The tide of the match seemed to be turning in our favor.

The crowd could feel it too—the rhythm of the game had shifted.

Every interception, every pass, every tackle by our team was met with cheers that grew louder with each passing minute.

Our confidence was building, and it was like a wave swelling in the ocean, ready to crash down.

But something felt off.

When I glanced over at our opponents, especially at Darry, their faces were not tense with panic or frustration as one might expect.

Instead, there was a strange sense of calm, almost a quiet confidence.

Darry in particular, the captain and orchestrator of their plays, wore a knowing smile, his eyes sharp and focused, as if he was waiting for the right moment to strike.

I didn’t have to wait long to find out why.

Darry had just received the ball.

Our players immediately tightened their grips on their marks; every Mujin High player was closely guarded, leaving Darry with no obvious options.

For a moment, it seemed like we had them cornered.

Then Darry raised his hand, making a subtle signal, and in an instant, the entire Mujin team came alive.

The field transformed into a blur of motion. Mujin High players moved in perfect sync, darting across the pitch like a flock of birds shifting direction in unison.

Their passing became rapid and precise, each touch of the ball sending it zipping to a teammate who was already on the move.

It was like watching a complex dance, one where every step was carefully planned yet fluid.

It became almost impossible to predict where the ball would go next.

Our players were struggling to keep up, their heads turning frantically, trying to anticipate the next pass.

Mujin High was switching their positions constantly, creating confusion, making it difficult for us to mark them individually.

They were breaking out of our one-on-one tactic, and the momentum we'd gained was slipping away, second by second.

From my position deeper in the midfield, I had a clearer view of the whole spectacle.

And it was a spectacle—a stunning display of teamwork, speed, and precision.

The shapes they were forming, the triangles, the diamonds, the sudden switches to stars—it was mesmerizing.

I could feel the allure of their style, the beauty of it drawing me in.

My feet began to inch forward almost without me realizing it, as if they were trying to pull me into their rhythm.

I was captivated, caught in the web of their game.

Just for a moment, I wanted to be part of that dance—to feel what it was like to be in perfect harmony with every player on the field.

I could almost see it: me, darting into the fray, intercepting a pass, threading through the defenders.

My heart was pounding, my breath quickening at the thought.

But then a strong hand clamped down on my shoulder, breaking my trance.

I turned and saw Gunther beside me, his expression more serious than I’d ever seen.

His eyes were steady, focused, and he spoke with a calm authority that was unusual for him.

"Don’t think about unnecessary things, man," he said firmly, his voice cutting through the noise of the stadium. "You have your own role to fulfill, right?"

For a moment, I just stared at him. Gunther, usually so laid-back and carefree, seemed almost wise in that instant.

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I took a deep breath, feeling my head clear.

"Don’t worry. I know," I replied, nodding as I forced myself to refocus.

I realized what I was about to do.

Sure, joining in might make for a great moment—might even give us a chance to break through.

But it wasn’t what we needed. Not right now.

If I got caught up in their game, I’d drain myself, and we’d lose the advantage we’d fought so hard to gain.

I needed to remember my role—to stay grounded, to read the game, to anticipate their moves, and to keep our team in it.

If we were going to win, we had to do it our way, not theirs.

I took a step back, my eyes sharpening on the field.

Darry was out there, weaving his magic, but we could break the spell.

I just had to stay patient, stay focused, and be ready for the moment to strike.

The moment I had been waiting for finally came.

Darry had the ball and was making his way toward us with the kind of confidence you’d expect from a captain who’s been leading his team through thick and thin.

His movements were smooth, almost like he was gliding over the grass.

But I was already there, standing right in his path, bracing myself.

He slowed just a bit when he saw me, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"So you're the one who forced us to play individually?" he said, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.

I met his gaze steadily.

"Well, there was no other option to defeat your team," I replied, my tone calm but my heart pounding against my ribcage.

And it was true.

Their team play was too coordinated, too precise.

I could read and predict their paths like lines on a map, but my teammates couldn’t keep up with the constant adjustments.

If we wanted any chance to win, we had to break them apart and face them one-on-one.

Darry’s smirk widened, his eyes gleaming with a challenge. "But if it’s one-on-one, are you sure you’re stronger than me?"

He didn’t wait for an answer.

With a deft flick of his foot, he moved the ball to his left.

I followed, trying to keep up.

Then, just as quickly, he shifted it to his right.

My feet scrambled to keep up with his pace, but his movements were fluid, like water slipping through my fingers.

And before I knew it, he was past me, leaving me in his wake.

I knew this would happen.

I knew I was weaker than him individually.

No—I was probably the weakest player on the field.

Darry was leagues ahead of me, and I wasn’t foolish enough to believe I could take him down in a one-on-one duel.

His skill was undeniable.

But football isn’t an individual game.

Darry’s moment of triumph was cut short when Gunther, who had been lurking nearby, swooped in like a hawk.

Without a second of hesitation, he intercepted Darry’s advance and slammed his foot against the ball, sending it flying across the field to the other side.

My heart surged with a rush of adrenaline and satisfaction.

My plan had worked.

I had already signaled Gunther to move, knowing that Darry would try to break through our midfield.

I might not have the strength or the speed to stop him, but I didn’t need to.

All I had to do was force him into making his move, and Gunther would be there to pick up the pieces.

I might be weak. I might have a body that isn’t as strong or agile as my teammates’.

But so what?

Football is about more than just raw talent and physical prowess.

It’s about strategy, it’s about understanding the flow of the game, and most importantly, it’s about the team.

The crowd erupted as the ball soared down the field, and our forwards sprinted after it like hounds after a hare.

Their defenders scrambled to get back into position, but we were faster this time, more coordinated.

This was our chance, and we weren’t going to let it slip away.

The realization hit me like a jolt of electricity. This was the moment where the game truly shifted in our favor.

The balance had tipped, and now it was up to us to seize it.

I could see the frustration beginning to show on Darry's face, a flicker of doubt in his confident gaze.

I grinned, a sense of purpose flooding through me.

I might not be the best player on the field.

I might not have the best shot, or the best dribbling skills.

But as long as I had my teammates by my side, as long as we each played our roles to the fullest, we could turn this match around.

Now, the game was truly becoming ours.

The opportunity came like a sudden gust of wind—a break in their formation, a single misstep.

Our defenders quickly seized it, sending the ball rocketing up the field.

The crowd, sensing the shift in momentum, rose to their feet in anticipation.

Our forwards charged forward with everything they had left, their legs pumping furiously against the strain of exhaustion.

I watched from midfield, my heart in my throat, as they moved like a well-oiled machine.

The ball was passed swiftly between them—left, right, a quick feint, and then a perfect through ball to Paul.

He didn’t hesitate.

With a powerful strike, he sent the ball sailing past the keeper and into the back of the net.

The stadium erupted into deafening cheers.

We had done it—we had taken the lead.

From that moment on, it was a battle of endurance.

Every second felt like an eternity as we played defensively, holding our ground against the relentless attacks from Mujin High.

They threw everything they had at us, but our team—worn and weary—held firm.

Every cleared ball, every blocked pass, was met with roars from our supporters.

I could feel my lungs burning with every breath, my muscles screaming with every movement, but I didn’t care.

None of us did. We were so close.

And then, finally, the sound we had all been waiting for—the sharp, shrill whistle of the referee signaling the end of the match.

We had won. 2 to 1.

The crowd erupted in jubilation, the stands shaking with the force of their cheers.

I could hardly hear anything over the roar.

My teammates and I looked at each other, our faces a mix of disbelief and sheer elation.

We did it. We had beaten one of the toughest teams in the district.

But as much as we wanted to celebrate, our bodies had other ideas.

My legs felt like they were made of lead, each step a herculean effort.

The exhaustion was so overwhelming that even the idea of walking felt impossible.

I wasn’t the only one.

Around me, my teammates were bent over, hands on their knees, gasping for breath.

The same was true for the Mujin players. We had pushed each other to the brink.

Somehow, through sheer willpower, we managed to drag ourselves to our feet and make our way to the center of the field to shake hands with our opponents.

It was a slow, almost comical sight—two lines of exhausted players stumbling toward each other, leaning on each other for support, barely able to keep standing.

But we did it.

We shook hands, exchanged nods of respect, and slowly shuffled off the field.

When we finally made it back to our room, it was like the last bit of energy drained out of us.

We collapsed into whatever space we could find—on benches, on the floor, against the walls.

I could hardly feel my legs.

My entire body ached, each muscle screaming for rest.

Seeing our state, Mr. George, usually a stickler for discipline, gave a small, knowing smile.

"Alright, no practice today. You've earned your rest. Take the time to recover; we’ve got three days until the next match."

A wave of relief washed over us.

Three days—thank goodness for that.

And I also had a badminton match the day after tomorrow.

As much as I wanted to just lie there forever, I knew I needed to keep myself in shape.

But right now, the bus ride home felt like the only thing I could manage.

We somehow dragged our sore bodies to the bus, where Sarah and the others were waiting.

They couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of us—sweaty, battered, barely holding ourselves together.

"You all look like you’ve just run a marathon," Sarah teased, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Feels like we did," I muttered back, slumping into the nearest seat.

The ride home was a blur of exhaustion and half-closed eyes.

As soon as I got home, I barely made it to my bed before collapsing face-first onto it.

The rest of the day passed in a haze.

My legs ached with every step, a dull, constant reminder of the game.

Mrs. Thomas, my ever-worried neighbor, fussed over me when she saw me limping around the yard.

"Oh, Michael, are you alright? You should be resting!" she fretted.

"I’m fine, Mrs. Thomas," I reassured her, though I wasn’t entirely sure if I was convincing her or myself. "Just a bit sore. I’ll be back to normal in no time."

And that’s how the day went by—aching muscles, lingering excitement, and the comfort of knowing that, at least for now, we had earned a moment of peace.