoon, Ego showed up at your medal ceremony.

Not as a player. Not as a strategist. Just as someone standing quietly in the crowd. Hands in his jacket, eyes locked on yours the entire time. When you stepped down with your medal, the cameras swarmed. He didn’t care. You saw it in his face—he only saw you.

Later, back in the dorm hallway, after the noise had faded. “I still don’t know how to be good at this,” he murmured, hand ghosting near your hip.

“I don’t need perfect,” you whispered. “I just need you.”

He exhaled like he'd been holding that breath for months. “Then you're getting all of me.”

And this time, when he kissed you—right there in the hallway, medal still around your neck—it wasn't about proving anything.

It was about belonging.

___ _ _ _

The Olympics were ending in a few days. The world would pull you apart again. Different teams. Different countries. Different sports.

But you had this: Truth. Clarity. And each other. And maybe—just maybe—that was enough to start a future. But tonight wether you nor him cared about anything

___ _ _ _

Your team was eliminated in third place, but you were treated as if you were the winners of the tournament. You were now the owner of an olympic medal and now the owner of Jin's jumper. he had left it for you in your hotel room, which was conveniently right next to yours. sometimes you just get lucky in life.

You’d clawed your way there with blood on your knees and pride in your throat. And when they called your name during the ceremony, you didn’t look into the crowd.

You looked up.

Where he stood in the coaches’ VIP box, clapping — not like a coach. Like a man in love.

After the closing ceremony, you slipped away before the fireworks finished, your bronze still warm around your neck.

You changed into the dress you’d bought months ago on a whim. Midnight blue. Silk. Low back. Wrapped around your hips like water and sky.

The moment you opened the hotel door to your shared suite, Jinpachi’s eyes caught you.

And he froze.

You smirked, lips glossed, eyes soft. “Something wrong?”

He said nothing. His jaw clenched. His glasses fogged slightly. And then he moved. You barely had time to gasp as he grabbed your waist and pulled you in — slamming the door behind you with a thud. His lips found yours like he’d been holding back for weeks. You stumbled into the hallway, his hand cradling your face, his other arm anchoring around your waist like he was terrified you’d disappear again.

“You’re wearing that in public?” he whispered against your mouth, voice rough. You chuckled breathlessly, “Was hoping you’d like it.”

“I hate it,” he muttered, tugging at the tiny strap, “Because now I want to kill every person who looked at you tonight.”

“You didn’t seem jealous during the ceremony,” you giggled.

“I was boiling,” he admitted, teeth gritting. He kissed you again, harder. Sloppier. Desperate and sharp.

So when the official part ended, two attendees coundt wait to go back to your hotel suit. So when you two finally reached it, he pushed the door open with his back and half-carried you inside, your dress hiking up over your thigh as he kicked it closed behind him.

“Jin—”

But he cut you off with another kiss. “Not tonight,” he growled softly, lips tracing your jaw, “Don’t say my name like that unless you mean to destroy me.”

“I do,” you said breathless. That was the breaking point. He threw you onto the fluffy bed, the soft light of the moon shining down on you both through the white curtains. He carefully unzipped the beautiful dress between quick kisses, both of you so absorbed in savouring this moment together. His big hand on your thigh, the veins sticking out. God, you loved his veiny hands. It was so sexy. And so the night seemed to lose more and more of its clothes and last forever. Love between moans, the soft squeaking of the bed and the noise of the outside world, the soundtrack of your love for each other.

___ _ _ _

Hours later, wrapped in one of his oversized team jackets, your dress draped across the chair, clothes scattered all over the floor, you both stood on the balcony—barefoot, quiet, watching the last of the fireworks over Tokyo fade into ash and stars. You held your medal between your fingers. He had his arm wrapped around your waist, eyes on you instead of the sky.

“Bronze and gold,” you murmured. “Not bad for a rivalry.”

He kissed your shoulder softly. “You were always my silver lining.”

You turned to face him, heart full, and pressed your forehead to his.

This wasn’t war anymore.

This was home.

BONUS:

You Didn't Warn Him. Of Course You Didn't. You stood at the entrance of the Blue Lock facility, holding a takeaway bag with Ego’s favorite black coffee and an obscenely spicy bento he liked to eat “because it hurts and therefore builds character.”

He didn’t know you were coming. He hadn’t answered your texts.

Which meant the only thing now was: sabotage. (And affection. But mostly sabotage.)

“Excuse me?, ” you asked the confused intern behind the front desk, “Where’s Jinpachi Ego?”

The poor kid blinked. “Y-You mean… Coach Ego?”

You smiled. “Yes, my Ego.” And then you walked right in.

Meanwhile in the locker room: “Alright, team, fifteen-minute break—” Ego’s voice echoed through the hall. He was mid-lecture when the door opened. You stepped inside the training hallway, looking entirely too elegant to exist in a building full of protein powder and unresolved daddy issues.

He blinked. The team blinked.

You held up the bento bag. “Hi, Coach. Thought you might be hungry.” He stared at you in dead silence.

“Coach??” Bachira whispered, eyes wide. “Did she just—did she just call him—?”

“There's no way,” Isagi muttered. “No way he's capable of love.”

“Maybe she’s lost,” Chigiri suggested.

“Maybe we’re dreaming,” Nagi added, yawning. Shidou, meanwhile, leaned over to Rin with a manic grin. “Oi. What if they’re into weird dominance play? Explains the hair.”

Rin *visibly disgusted noise*

Ego walked straight up to you. Didn’t say a word. Snatched the coffee, peeked into the bento, and then stared at you with his usual resting-"I’m-disappointed-in-humanity" face.

“Do you know what chaos you’ve just invited into this building?” he asked dryly. You smiled sweetly. “I’ve seen you yell at a sixteen-year-old for breathing wrong. I think we’ll survive.” And then—then—you leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

Silence. Pure. Horrified. Teenage silence.

What the team thinks - a quick summary:

Isagi: “...I think I need to re-evaluate my entire worldview.”

Bachira: “SHE’S PRETTY AND SCARY—THEY’RE PERFECT. I SHIP THIS.”

Nagi: “Tired. But like… impressed. Coach got game.”

Reo: “What does this mean for his legacy?! Is this in the contract?!”

Rin: flatline rage, muttering to himself “Why is everyone kissing near me.”

Shidou: “Yo, Coach! You ever try it on the training table—?”

Ego: “OUT. All of you. NOW.”

Kunigami (quietly, to Chigiri): “I respect her. She brought protein.”

Chigiri: “She’s an Olympic medalist. She could break us in half.”

___ _ _ _Later, in Ego’s Office

“You owe me so hard,” he grumbled, taking a bite of the spicy chicken.

You perched on his desk, smirking. “For what? Reminding your players that you’re not a soulless sports cryptid?”

“They’re never going to shut up about this.”

“Good,” you said, leaning in. “Let them remember that even the great Ego Jinpachi can fall in love.”

He snorted. “Not fall. I calculated the most optimal route to affection.”

You laughed. And when he kissed you—softly, briefly, with the door locked and the blinds down—it was the only time all day that his infamous glasses actually fogged up.

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