The students who had been playing around the field paused as they noticed two teams assembling on the football field.

Their attention was drawn to the athletes, who seemed more focused and determined than usual.

"Hey, aren't those three school's football team members?" a student asked, his voice tinged with excitement.

"Yeah, that's them! They won the middle schooler district championship, remember?" another replied, his eyes wide with anticipation.

"I think they're going to play a match," someone chimed in.

"Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go watch!"

With growing curiosity, a crowd began to form along the edges of the field.

Whispers of excitement spread through the students like wildfire, their eyes glued to the players as they warmed up, every movement precise and calculated.

Amidst the gathering crowd was Sarah, standing with her friends, her brows furrowed in confusion.

"Hey, what's going on? Why is everyone gathered like this?" she asked, trying to peer through the sea of students.

One of her friends, a girl named Jenna, turned to her.

"It looks like the boys from our class are playing a football match," she replied.

"But why is everyone acting like it's something special? Isn’t it just a game?" Sarah's voice held a mix of curiosity and disbelief.

She didn’t understand the intense energy surrounding the field.

A deep voice from beside them answered before anyone else could.

"You're correct. Football is just a game to most students," said a middle-aged man who had joined the crowd. "But the way these kids play, it’s on a completely different level from just a game."

It was Mr. George, one of the school’s P.E teachers and a retired footballer.

His presence carried an aura of authority, and his eyes were fixed on the field with a knowing smile.

"Are you talking about Michael and his friends, sir?" Sarah asked, turning to face him.

"Yes, exactly," Mr. George nodded, his gaze unwavering. "Watch them carefully, and you'll understand."

The tension on the field was palpable as the two teams lined up, facing each other with unwavering determination.

The players’ eyes locked, and their bodies tensed in anticipation.

A slight breeze rustled through the field, carrying with it the faint murmurs of the crowd and the low hum of excitement that electrified the air.

The referee, one of the P.E. teachers, stepped forward, holding a coin in his hand.

The moment felt heavy, as if everything hinged on the outcome of this simple toss.

He tossed the coin into the air, and it spun rapidly, reflecting the sun's rays before landing on his palm.

“Donovan’s team gets the kickoff,” he declared.

A ripple of anticipation moved through the crowd.

The match was about to begin, and those who knew understood—this wasn’t just any game.

It was an intense battle where passion, skill, and the spirit of competition would be pushed to their limits.

For Sarah and her friends, it was the beginning of a deeper understanding of what this game meant to those who played it, and those who watched.

With a sharp blast of the whistle, the match began, sending a jolt of excitement through the crowd.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Donovan, the team captain, launched the ball forward with a powerful kick.

The ball soared through the air, cutting across the field with speed and precision.

It landed near his team’s forward, who was already darting toward it like a predator eyeing its prey.

The forward managed to break through Michael's team’s defense, weaving past the defenders with a display of agility and quick footwork.

He saw a gap and passed the ball to his teammate, his eyes glinting with hope.

The next forward surged ahead with a burst of speed, but his momentum was cut short.

Michael himself stepped in, his stance solid and imposing, blocking the path.

The forward tried to fake left and then right, desperate to outmaneuver Michael, but Michael remained steadfast, his eyes never leaving the ball.

Frustration flashed across the forward’s face as he realized he couldn’t break through.

Quickly, he scanned the field and spotted another teammate to his left, unmarked and waiting for a pass.

With a swift flick of his foot, he sent the ball flying toward him.

But just as the ball was about to reach its intended target, a figure darted in like a bolt of lightning.

A small, unexpected form—one of the middle schoolers.

In a split second, the middle schooler swung his leg and intercepted the ball, sending it soaring back toward the opposite side of the field.

Gasps rippled through the crowd, and a murmur of disbelief spread among the onlookers.

“They’re lucky that kid was there,” Sarah remarked, narrowing her eyes as she tried to process what she had just seen.

Mr. George, who had been watching intently, turned to her with a slight, knowing smile.

"Do you think it was luck?" he asked, his voice steady but layered with something deeper—like a teacher guiding his student to see a hidden truth.

Sarah looked at him, confused. "What do you mean, sir?" she asked, her brow furrowed.

“Look again,” he said, his eyes returning to the field.

Sarah turned back to the field, her focus sharpening.

The game continued with renewed intensity.

Once again, a forward from Donovan's team charged ahead, skillfully maneuvering past defenders.

But as if scripted, Michael was there, standing firm like a wall that refused to budge.

The forward knew better than to try his luck again and quickly passed the ball to another teammate in an attempt to outflank Michael.

Before the ball could find its mark, another middle schooler, quick and nimble, intercepted it and sent it flying back to the other side of the field with a powerful kick.

The crowd erupted in a mix of cheers and astonishment.

This wasn’t coincidence; this was strategy.

Sarah's eyes widened as realization dawned on her.

She watched as it happened again—another forward tried to make a play, only to be thwarted by another seemingly “lucky” middle schooler perfectly positioned to intercept.

Sarah's eyes narrowed as she focused on the middle schoolers scattered around the field.

She noticed something peculiar.

Unlike the other players, these younger kids weren’t tracking the ball or trying to keep up with the rapid movements of the game.

Instead, their eyes were locked onto only a few players—and more importantly, on Michael himself.

She leaned in closer, her gaze fixed on Michael.

Each time the ball moved, she saw it—subtle, quick hand gestures that Michael was making.

A slight wave, a pointed finger, a closed fist.

And each time he made one of these gestures, the middle schoolers moved like clockwork, stopping, sprinting, or positioning themselves exactly where they needed to be.

"Sir, can you explain a little bit? What is Michael doing?" Sarah asked, her voice filled with curiosity and a hint of awe.

Mr. George smiled, pleased that she had noticed.

"Of course," he began. "You see, football is often seen as a game of skills, strategy, and teamwork. Those are crucial, no doubt. But at its most basic level, it all comes down to the kick. And kicking is something anyone can learn, even these middle schoolers."

Sarah nodded, her eyes never leaving the field.

"But what about the strategy and teamwork? I mean, those kids are way younger. They can’t possibly be keeping up with all this."

"Ah, that’s where you’re mistaken," Mr. George replied, his voice brimming with enthusiasm.

"Did you know there are countless paths a player can take when passing or kicking the ball? Each decision opens up a new set of possibilities—a new path."

The tension on the field mounted as Michael squared up once again against an opposing forward.

The two players locked eyes, both calculating their next moves.

The forward’s muscles tensed as he prepared to make his play, but Michael was already a step ahead.

"Michael," Mr. George continued, "has a rare gift. He can predict—almost see—the most likely paths the ball will take, based on the positions and movements of the players around him."

Sarah’s eyes widened as she watched Michael raise his hand slightly, his fingers subtly flicking to the right.

Instantly, one of the middle schoolers sprinted toward that direction, positioning himself right where the ball was about to go.

"So, what does he do? He blocks off the most likely paths himself, cutting off the forward’s options," Mr. George explained.

"And for the remaining possibilities, he directs those middle schoolers with his hand signals. They don’t need to understand the entire strategy—they just need to trust him and move where he tells them to."

"And the rest," he added with a knowing smile, "is easy. The middle schoolers just kick the ball away when it comes their way."

Sarah watched, captivated, as the sequence played out again.

The forward tried to fake a left pass but was forced right by Michael’s positioning.

The moment he did, Michael’s hand flicked up, signaling a middle schooler who immediately darted into place, intercepting the ball with a swift kick and sending it flying back down the field.

The crowd roared with amazement, now fully aware they were witnessing something extraordinary.

"Is that even possible, sir?" Sarah asked, her voice filled with disbelief and wonder. "To read the game like that? To control the field with just a few gestures?"

Mr. George chuckled softly, his eyes still glued to the field.

"Theoretically, yes. What Michael is doing could be explained, but he has a certain genius to make it possible on the pitch," he said, his voice filled with admiration.

"Think of it this way," he continued.

"If Gunther's defense is like an impenetrable fortress, built solidly to block any attack, then Michael’s defense is like a spider’s web—delicate but unyielding. The opponents have no choice but to move along the paths he has laid out for them, like flies caught in his web."

Sarah nodded, trying to wrap her mind around the analogy.

"But is that enough, sir?" she asked, her brow furrowed with curiosity. "I mean, just forcing them into certain paths—can that really win games?"

The ball was high in the air now, spiraling as it descended.

Mr. George's eyes remained fixed on Michael, a glimmer of excitement in them.

"No," he replied, a smile playing on his lips. "That’s why Michael has one more specialty. One that sets him apart."

On the field, all the players were scrambling beneath the falling ball, jostling for position.

The air was thick with tension, every player vying to gain control.

The crowd’s murmurs rose in volume, a wave of anticipation building up.

"Unlike Gunther, who uses his size and strength to dominate, or Paul, who overwhelms with his untamed ferocity," Mr. George explained, "Michael doesn’t have any physical advantages. He doesn't have good physique, nor does he possess the flawless fundamentals that Steve have. But there is one technique Michael excels at—even more than Steve."

Sarah's heart pounded in her chest as she watched the scene unfold.

Suddenly, amidst the chaos, Michael appeared, moving with a fluid grace that was almost hypnotic.

He slipped through the tangle of players, his eyes locked onto the ball descending from above.

His timing was perfect.

In a split second, he leaped into the air, his body stretching upward like a coiled spring released.

"It’s his header," Mr. George said, his voice filled with a mix of excitement and reverence.

Michael’s head connected with the ball with a sharp, decisive impact.

The sound was a solid thud that seemed to echo across the field.

The ball shot forward like a bullet, slicing through the air with speed and precision.

It landed perfectly at the feet of one of his teammates, who was already poised to receive it.

The crowd erupted in cheers and gasps of amazement.