Kenilworth Road, 09:58 — The tactics room smelled faintly of whiteboard marker and wet grass. Rahmat stood beside Steve Rutter, the new flowchart of PHOENIX sketched like a set of wings: compress → trap → expand → finish.
"Triggers are the lungs," Steve said, tapping three boxes. "Back-pass, heavy touch, sideline. We breathe in on any of those." Rahmat nodded. "And we breathe out on regain. Three seconds vertical."
Mina slipped in with a grin. "Quick bits: youth outreach locked for Wednesday—starting XI fronting it. And yes, Aizawa's 'Eagle Shot' clip is everywhere." Rahmat's mouth quirked. "Then we'll point that spotlight somewhere useful." He circled Aizawa and Barou on the board. "Front four rotate; Aoyama sets the rhythm; Kenta wins the first fire. Phoenix learns to breathe."
---
Morning broke with frost along Kenilworth Road's touchline. Steve Rutter had cones and mannequins arranged before the lads even laced up.
"Listen in," Steve called, arms folded against the cold. "Phoenix is high-intensity, controlled risk. It breathes—compress, expand, compress—so our shape never dies even when we're chasing shadows."
Rahmat stepped beside him. "Principles, not positions. Kenta anchors—he wins the first fire. Aoyama conducts—he smells the next pass. Front four rotate like gears; if Barou drops, Eli or Aaliyah pierces. Kakeru—if the sightline opens, take it. Don't force the myth. Let the moment come."
Barou flicked his wrist, a half-smile. "Moments bow to kings."
From behind, Wakabayashi clapped once, loud in the cold. "Moments bow to the team."
A ripple of laughs cut the tension. Kakeru's grin was brief but bright.
They ran the first pattern. Compress in a 4-2-3-1 shell, bait the press, then expand—Arhan ripples forward, Aaliyah tucks, Barou pins, Kakeru curves across the centre-backs. The ball hummed through triangles, popped to Aoyama, and rolled on a string toward the weak side.
"Again!" Steve barked.
This time it broke. A loose touch skittered across frost.
"Aoyama," Rahmat called, gentler, "tempo's ours. Breathe, then play."
Aoyama nodded once. No excuses. He reset the ball, sleeve tugged just so, and when it came around again, the pass was a surgeon's line through cloth.
They repeated the sequence until breathing aligned with passing and the pitch felt smaller, then bigger, then theirs. On the last run, Kakeru checked toward, spun away—Aoyama's eyes were already there—and the shot he drove was not an Eagle's roar but a quiet promise: lower, truer, goalkeeper's fingertips grazing air.
Wakabayashi plucked it anyway, landing with a grin. "Closer."
Barou sauntered by Kakeru, shoulder to shoulder. "Two goals next time, eaglet."
Kakeru smirked. "Only if you pass once, Your Majesty."
"Pass?" Barou scoffed, then, after a beat, nudged Kakeru's arm. "Maybe."
From the sideline, Rahmat caught Steve's eye. The nod between them said enough: the bones of Phoenix were taking.
---
The Loom was warm and wooden, the windows fogged with winter chatter. Sophie was already there, scarf looped like a question mark, a notebook half-closed under her palm.
"Coach Rahmat," she said as he sat, teasing in the cadence.
"Just Rahmat," he replied. "Or I'll call you Professor Sophie."
"Student Sophie," she corrected, smiling. "Urban sociology, second year of the master's. I'm mapping how a club's rise re-threads a town's routines. Your team keeps ruining my models in the nicest way."
He blinked. "Ruining?"
"You win," she said, eyes bright, "and coffee shops hire two extra staff on match mornings. Your keeper makes a save, someone names a pastry after him. Community breath changes. Hard to measure. Easy to feel."
Rahmat leaned back. "I plan for 90 minutes. You're mapping the hours around them."
She tilted her head. "And you? Who maps you?"
He laughed softly. "Apparently Oma."
At the name, Sophie's grin softened. "Mathilda van Rijn could convince the sea to take a day off. She phoned me yesterday. I said yes before she finished the sentence."
They talked until tea cooled—Makassar alleys and Rotterdam grey skies, how tactics are language, how language is a tactic. When he finally checked his watch, he half-winced.
"I have to cut," he said. "The Team won't Stratigize itself."
"Go," Sophie said, putting on her gloves. "I like your team. But I like that you like your team more. Text me after you ruin my models again."
"Dinner next time," he said, surprising himself.
"Brave man." She laughed. "Let Oma know you're behaving."
---
Back at the ground the afternoon session bore teeth. Rutter added triggers: press on the backwards touch; trap the six; sprint lanes on regain—count to three, then vertical. Kenta slid through challenges like a seam ripper; Aoyama was a metronome with pulse; Eli and Aaliyah pinched and flared like lungs. Barou bullied space into existence. Kakeru learned to disappear and then appear where defenders wished he wouldn't.
"Lock the back door," Wakabayashi called, reading the shape like old sheet music. "Hubner, step on my shout; Callum, don't chase the decoy."
They ran a final wave—the ball moved, then the people, then the idea. Phoenix did not blaze; it breathed.
"Good," Steve said, voice low and pleased. "Again tomorrow, sharper."
The lads peeled off by twos and threes. Aoyama lingered, phone in hand, thumbs hovering. A message already typed:
> Aoyama: "Laundry at seven? I'll bring gloves."
He deleted the second sentence, then typed it again. Sent.
A reply pulsed fast.
> Grizelle: "Seven. Don't be late, Mr. Clean :)."
Aoyama's mouth twitched upward—the smallest sunrise.
Across the hall, Mina handed Rahmat a paper schedule. "Community session Wednesday confirmed. Also, Drury's people want a sit-down on 'the Luton way.' And…I like her."
"Sophie?" he asked, startled.
Mina shrugged. "Media eyes. She looks at you like you're a person, not a target. Keep that."
He nodded, oddly grateful. "What's our next actual target?"
Mina's grin sharpened. "A top-four side who hates being pressed. Phoenix might be handy."
"Then we teach it to breathe under fire," Rahmat said.
His system buzzed.,
> Dream Manager System — Side Quest: "Threads"
Objective: Increase Team Cohesion (Training: 3 Phoenix sessions with error rate < 5%; Community: 1 outreach led by starting XI; Personal: 1 off-pitch connection maintained).
Reward: "Tempo Lens" (enhanced real-time read of opposition rhythm).
He stared; then he smiled. "Alright," he murmured to the empty corridor, to the town outside, to the story that kept widening. "We'll tie the threads."