Chapter 1 – When the Wall moves
The wind scraped across the cracked turf of a half-forgotten stadium somewhere along the edge of the tournament map. The kind of place used for third-tier regionals, where the bleachers creaked when you sat down and the paint on the goalposts flaked if you looked at it too hard. It was worth mentioning that it wasn't a tournament game of any kind. Just a 'friendly' practice match between two teams.
Liberty Storm FC was here. Again. Fighting uphill, as always.
The scoreboard flickered above the far end of the field: 0–0, second half, 54 minutes played.
A gritty stalemate.
Ronan Gallagher stood in his usual place, centered in the goal, arms crossed across his chest, like a statue carved from stubborn defiance. He hadn't moved much in the last few minutes. He didn't need to. His eyes did the work.
His teammates were holding the line, barely. Tracy Lin, ever the tactical anchor, was shouting at the midfielders to drop back and compact the space. Malik Fields had locked in on their target forward, his steps heavier now but still fierce. Even Devon Ruiz, who usually played soccer like a YouTube trick-shot video, had shut up and pressed with purpose.
They weren't bad.
They just weren't good enough.
Ronan watched the tempo slip. Just a bit. Liberty Storm couldn't keep pace in the middle third. The opponents—Iron Vale Academy—started pushing higher, forcing errors, drawing fouls. They were good. Not brilliant. Not monsters. But coordinated. Polished.
The kind of team that wins tournaments. At least tournaments at that level.
And Ronan hated losing.
Iron Vale's number 8 stepped into the top of the box, shoulder-checking Tracy aside. The pass came from the wing—quick, deliberate, baiting a late tackle. It worked. The striker took a touch and launched a low, angled shot meant to hug the post.
Ronan moved.
Not dramatically. No theatrics. Just one sharp step and a controlled drop—he caught the ball like he was bored with the idea of letting it pass.
The striker, who shot, stopped mid-run, blinking. His teammates hesitated too.
Ronan stood. The ball sat under one hand. His arms relaxed, then re-crossed. His gaze swept the field like a sniper sighting his next target.
Tracy was marked tightly. Devon was open, but his first touch would give the ball away. Malik was too far back to break into a counter.
No gaps.
He let the silence stretch. The weight of the ball in his gloves was familiar, comforting, even. Every instinct told him to pass, reset, let the others try again.
But they wouldn't break through. Not today. Not against this team. The passes lacked sharpness. The runs were a second too slow. The shots? Predictable.
They didn't need more effort. They needed force.
He wasn't angry. He didn't blame them. But soccer didn't care about intentions.
It cared about results.
And Ronan Gallagher delivered results.
Ronan's eyes narrowed.
'We stall. They press. Eventually, someone will lose. It won't be me.'
He let the ball fall to his feet.
No wind up. No steps taken. Just one leg was swung towards the ball before it dropped to the ground.
Boom!
The ball tore through the whole field with a scream of friction. It moved faster than anyone on the field could react to, leaving a trail of dirt behind it. It cleared three defenders and went violently into the net. The opposing keeper looked behind him, not wanting to believe that the ball was inside the goal.
But it was.
He was too slow.
GOAL.
For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the wind and that of the ball hitting the grass.
No one moved.
The referee stared. Then raised his hand and pointed toward the center.
Liberty Storm 1. Iron Vale 0.
Malik didn't cheer. Tracy didn't blink. Devon grinned—but didn't shout.
This wasn't new.
This was Ronan.
He was already returning to his default position.
Malik jogged to meet him. "That's four now."
Ronan didn't show any kind of emotion even after scoring a goal. "Three too many."
The defenders looked slightly ashamed, but it was an expression that was often found on their faces.
He didn't move from his position. Crossed his arms. The same stance. The same expression.
But the opponent's had changed.
Their coach started pacing. Their striker shook his head. Their captain looked already defeated. None of it mattered.
Ronan glanced toward the stands. Sparse crowd. Quiet now.
In their eyes, he'd just scored the impossible. To him, it was math.
'They can't break me. My team can't break them. So I did it myself. Just once.'
A few minutes later, Iron Vale forced one last desperate push—one more attempt at scoring a goal to at least tie this game. Iron Vale's striker backed up, breath steady. This was the move he'd practiced for weeks—his strongest Hissatsu.
As the striker steps into the shot, metallic ripples pulse outward from the ground beneath their feet. The ball glows with a dull iron-gray sheen, surrounded by tightening spirals of compressed air. Then the kick happens. The shot is released, and the ball flies in a dead-straight line with no arc—like a sniper round, tearing through the air with a sharp sonic boom and leaving a thin heat shimmer trail behind it.
"Iron Bullet Line!"
Ronan didn't look impressed, but his red eyes showed a small glint. He prepared himself for the incoming shot, lowered his center of gravity, and caught it, just like that.
This broke the opposing team's spirit. Their ace striker's strongest hissatsu technique was stopped with bare hands, and by the looks of it, not much effort.
The match ended soon after.
Liberty Storm walked off the field without fanfare. Tired. Not triumphant—just satisfied.
A 1–0 win. The kind that shouldn't have happened. But it did.
Because of him.
—
The atmosphere in the locker room was sombre. The silence continued as long as Ronan was in the shower and only ended when Ronan exited the room.
Devon Ruiz the main striker, according to him, wasn't his usual energetic and eccentric self. He was looking inside his locker, hoping that maybe he'll find whatever answer he was looking for there but no such luck.
Devon tossed a water bottle into his locker—angry, but not at Ronan. Never at Ronan. Just at himself. In his mind, he owed Ronan too much for that. It was Ronan that introduced him to the sport he now loves but he can never live up to the expectations he thinks Ronan set to him.
"Why do we even try." In a rare moment of negativity Devon spoke without meaning to.
"Don't say that. It was only our fourth game. He saved it. Like always. But we still have to try. We're not here to watch." Malik Fields said. He wasn't the one to talk much but when he did you listen because that means he deemed it important enough to say out loud. He can't always choose the right words but if you figure out what he meant it makes more sense. Other times he states the obvious. It's 50-50 which one it is. Either way he is a well liked individual. A gentle giant. He wasn't any less frustrated with his performance though. He was a defender and he let through the opponents striker too much for his liking. He knew that Ronan would be able to defend the goal by himself if needed but it didn't mean that he should stop trying. The goalkeeper is the last line of defence. He will only act if everything else fails and just like usual he acted.
"And already the second one that we won solely because Ronan scored." Devan answered and Malik didn't have an answer for that. The room once again fell into silence.
—
Outside the locker room Tracy Lin was leaning on the door as she listened to the discussion inside. She sighed and went outside to find Ronan. She didn't need to look far away. He was sitting on the bench fixing his shoes. Without any word she offered him a water bottle and he accepted before sitting next to Ronan.
"You're going to break your leg doing that one day," she said.
"If I do," Ronan replied, "then I should've aimed better."
She smiled, just faintly. "At least let us try next time."
"You did."
The silence began again before Tracy decided she had enough of it. She knew better than to wait for Ronan to speak up. She had better chances of winning a lottery.
"I sometimes wonder if you still like playing soccer like you used to."
Ronan's hand movement stopped and he straightened up. Tracy got his full attention now.
"That's a stupid question. If I didn't enjoy it I wouldn't play it."
"Sorry for being stupid." She huffed "It's difficult to tell when you look so bored the whole match." Then she countered.
Ronan nodded, not disagreeing with her claim.
"You know how our team hasn't been together for a long time and I needed to know how our team plays. These last two games were for that reason. I wasn't expecting us to win but I wouldn't let us lose either."
"So as usual you decided to make a missile out of the ball."
Tracy finished Ronan's sentence. "Exactly." And Ronan shamelessly admitted. He didn't see anything wrong with that. Tracy deadpanned but decided to return to the topic she wanted to talk about from the beginning.
"The team is getting restless. They feel they are not enough even if we win because they know it's only because of you."
Ronan didn't seem worried about it but to be fair he was rarely worried when it came to soccer.
"I'll be working on it. Tracy, I hand-picked everyone on this team. There wasn't even a soccer team at our school when we started this year. Do you truly believe that I would choose the first person I saw just because I wanted to play? No. Everyone on this team has something of worth and we'll keep winning until I won't be needed anymore to score goals."
He spoke with full confidence and there was no deceit in his words but Tracy realising that he was also talking about her. What's more she was the first he invited but she was sure it was because they knew each other for a long time. So she wanted to be sure.
"What about me?" Tracy asked although a bit shyly as she was basically fishing for a compliment. At that Ronan flicked Tracy's forehead at which she yelped and held her forehead tightly. It didn't hurt much but the shock at feeling pain no matter how small made her react like that.
"That's why I call you stupid. You don't see your own worth and refuse to acknowledge it when I, out of all people, say that you have talent and I'll prove it to you."
Tracy froze—not because of what he said, but because he smiled while saying it. Ronan Gallagher, who looked like the world's most annoyed librarian on the field, had actually smiled. And it wasn't cold. It was warm. For her.
They stayed in silence until Ronan's mom picked both of them up to drive them home.
—
Later that night, Ronan sat in his room, watching the match replay on his laptop.
He paused the video at the moment the ball left his foot. Watched the shot. The score. The keeper's disbelief.
He didn't smile nor did he show any kind of reaction.
He rewound the clip.
And watched it again.
—
END