In the break before the second half, the tension in our room was thick enough to cut with a knife.

The air felt heavy with frustration and fatigue.

The forwards, especially Paul, along with some midfielders, were slumped on the benches, their breathing still ragged from the relentless first half.

They had given everything, pushing themselves to the limit, trying to find a way to break through Floral High’s unyielding defense, but nothing had worked.

On the other hand, Floral's players seemed to be conserving their stamina wisely, using just enough energy to block us without overexerting themselves.

The realization was clear on our faces: we were wearing ourselves down while they were holding steady.

Paul, more than anyone, had felt the brunt of it.

He’d been the focal point of every attack, the tip of the spear that kept getting blunted.

His forehead was beaded with sweat, his eyes staring hard at the ground.

“What do we do?” Someone muttered, his voice cutting through the silence. “How do we break their defense?”

"I think Paul might be able to break their defense," Mr. Felix, our senior midfielder, spoke up, his voice calm but confident.

His words made everyone pause and look up.

I’d expected him to notice; he was always sharp on the field.

Paul's brow furrowed.

"What do you mean?" he asked, leaning forward, his frustration evident.

"Remember those last few minutes before the half ended?" Felix continued, his eyes locking with Paul’s.

"You were fast, unpredictable, almost through their lines. If you can pull off something like that again, but stay aware of your surroundings this time, you could break through. You’d have a real chance to score."

The plan was simple and seemed almost foolproof—use Paul’s speed and agility to force an opening, but this time with more awareness.

However, there was a glaring issue that we all knew too well.

Paul hesitated, his eyes flickering with uncertainty.

"Umm... I’m sorry, but when I play, I can’t focus on the surroundings," he confessed.

His words fell like a lead weight in the room, and we all knew he wasn’t just being modest.

Felix’s face tightened in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Paul sighed, rubbing his temple.

"If I start looking around and thinking too much about where everyone is, I lose my speed," he admitted. "I can't be as fast as I need to be."

His strength was also his greatest weakness.

Paul was fast—blisteringly fast—and his aggressive style was what made him such a powerful forward.

But it was also his downfall. His speed came from his instinct, from moving without second-guessing.

The moment he hesitated, the moment he overthought his actions, his advantage vanished.

It was like watching a bird trying to fly with its wings clipped.

"The reason I’m on this team is because I don’t hesitate when I shoot or pass," Paul continued, frustration creeping into his voice. "If I start hesitating, if I start thinking too much... I’ll lose that edge."

The room was silent, the gravity of the situation sinking in.

Everyone exchanged glances, unsure of the next move.

“Why don’t you suggest something? I’m sure you must have noticed something,” Mr. Samuel asked, his gaze fixed on me.

I nodded, feeling the weight of every eye in the room on me as I stood up.

My mind was buzzing with ideas, and I could feel the tension in the air, everyone hoping for a solution, a spark of hope.

“Don’t worry. There’s more than one way to defeat them,” I began, my voice steady but filled with determination.

Everyone leaned in closer, listening carefully.

“First off, their play is really oriented, strategic, and cautious. That’s why we need to be the opposite—reckless, fast, and unpredictable,” I continued.

I saw heads nodding, eyes narrowing in understanding.

“The key for this approach is Paul, but we need one more variable.”

I turned to look at Gunther, our strongest defender.

“Gunther, play midfielder and support Paul.”

Gunther's brows shot up, surprised, but then he nodded. “Sure.”

I explained further, “Paul can’t focus on his surroundings while he plays, but Gunther can be his eyes. With his heavy kicks, he can both pass and score if needed.”

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There was a moment of contemplation, the gears in everyone’s minds turning.

“But what about defense?” Mr. Felix spoke up, his voice filled with concern. “It would be weakened.”

I looked at him and then around at the others. “We need to discuss it with the coach,” I said.

As if on cue, Mr. George entered the room.

We quickly laid out the plan, our voices overlapping in excitement and urgency.

After listening, he nodded thoughtfully.

“That’s a good idea. And about the defense…”

His eyes shifted to me. “Michael, can you handle cross positioning?”

The cross positioning was a defensive strategy we’d practiced only a few times—a five-man formation making a cross, with me positioned at the center to direct the flow and cover any gaps.

It required sharp instincts and quick decision-making.

“Yes, sir, I can,” I answered with confidence. I knew I could handle it.

“Good. Then get ready and cheer up,” Mr. George said, his voice firm and encouraging. “We have a game to win.”

The atmosphere shifted—where there had been tension and uncertainty, there was now a spark of hope, a plan, a chance. We could do this.

Soon, the time for the second half came.

All of us stepped back onto the field, hearts pounding, adrenaline coursing through our veins.

The crowd roared around us, a sea of colors and voices.

I glanced at my teammates—Paul, his jaw clenched with focus; Gunther, cracking his knuckles, ready to step up into his new role; Samuel, steady and watchful at the goal.

We were ready. We were all in.

The Floral High School team lined up across from us, their expressions calm and calculated, but I could see a hint of surprise in their eyes.

They hadn’t expected a shake-up like this.

The whistle blew, and the kick-off was given to Floral High.

The game began again, the energy on the field electric.

Their forwards moved fast, pushing the ball up the field, but we were ready.

Our defense tightened, the cross positioning in place, shifting as one solid unit.

I called out, directing the others, watching the flow of their movements, the gaps, the openings.

The ball came hurtling toward us with a dangerous speed, but Felix was quick—his instincts sharp.

He leapt forward, intercepting it with a deft touch, immediately shifting momentum in our favor.

Without a second’s delay, he passed it to Gunther, who was already on the move.

Gunther, with the precision of a seasoned player, drove the ball forward to Donovan, who was sprinting down the sideline.

The crowd's anticipation was palpable; the tension in the air electric.

Floral High’s players were closing in on him, their eyes fierce, bodies ready to block any advance.

But Donovan was in his element. With quick feet and sharp instincts, he danced around the first player, a trick and feint that sent his opponent stumbling.

The crowd gasped, a collective intake of breath. Donovan moved ahead, the ball glued to his feet.

He feinted left, crossed right, and dodged another player, his every move calculated and smooth.

Seeing an opening, he crossed the ball to Steve.

The pass was precise, and Steve caught it cleanly, but a defender was already barreling down on him.

Thinking fast, Steve pretended to pass to a teammate behind him, a clever feint, before flicking the ball with the outside of his foot to Paul, who had sprinted up ahead.

The crowd erupted into cheers, and Floral’s defenders looked momentarily confused by the sudden shift.

Paul was off like a bullet, sprinting toward the goal with all the speed and aggression he was known for.

The stands were on their feet, the roar of encouragement almost deafening.

"Go, Paul! Go!" the crowd chanted, their voices a wave of support.

Paul didn’t hesitate, his focus unbreakable.

But then, as if out of nowhere, Molan swooped in with the perfect interception.

The ball was knocked away with a clean, powerful tackle.

Groans of disappointment filled the stadium. Floral’s defense had struck again.

But this time, something was different.

Gunther had been shadowing Paul, reading the field, and he saw his chance.

As the ball bounced away, he charged in like a force of nature.

The crowd, sensing something big, held its breath.

In a heartbeat, Gunther reached the ball and unleashed a kick with all his might.

The stadium fell silent, every eye glued to the ball as it flew like a rocket toward the goal.

Time seemed to slow.

The ball whistled through the air, a blur of power and precision.

It seemed destined for the back of the net.

The Floral goalkeeper dived desperately, arms outstretched, but the speed of Gunther's kick was too much for him.

But then—clang!

The ball smashed into the pole with a resounding thud and bounced back onto the field.

Gasps of shock rippled through the stands, the crowd exploding into a mix of cheers and groans.

For a split second, Floral’s defenders froze, panic flashing in their eyes.

They had barely survived a thunderous kick, and the shock was evident.

They looked around nervously, trying to regroup, but the damage was done.

Gunther’s shot might not have been a goal, but it had served its purpose.

Floral’s defense was rattled.

Their confidence, their composure—it all took a hit.

“They can shoot from anywhere!” someone shouted from the Floral section, a mix of fear and admiration in their voice.

From that moment on, the defenders didn’t just have to worry about Paul’s speed or Donovan's tricks.

Now, they were constantly wary of Gunther’s long-range shots, always glancing over their shoulders.

Every time Gunther got near the ball, there was a visible shift—a tightening in their formation, a sense of unease.

The rest of the match saw Floral’s defenders overthinking, second-guessing, and splitting their attention between Felix’s midfield control, Paul’s relentless charges, and Gunther's powerful kicks.

The pressure on Floral’s defense was relentless.

They were caught in a dilemma—focus too much on Paul’s blazing speed, and they’d leave Gunther open for another one of his cannon-like shots.

Split their attention to cover both, and they risked being torn apart by a clever play.

And that hesitation, that split-second uncertainty, was all Paul needed.

Paul read the hesitation like a book.

His movements became even more unpredictable.

One moment, he was darting left, and in the blink of an eye, he would feint right, exploiting the narrowest gaps between defenders who were caught on their heels.

Each time Floral’s players hesitated, Paul used it to his advantage, slipping past one, then another.

Molan, however, was still the bedrock of their defense.

No matter how chaotic things got, he was there, rallying his teammates, positioning himself perfectly, and covering space with an almost preternatural awareness.

Yet, even he couldn’t ignore the threat of Gunther.

If he shadowed Paul too closely, Gunther would find his opening and unleash another rocket toward the goal.

If he stayed back to keep Gunther in check, it left Paul with more room to maneuver.

Steve, meanwhile, was a silent predator, slipping between the defenders, weaving in and out of spaces, always ready to strike.

His role became crucial in this chaos—drawing defenders away, setting up screens, or making himself an option for a quick pass.

And when Felix and Donovan decided to join the fray, it became complete pandemonium.

The midfield turned into a battlefield of speed, skill, and strategy, with bodies flying, players yelling, and the ball changing feet in a frenzy.

From my position on the field, I could barely keep up with all the movement.

The game had turned into a blur of jerseys, cleats, and frantic shouts.

I had to admire Molan, though.

Through all of this chaos, he was a rock—focused, disciplined, and sharp.

He anticipated plays like a chess master seeing five moves ahead.

Every time we seemed to have a breakthrough, Molan would step in, clear the ball, or execute a textbook-perfect tackle.

I couldn’t help but feel a deep respect for him.

He was, without a doubt, one of the best defenders I’d ever faced. Watching him work was like a lesson in defense.

His composure, his vision, his understanding of space—there was so much I could learn from him.

Despite everything, despite the confusion and the relentless pressure, he stood firm.

Even with the chaos at its peak, even as Paul, Gunther, Steve, Felix, and Donovan gave it their all, Molan’s defense only cracked once.

It was a brief, fleeting moment where we finally broke through.

The ball went in, and for a split second, there was a stunned silence.

And then, the crowd erupted.

The stands shook with the roar of our supporters. “GOAL!” they shouted, voices booming in unison.

The excitement rippled through the stadium like a wave.

People jumped to their feet, arms raised high, some waving banners with our school colors.

Others hugged each other, shouting and clapping.

The younger students, especially, were wild with excitement, chanting our names, their faces flushed with adrenaline.

“Let's go, let's go!” they chanted rhythmically, pumping their fists in the air.

Even from across the field, we could see the Floral High supporters burying their heads in their hands or slumping back into their seats, momentarily stunned by the unexpected blow.

The energy was electric.

Every time the ball neared the Floral High goal, the crowd would rise in anticipation, holding their breath.

A collective gasp would escape when a shot just missed, followed by cheers or groans.

When Molan cleared the ball or stopped another play, their side of the stands tried to rally back with cheers.

Their voices trying to keep the spirit alive: “Floral! Floral!” they chanted, trying to counter our momentum.

But our side of the stadium drowned them out.

"Defense! Defense!" they chanted when Floral had possession, urging us on.

The sound was almost deafening, echoing in our ears and fueling our determination.

We had won, but just barely.

A thin margin of 1-0.

As I stood there, panting and covered in sweat, I couldn’t help but think—what if Floral High had a forward as skilled or even half as Molan was in defense?

If they had someone who could capitalize on our weakened defense, with Gunther pulled up as a midfielder, the game could have gone very differently.

It might have been our defeat instead.

The referee's whistle blew, marking the end of the match.

The sound seemed to pull everyone out of the intense focus of the game.

Suddenly, the reality of our victory set in, and the stadium erupted once again.

The crowd was on fire, their cheers roaring like a wave crashing against the stands.

Some students even spilled out of their seats, rushing closer to the field to cheer us on.

We moved toward our opponents, reaching out for handshakes.

"Good game,” I said to Molan, and I meant it.

He nodded back, a slight smile on his face, despite the loss.

“You guys were good,” he said, his voice steady, “I hope you win the tournament.”

I nodded, a grin spreading across my face. “we'll try our best..”

As we walked off the field, the crowd continued to chant and cheer, creating a wall of sound that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

We headed back, our hearts still racing from the adrenaline.

The win wasn’t just a score on the board; it was a hard-fought battle, a testament to teamwork, strategy, and the will to win.

And as we prepared to leave the field, I knew this was just the beginning.

There were more matches ahead, more challenges to face, and more lessons to learn.

But for now, we had won, and that was enough.