The day of the finals hit differently. The whole school buzzed with energy, and everywhere I turned, I caught snippets of conversations about the match. First years argued over strategies like they were coaching staff, and the second years hung around, enjoying the buildup as if they'd seen it all before.
Walking toward the field with my team, I could feel the tension building, though no one dared to say it out loud. Well, no one except Zach.
"They're going down," Zach muttered, his voice low but sharp. His eyes were locked on Ryan and his team across the field, where they were warming up. Every move Ryan's team made seemed to annoy him, from their exaggerated stretches to their cocky grins.
I couldn't help but grin a little. "Easy, Ronaldo. Save it for the game."
"They think they've already won," he shot back, his tone dead serious. "Someone needs to remind them this isn't over yet."
I laughed under my breath, deciding it was best to let him stew. Zach's rivalry with Ryan had been brewing for weeks, though Ryan probably saw it as more of a friendly challenge. For Zach, though? It was personal.
As we reached the field, the noise hit like a wave. First years were everywhere, shouting, laughing, waving whatever banners they could scrape together. It was chaotic, but it had that spark only a school event could bring—raw, untamed excitement.
I scanned the crowd out of habit, picking out familiar faces. Harrison stood with his usual group, grinning and yelling support for both sides. Typical Harrison, trying to keep the peace. A little further back, Jake leaned against the railing, quiet as always. He wasn't cheering, but his presence said enough.
My gaze didn't linger long, though. Ryan's team was finishing their warm-ups, and Zach was already eyeing them like a hawk. Logan and Owen shot him casual salutes, their grins just shy of smug. Zach's jaw tightened, but he didn't bite.
One of our teammates nudged him. "Relax, Zach. You're acting like this is the World Cup."
Zach didn't even blink. "Might as well be."
That got a laugh out of everyone, even me. It broke the tension for just a moment, enough for us to huddle up and shake off the nerves.
As the referee stepped onto the field, I moved into position. My focus narrowed to the game ahead, though the noise from the crowd was impossible to ignore. Ryan's team lined up on the other side, every one of them looking just as ready to prove something.
The whistle blew, sharp and clear.
Game on.
Everyone was more than prepared. I could feel the tension in the air as I looked ahead. This wasn't just a game—it felt like a battle waiting to explode any minute. The trio of Owen, Ethan, and Julian stood upfront like a wall, their confidence palpable. Owen kickstarted the game, and with a few precise touches, the ball found its way to Ryan. They weren't in any rush to score, moving the ball calmly, almost mocking us with their composure.
I positioned myself just ahead of the defense, keeping a close eye on Zach, who held the deep line. We both knew how dangerous their passing game could be. Any misstep, any gap, and they'd capitalize on it instantly. My eyes followed the ball as it rolled to Julian. For a moment, my instincts kicked in—maybe because I've studied his game so often or maybe because I just knew. His intended pass to Owen was already intercepted, the ball landing at my feet as if it was meant to be there.
I paused, scanning the field. If I moved forward just three yards, I'd bypass their trio of forwards, but Ryan was positioned in midfield, blocking a clean path. I didn't feel like passing back to Zach—it didn't sit right. Our right winger was signaling, his eyes screaming coordination. The vision of how this play could unfold lit up in my mind. I took the ball and began moving, every step calculated, every touch deliberate.
Ryan moved to press me, but he wasn't fully committed. Maybe he knew I could bypass him without much effort. Still, I couldn't let my guard down. Behind me, I sensed movements—Zach, Ethan, or even Julian closing in. It didn't matter who; I just had to stay ahead. Ryan was right in front of me now, and I could see it in his stance—he wanted to funnel me into their defensive trap. I smirked internally. Catching people off-guard was something I enjoyed, maybe too much. With one quick touch to the left, I nutmegged him and slipped past, adrenaline surging through my veins.
Logan was next, charging in fast. I stopped abruptly, planting myself between him and the ball. He hesitated for a split second, trying to anticipate my move. I opened my body as if to pass back to Zach, letting him believe I'd take the obvious route. But no, not today. Using the outside of my foot, I spun away from him, creating just enough space to break toward the left flank.
The goal was in sight, but so was Logan, running beside me. He wasn't pressing, just waiting for his defender to force me into a mistake. I knew I had only one chance. Without overthinking, I launched a lofted overhead pass to our winger, who had found a perfect pocket of space. The ball reached him, and with one clean touch, he fired a shot from just outside the box. My heart raced—it was perfect. But Adrian, was even better. He deflected it with a miraculous save, sending the ball loose into the air.
Chaos erupted. Ryan, Logan, our winger, and I all leaped for the falling ball. I pushed every ounce of strength into the jump, but Logan reached it first, clearing it toward Ethan. I hit the ground, scrambling to get back into position. Ethan took control, and Zach was right there, marking him. But Owen surged forward, connecting with a quick pass to bypass Zach. Ethan sprinted toward the left flank, and Julian moved to coordinate with Owen.
I ran. I ran harder than I thought possible, my lungs burning, my legs screaming. It was a moment we couldn't afford to lose. But their coordination was flawless. Owen passed to Julian, who broke through our defense effortlessly and returned the ball as Owen slipped past the last line. The shot was inevitable, and it was clinical—a low, precise strike into the bottom right corner. Our goalkeeper didn't stand a chance.
I stopped dead, gasping for air. My chest heaved, and for the first time, I realized I'd been holding my breath while chasing them. Exhaustion hit me, but it wasn't just physical. Something inside me burned—a frustration I couldn't shake. The same play I started had ended with them scoring. The ball that denied us a goal became the key to theirs. I clenched my fists, trying to swallow the bitterness. Yesterday, I gave my all and didn't feel this way. Why now?
I glanced at Zach. His eyes met mine, just for a second. They were sharp—tighter than usual. Not angry. Not cold. Just… cut differently. He quickly turned to cheer on our team, already calling for the ball to restart.
Owen, Ethan, and Julian were celebrating, their smiles rubbing salt into the wound. As they jogged past us, Owen smirked. "Best of luck, guys," he said.
I bit the inside of my cheek, holding back the surge of irritation. Zach, who seemed just as pissed as I was moments ago, clapped me on the shoulder. "Let's go, man. Let's show them how to turn the tables."
I nodded, not because I was ready, but because there was no other option. The fire inside me hadn't cooled—it had only begun to burn hotter.
The second blow came quieter than the first.
After the restart, we tried to hold our shape—tight lines, low risk. We weren't desperate. Not yet. The idea was to ease our way back, find the gaps naturally. But they knew us better than we thought. Maybe better than we knew ourselves.
Ryan didn't force anything. He just jogged calmly, eyes scanning, letting the others move the pieces. Julian drifted wide, pulling our midfield with him, and Ethan dropped deeper than usual, almost inviting Zach to press. He didn't. Smart call.
Still, something felt… off.
Logan received the ball near the halfway line. I stepped forward, more out of instinct than strategy. He feinted, sent a short pass to Owen, who let it roll past him—barely a touch—and suddenly, Julian was sprinting down the right. Our fullback scrambled, but it was late. The trap had already snapped shut.
I turned to track back, eyes flicking across the field. Zach called out something—I couldn't hear what—but I saw him cut inside to mark Ethan, whose run was pulling our entire line apart.
Julian didn't even glance up. He just sent a sharp low cross across the face of the goal. It should've been cleared. Maybe it would've been, if I had gotten there faster.
But Ryan was already there. And somehow, even with defenders in front of him, he tapped it once—just enough to fake our keeper—and then let the ball roll to Owen, who was alone at the far post.
Owen didn't hesitate. One touch. Net.
2–0.
No screaming. No wild celebration.
Just a few smiles. A quiet jog back to their half.
Controlled. Clean. Like they'd done this a hundred times together.
I stood there, breathing hard. Watching them—my friends. Not taunting. Not showboating. Just… playing like they understood each other in ways we still didn't.
Zach passed me, clapping twice. "Let's keep our heads up," he said. Loud enough for the rest of the team. But not looking at me.
For a second, it didn't sound like encouragement.
It sounded like distance.
Maybe that was on me.
I nodded and jogged on, pretending like it didn't get under my skin. Like that moment wasn't going to stay with me. I told myself it didn't matter. That I was just caught in the heat of the match. Overthinking it.
But I felt it. I felt it settling somewhere deep inside my chest. Like weight.
And I didn't know then how much heavier it'd get by the time the final whistle blew.
The restart felt cold. Mechanical. And soon the ball was at my feet again.
I already knew what I was looking at—Ryan's team had dropped deep, tucking themselves neatly into their own half. Less risk, more control. A strategy that made perfect sense. We were the ones now forced to make a move.
With our backline thin and only a few of us truly pressing forward, this setup killed us. We didn't have the numbers, not really. It was a trap disguised as caution. If we committed too many, they'd snap back with a counter.
And if we didn't... we'd just run out of time.
I rolled the ball under my foot, scanning. They weren't pressing. They didn't need to.
Zach was already drifting forward again—running into space, weaving through defenders, waiting for a pass that could break lines. But the lane was too clean. Too obvious. If I gave it to him now, they'd collapse on him like they'd been planning for it.
I passed it safer—into midfield. But the moment it left my foot, Julian surged. I hadn't expected it, not that early. He pressed hard, forcing the midfielder into a one-touch scramble to keep possession alive.
I stepped in, catching the ball before it slipped too far. Turned. Saw the space on the left.
It was open.
Too open.
Their midfielder stayed back. Purposefully. Like Ryan had told him to.
That's when I knew. This was real.
I took it.
Drove diagonally across the pitch. Slowly. Enough to bait Ryan. He started to shift, sliding into position and signaling his left mid to step up and close me.
And when he moved—
I stopped.
Cut. Turned hard to the left. The whole picture flipped.
Zach was already wide. Waiting. Always waiting.
He didn't call for it. He never needed to.
I slid it to him and broke into the box through the space I'd just carved. And right then—right there—he saw it.
The timing was perfect.
His back heel caught the pass with a grace that almost felt rehearsed.
And suddenly, it was just me and Adrian.
The keeper stepped forward, reading me like a book, but I didn't give him time to turn the page.
I fired—high and across.
Top right.
The net rippled.
2–1.
No celebration. Just a glance between me and Zach. Not joy. Not pride. Just... silence.
We'd brought one back.
But the space between us?
Still there.
And maybe that goal didn't close it.
Maybe it just reminded me that it existed.
Julian walked past Ryan, breathing hard. Ryan didn't even look at him at first, just shook his head and muttered loud enough to carry over the noise.
"Julian, why the heck did you press?"
Julian wiped sweat from his brow, annoyed. "Sorry, Ryan. I was pretending to press and fall back, but their midfielder hesitated. I thought I could grab it."
Ryan turned to face him fully now. "We don't need the ball, you idiot. We had a two-goal lead. We just had to sit low, hold shape. You doubting my tactics now?"
Julian stopped. "This is shit. Didn't I just say I was sorry? Can't you just accept it?"
"Ryan, cut it out," Logan called from the back, not looking over. "Let's get on with the game."
Zach chuckled—not loud, but sharp enough to carry.
"Even if Julian didn't press, we'd have found another way to score," he said, stretching his arms. "Don't make it sound like we only broke you because of a mistake."
Ryan finally cracked a smile. "I just wanted to see you talk like this after the match. Not cry."
That got a few grins. Even Julian smirked.
And me?
I smiled, just a little. The kind that slips out before your mind tells you not to.
The game restarted, and like before, they retreated into their half. That hadn't changed. Still the same deep line, same discipline. But now we had momentum. Just enough to feel the shift.
We pushed. Not hard, not careless—just smart.
We used the wings. Wide and fast, forcing their mids to split. Not charging in. Just nudging. Testing. Making them stretch more than they wanted to.
Zach didn't even ask for the ball. He moved through the seams—gliding more than running. Ghosting between the center-backs, never still, never obvious.
I had the ball again.
I wasn't going to repeat the same play. Ryan would expect that. He was smart. Always reading.
So I waited.
Paused just long enough at the halfway line to pull two midfielders closer.
Then tapped it short to our right back.
They bit.
Not all of them. Just enough.
Our right winger took it, held it wide, and gave it back. Quick. Clean.
I turned, caught Zach drifting center, and clipped a pass to left winger instead—switching flanks.
Ryan was mid-shuffle when it happened. Not out of position, but just enough off-balance that he had to adjust.
Our left winger took the touch down beautifully and drove toward the box. Logan stepped out to meet him, but that left a pocket open.
Julian moved to close it, too aggressive again.
And that was it.
Zach darted through the channel, and left winger slipped it through the tiniest of windows.
Zach didn't need power. Just placement.
He curved it low—far post. Past Adrian, who had no chance with that angle.
2–2.
Still no wild celebration.
Just a nod from Zach. And a glance my way.
Not a smile.
Just… understanding.
We were back.
And we hadn't needed luck to do it.
Just timing.
And each other.
End of First Half – Halftime Break
We were huddled at one side of the ground.
Zach stood in the middle of it all, animated like he'd just come off stage, not a football pitch.
"You see that flick?" he shouted, beaming at the left winger. "Told you he had it in him!"
"Shut up," the left winger grinned, still catching his breath.
Zach didn't shut up. He moved from one guy to the next, giving slaps on backs, shaking shoulders, reenacting passes with his feet, like his body couldn't hold the excitement. It wasn't cocky—it was contagious.
I sat a little outside the circle, one knee bent up. Just sipping water, letting the sounds move around me.
And watching him.
He wasn't putting on a show. That was just Zach. He lived in this chaos like it was a rhythm only he could hear.
I wasn't jealous. Not exactly.
But there was something sharp about it. Like I was standing in the eye of a storm that had formed around him—and for a second, I wasn't sure if I was still part of it.
My eyes drifted across the field. To the other side, where Ryan's team had formed a tight semi-circle. Less talk. More thought.
Ryan wasn't smiling.
He crouched in the middle, dragging a boot across the mud, drawing something. And the others leaned in, like it mattered.
Julian, who usually couldn't sit still, was quiet. So was Ethan. Owen stood just behind them, stretching, almost too calm.
I'd seen that calm before.
Yesterday on the first mach, they shifted the tempo like it was a hidden switch. Owen would press late. Julian would drop wide then cut inside. Ethan always moved against the grain. They didn't just run—they moved like ideas.
And now?
They were about to switch it on.
I didn't need to hear what Ryan was saying to know what was coming. The look in his eyes said enough.
We kicked off.
And it didn't take a minute to realize the switch had flipped.
Julian and Ethan were no longer static. They stretched wide, practically hugging the touchlines. Their shape opened like wings, ready to slice through.
Owen didn't press straight away.
He waited. Lurking behind halfway like he had all the time in the world.
I stayed alert. Scanned. Looked for the patterns.
Julian received the ball near the right sideline. Took his time, dribbled short—baiting. Waiting.
Ethan started moving center again. That diagonal run. The same one.
I didn't bite. I motioned for my guy to mark him. Told myself this was the same script.
Then I caught Owen out the corner of my eye.
Jogging.
Jogging.
Then sprinting.
Ethan had already turned—he knew. The pass came. Right foot. Just enough curve to beat the gap.
I broke forward, cut across Ethan's shadow, got to the line where Owen was headed.
I knew where it was going.
I knew.
But my steps were wrong. One short. One too long.
Owen met the pass with a soft left touch, like it was nothing.
Then came the drag.
And the flick.
Past me.
One more stride and he drove it low, slicing to the right corner of the net.
The sound wasn't even loud. Just a crack off the boot and then a cheer. But it felt like thunder in my chest.
3–2.
I stood there, staring at the grass.
I read it. I read everything. And it still wasn't enough.
Zach yelled something behind me. Maybe to keep spirits up. Maybe just instinct.
But I couldn't hear him.
All I could hear was my own breath. Too heavy. Like I'd forgotten how to manage my own body.
This wasn't just a goal.
It was a warning.
And I wasn't sure who I was trying to prove myself to anymore—them or me.
They caught us wide just once. That was enough.
The fourth goal didn't shout — it whispered. Smooth. Cold.
Ethan dropped into midfield, just enough to pull our right-back up.Julian sprang down the line like he'd been waiting for that exact second.Ryan didn't hesitate. A slick through ball, no-look, cutting the pitch in two.
Julian's low cross came in early — perfect weight, slicing past our defense.
Owen met it at the near post. One touch.
4–2.
I froze.
Not in shock — in something worse. Familiarity.
We'd been here before. Behind. Late. Gasping for something that slipped out of reach.
Zach clapped hard. "Let's move! Game's not done!"
I breathed out and nodded.
No one said the word, but we all knew it — all out.
We pressed forward.
Their shape dropped deep. No more runners, no gaps. Just layers of defense stacked like they expected every line-splitting pass we had.
But we didn't fold.
I brought the ball forward, darted between two, and threaded a low pass to Zach through the middle.He caught it clean, snapped it to the far post.Adrian flew and tipped it wide.
I didn't stop to curse. I ran to the corner. Called for it short.
Ball returned to my feet. Quick touch inside. Left foot strike from outside the box — curling.
Adrian, again. Palmed it over.
Roars behind me. I didn't look back.
We reset. Zach dropped deep, I overlapped, he sent me through with a no-look pass of his own —I feinted, cut inside. Fired low.
Adrian. Foot save. Rebound loose.
Zach rushed in, met it mid-air —Smashed it first-time.
Wide. Just by an inch.
And in that moment, I noticed something.
Ryan's team wasn't pressing forward anymore.
They weren't countering. They weren't even trying to score.
They were holding the ball. Pulling it back.Letting us come.
Letting us try.
Zach saw it too. And it lit something in him — frustration or fire, I couldn't tell.
He pressed harder. He shouted more. Kept going.
And I followed.
But deep inside — somewhere between the roar and the run —A voice whispered something I didn't want to hear.
What if this wasn't ours anymore?
What if Zach… wasn't doing this with me —But for them?
For Ryan. For everyone watching.What if he'd already chosen the next step, and I wasn't part of it?
I hated the thought.It wasn't fair.
But it clung to me.
Even as I blocked a clearance and flicked it to Zach again.Even as he turned and tried to curl one past Adrian — denied again.Even as our right winger fired a rocket from distance that slammed the crossbar.
Even as the crowd gasped — I felt it.
That sinking ache.
The whistle cut through everything.
Not a sound — a stop.
Zach dropped first — flat on his back, right wrist over his eyes, chest rising like he was trying to breathe through smoke.
Our wingers crashed down too — laughing, wheezing, hands on heads.
Even Ryan's team — Ethan sprawled out, Julian hunched over, Ryan sitting back, elbows on knees, drenched in sweat.
Every player — both sides — drained, wrecked, on the ground.
Except me.
I stood there, frozen. Like my body hadn't caught up.
And then — that thought.
What if Zach would've rather played this match with them?With Ryan, Ethan. In his natural spot at right-back, where he could flow with the game, not fight it.
What if sticking with me — pushing forward, adapting — just frustrated him?
What if losing today only made it worse?
And what if, after this... he didn't want to do this with me anymore?
I hated myself for thinking it.But once it crept in, it didn't let go.
Even after all the runs we made.Even after he tore himself apart to keep us in it.Even after everything…
I still doubted where I stood.
I stayed there for a moment longer. No one calling my name. No one reaching out.Just noise — wild, messy, celebratory noise — and a distance I couldn't close.
Then I turned.
And walked.
Not angry. Not broken.
Just distant.
The crowd burst through the sidelines, cheers and shouts crashing in behind me.None of it touched me.
I stepped past it. Off the field.
Into my own quiet.