Monday morning brought no mercy.
The Suns Academy pitch glistened under the 6 AM sun, dew steaming off the grass like mist rising from a battlefield. Whistles pierced the air, and the thud of boots meeting ball echoed through the early morning haze. Coach Bradley stood near the touchline, arms folded behind his back, jaw tight, the embodiment of military-grade discipline.
"Move it! Faster transitions! I want to see urgency!" he barked. "Or do you think West ridge Academy's going to go easy on you?"
No one dared talk back. Especially not Scott.
After last week's quarter-final, the air around him had changed. He wasn't just the boy who scored a game-winning goal anymore he was also the one who ignored the pass. A spark, yes. But was he the kind that lit fires or burned bridges?
Coach Bradley hadn't benched him yet. But the leash was tight.
"Scott!"
"Yes, Coach!"
Bradley paced like a panther. "You'll run tactics today with the midfield unit. You're my number ten, but if you don't start showing control and vision, you're replaceable. Understood?"
"Understood."
"No more stunts. You pass when you need to pass. You shoot when I say shoot. Got it?"
Scott nodded. Bradley's eyes lingered, then moved on.
The team huddled at midfield after warmups, water bottles clutched, faces already slick with sweat. Manny bumped Scott's shoulder.
"Still breathing?" he asked, grinning.
"Barely."
Manny chuckled. "Semis in six days. No time to blink. You ready to break West ridge's line?"
Scott gave him a short nod. "I'll carve it open."
Coach Bradley walked to the center circle, planting his boot beside a cone.
"Listen up! West ridge Academy isn't some Sunday league club. They didn't cruise through the quarter-finals by accident. They're structured. Disciplined. And they've got firepower. Now listen carefully because this could be the difference between glory… and watching the finals from the stands."
He turned, clicking the remote in his hand. The projector screen outside the clubhouse flickered on. A tactical overview of West ridge's 4-2-3-1 appeared. Arrows. Names. Statistics.
"Let's start with the obvious." He clicked again.
A highlight reel started.
Ken.
The top scorer in the league. Seventeen goals in eight games. The screen showed a goal from outside the box one touch, then a blistering shot into the top corner.
"Ken is a sharpshooter. He doesn't need a second touch. If he's inside thirty yards and he's got space, he pulls the trigger. Our backline better not give him an inch. He thrives on lazy recoveries and slow tracking. Charles, Derick you'll double-mark him if he drops in."
Another click.
Rodrigo.
A seventeen-year-old Brazilian winger on West ridge's right. Fast. Unpredictable. The footage showed him skinning two defenders and floating in a cross with casual brilliance.
"Rodrigo's not just flair. He's effective. We expect him to challenge our full-backs one-on-one, especially on transition. Tyler you'll shadow him. Scott, I want you tracking his movement in buildup. You slow him down before he picks up speed."
Click.
Wanda.
A defender built like a tank. Six-foot-two. Shoulders like scaffolding. The clip showed him muscling strikers off the ball like they were toddlers.
"Wanda is the wall. He won't be drawn out of position. If you try to outrun him, he'll clip you. If you try to outmuscle him, he'll drop you. So you don't face him head-on. You play around him. One-touch passing. Diagonal movement. Give him nothing to settle into."
Coach turned back to the team.
"These three are their pillars. You break them, you break West ridge."
He clapped once. Loud.
"Now, drills! Group A press and counter patterns. Group B quick transitions. Scott, you're with Group B. I want to see you orchestrating play like a general, not a solo act."
"Yes, Coach."
Training kicked up to full intensity.
Balls flew. Shouts cut the air. The tempo was brutal.
Scott dropped deep to collect, rotated to the wing, and slotted a pass between cones for Mark to latch onto.
"Again!" Coach shouted. "Faster tempo, tighter lines!"
They worked three-man rotations, building rhythm through the midfield. It wasn't just physical it was mental. Every pass had to anticipate pressure. Every run had to open lanes.
At one point, Manny slipped through the middle. Scott flicked a no-look reverse ball between two cones and hit him perfectly in stride.
"Better!" Coach growled. "That's the rhythm I want. Like clockwork!"
Scott felt the fire return not the glory-hunting urge, but the thrill of building something. Of being part of the machine.
After two hours, the players collapsed on the sidelines, chugging water like survivors of a desert march.
"You think we can take them?" Manny asked.
Scott didn't hesitate. "If we play like this? Yeah. But if one of us switches off… Ken buries us."
Derick sat nearby, stretching. He looked over.
"Coach is trusting you again."
Scott nodded.
"You better not make us regret it."
Scott met his gaze. "I won't."
There was a pause, then Derick gave a small nod.
Peace. Maybe not friendship but understanding.
Coach Bradley approached.
"We're moving into closed-door sessions starting Wednesday. No leaks. No parents. No scouts. Just us. This week is war prep."
Scott leaned back, eyes on the fading sun. The countdown had begun.
Wednesday - Closed-Door Tactics
The training pitch was cordoned off with temporary fencing. Only Suns staff and players were allowed near it now.
Inside, the real rehearsals began.
Coach Bradley placed cones and mannequins in tight grids, simulating West ridge's high press.
"Here's what we know," he began. "West ridge doesn't just wait for mistakes they provoke them. They'll press our backline with a front three, try to force errors wide, then launch Ken through the middle."
He paced as he spoke.
"Our response? Controlled build-up. No aimless clears. We go through Scott and Derick in the middle. You two dictate the tempo. Triangle out of danger. Drag their press into no-man's land, then strike."
They drilled the plays again and again.
Scott would receive under pressure, drop it back to Charles, who'd launch a diagonal to Tyler overlapping. If Tyler was closed, Scott would switch flanks or feed Manny running a central channel.
It was chess on grass.
Coach Bradley's voice rang out constantly.
"Anticipate the press. Know where you'll pass *before* the ball reaches you. Scan! Touch-pass-move! Quick triangles! Rodrigo will bait you don't bite!"
By the time the final whistle blew, legs ached and lungs burned. But their patterns looked sharper. Cleaner.
More like a team ready for war.
That night, Coach called a team huddle under the lights.
"West ridge are no joke. But neither are we. You've trained with blood in your boots. You've earned this semifinal. Now you execute. Every one of you is a piece on this board. Play your role right… and we dominate."
He looked to Scott.
"You wanted your shot back. Now it's here. Lead this midfield like a commander."
Scott nodded once.
West ridge Academy – 6 Days Before the Semi-Final
The morning sun filtered through the arched glass windows of West ridge Academy's elite training facility. Here, things were different. Cleaner. Colder. Sharper. Where Suns Academy thrived on passion and grit, West ridge ran like a machine precise and unrelenting.
Ken Velasquez stood at the far end of the pitch, eyes locked onto the shooting dummy ahead. He bounced the ball with casual arrogance, then spun and rifled it into the top corner of the net without a second thought.
Boom.
Another one.
"Still got it," he muttered under his breath.
Across the pitch, Rodrigo juggled a ball with ankle-breaking flair, rainbow-flicking it into a volley that nearly caught one of the coaches off-guard.
"Rodrigo!" barked Coach Nasser, the head of West ridge's football program. "Save that flash for match day. This is training, not a carnival."
Rodrigo just smiled. "Coach, if the sun shines, why ask it to dim?"
Ken scoffed and jogged over. "We're playing Suns Academy next. Save the poetry for your Insta captions."
Rodrigo looked up, finally serious. "They say that Scott boy's back in form."
"Good," Ken said. "Makes crushing them sweeter."
Ken Velasquez wasn't just the league's top scorer he was the face of West ridge. Powerfully built, ruthless in front of goal, and ice-cold under pressure. He'd already received scout calls from Ajax and Inter Milan.
"They'll be expecting our usual high press," Wanda's deep voice rumbled as he joined the huddle. His thick legs looked carved from oak, his presence towering even without cleats on. "I say we give 'em something different."
Rodrigo grinned. "False nine?"
"No," Ken replied. "Double pivot. Pull them in, then snap the trap."
Wanda nodded. "They rely too much on that midfield magicianScott. If we cut off his service, they fold."
Coach Nasser approached, scribbling on his tactical board. "We will isolate Scott. Wanda, you mark him. Physically. Disrupt his rhythm. Ken, Rodrigo you alternate the press triggers. Force their fullbacks into rushed passes."
The plan was forming. Ruthless. Efficient. Surgical.
Across the city, the Suns practiced with sweat and fire.
Here, West ridge sharpened knives.
Suns Academy – 5 Days Before the Semi-Final
"You think they'll man-mark me again?" Scott asked, sliding into his windbreaker as early mist clung to the grass.
Coach Bradley didn't even look up. "Does it matter?"
"No, Coach," Scott replied, stepping onto the training pitch with that fire behind his eyes.
Today wasn't just drills. It was war prep.
"Manny, Scott-ball circulation. One touch, no more," Coach barked.
They began ping-ping-ping the ball dancing like electricity between them. Mason and Derick joined in, forming a diamond. The air buzzed with tension.
"Keep it tight!" Coach shouted. "West ridge runs a high block with rotating wing pressure. You've got five seconds max before they close you."
Scott turned, took a touch, and immediately three cones lit red beside him.
Coach hit a button on his tablet. "Too slow. Again!"
Their assistant coach added, "Ken will hover near the holding mid, waiting to pounce on a weak back pass. You don't get second chances."
Sweat dripped. The boys gasped for breath, but no one quit.
Manny shouted between breaths, "If we beat them, we're through to Nationals, right?"
Scott nodded. "And top-tier scouts. No more U-18 nonsense. Full academy offers."
They ran again.
Later that day, Coach Bradley gathered them in the film room.
A massive screen showed clipsKen's thunderbolts from 25 yards, Rodrigo's dancing feet, Wanda body-checking forwards twice his size.
"They play fast. They play angry," Coach Bradley growled. "But you? You play smart. You play together."
He paused, gaze scanning the room.
"Scott marking you will be Wanda. He'll try to knock you off your game."
Scott nodded. "He won't."
"And Rodrigo will target Mason's side cutting in."
Mason blinked. "Let him try."
Coach's lip twitched the closest thing to a smile he'd ever give.
"Good. Now get to work."
Suns Academy – 3 Days Before the Semi-Final
"STARTERS versus RESERVES! Match tempo, 40-minute halves!" Coach Bradley bellowed.
The boys lined up on the pitch, boots digging into turf still wet from morning dew. Everyone knew this wasn't just practice it was a proving ground. A dress rehearsal with real consequences.
Scott took his place at center-mid. Derick at striker. Manny floated behind him, orchestrating space like a chess master.
Opposite them were players hungry to prove they deserved a semi-final slot. Especially Charles, who wore a tight smirk under his damp fringe.
Coach tossed the whistle between his fingers. "One more thing win or lose, someone from this match won't start the semis."
The silence was sudden. Thick. Every touch would matter.
Preeeep!
The ball flew.
Scott controlled the first pass cleanly, shoulder checking to spot Manny. He pinged a laser-guided pass that cut through the reserves' midfield like a knife.
Manny didn't even look. One touch to Derick, who danced past Charles and
Thud!
Blocked by their reserve keeper.
Coach didn't flinch. "Again!"
They reset.
The tempo climbed. Sweat soaked jerseys. Tackles came in harder. Voices louder. But Scott didn't feel the noise.
Only the rhythm.
Every time he touched the ball, it hummed like a live wire. He dragged markers wide, slipped short passes to Manny, and baited defenders into lunges they couldn't recover from.
Then came the 33rd minute.
Manny lobbed a cheeky pass over the defense. Scott read it a second before it happened.
He broke the line.
Ball at his feet. Keeper charging.
And
SLIDE!
Charles came crashing in with a scything tackle from behind. Whistle.
"Foul!" Coach barked.
Scott lay on the ground, gritting his teeth. He rolled over and stood, not looking at Charles.
"You alright?" Manny asked, offering a hand.
Scott ignored the pain. "I'm good. Let's keep going."
Derick stood over the free kick, twenty-five yards out. Scott joined him, exchanging a glance.
"You want it?" Derick asked.
Scott looked toward the sideline. Coach was watching closely, unreadable.
"No," Scott said. "You take it."
Derick blinked in surprise.
Then nodded.
He stepped up-three stride sand curled it into the top left corner. Pure class.
1-0.
The starters erupted. But Coach's face didn't change.
The scrimmage ended minutes later.
"Starters win. Barely," Bradley growled. "Everyone back to the locker room."
As the players trickled off, Charles shoved his kit bag violently against the bench.
Coach raised an eyebrow. "Problem?"
"No, sir," Charles muttered, avoiding Scott's eyes.
That Evening – West ridge Academy
Rodrigo lounged on the couch in the players' lounge, streaming something on his tablet. Ken leaned in.
"Is that… Suns Academy's scrimmage?"
Rodrigo grinned. "Yep. Someone's cousin sent it over."
Wanda crossed her arms. "Let me guessScott running the show?"
"Kind of," Rodrigo said. "But interesting part is the last play. He gave up a free kick to Derick."
Ken narrowed his eyes. "He gave it up?"
"Yeah."
Wanda frowned. "Not his style."
Rodrigo smirked. "Maybe they've been working on humility drills."
Ken stood. "Or maybe… he's baiting us."
Suns Academy – Night Before the Semi-Final
The dorms were quieter than usual. Most of the boys stayed glued to their bunks, headphones in, minds looping match footage or replaying errors in their heads.
Scott sat on the rooftop alone, Manny joining him minutes later with two water bottles.
"Can't sleep either?" Manny asked.
Scott shook his head. "Too many patterns. Too many 'what ifs.'"
Manny took a sip. "You played smart today."
"I should've buried that chance."
"But you let Derick take the free kick. That… surprised me."
Scott leaned back, eyes to the stars. "We win together or not at all."
Manny smiled faintly. "That's new."
Just then, their phones buzzed simultaneously.
Team group chat.
[Coach Bradley]: All players report to the auditorium. Now.
Scott blinked. "Now? It's past midnight."
They grabbed their gear and bolted downstairs.
Suns Academy Auditorium
Coach Bradley stood under dim stage lighting, arms folded, a projector flickering behind him. A logo. A name.
West ridge Tactical Breakdowns – Internal File
Gasps rippled through the room.
"Someone sent us their session footage," Coach Bradley said calmly. "Not just clips full recordings."
Manny leaned to Scott. "That can't be legal…"
Bradley continued, "I won't ask who. But I will ask this: do you want to see how they plan to beat you?"
The room was silent. Then Scott stood.
"Play it."
Coach nodded.
The video began.
Ken's voice. "We isolate Scott. Disrupt rhythm. Break Suns in the middle, counter wide."
Rodrigo's laugh. Wanda's gruff analysis. Their tactics unfolded second by second.
It wasn't just war.
It was a personal hunt.
Bradley paused the clip.
"We now know what they're bringing."
He turned to the team, eyes hard as granite.
"But here's the question…"
A long pause.
"Do we take the bait… or change the game?"
Scott stood up. "We rewrite the script."
Coach stared at him for a beat.
Then smiled.
The next morning, just as training began, a black SUV rolled up to Suns Academy.
A man in a dark blazer stepped out, holding a clipboard, flanked by a woman in a red badge windbreaker.
Manny squinted. "Who's that?"
Derick looked nervous. "I've seen that logo before. Bundesliga…?"
Coach Bradley walked over, spoke briefly with them, then turned back to the team.
His voice was calm, but heavy.
"We've got a scout here. From Bastion Munich."
Eyes widened. Mouths opened.
Coach continued, "He's here to watch one match. Ours."
He paused.
"And he's only taking notes on one player."
Everyone turned to look at Scott.
And for the first time all week
He didn't blink.