After a quick break to catch their breath and sip some water, Mr. Hadley got straight to it — two teams of eleven. The lineup was a deliberate mix: current school team players blended with new hopefuls, and the tension was thick with anticipation.
Mr. Hadley, always the tactician, decided to split up Liam and Harry. He placed Harry on the opposing team, directly facing both Liam and Malik. It was a test — to see how Harry adapted when pitted against the school's two standout players. Malik slotted into his usual role as a left winger, while Liam took on his favoured box-to-box midfield role.
As the rest of the players were placed in positions, Mr. Hadley turned to Harry.
"What position do you prefer?" he asked.
Harry blinked, slightly thrown by the question. In the last game, he'd been shoved into left-back — it wasn't his decision. He shrugged awkwardly.
"I dunno… wherever you want me to play, I guess."
Mr. Hadley raised an eyebrow, then smiled. He liked the attitude — no ego, just willingness.
"Come on," he encouraged gently, "There's gotta be something you like? Somewhere you imagine yourself?"
Harry offered a polite shake of the head. He wasn't trying to be difficult — it was just all so new. Seeing this, Mr. Hadley softened.
"Alright, we'll try you at centre attacking mid — CAM. See how you handle space, pressure, and creating chances." He paused before continuing, voice firm but encouraging. "You're not the biggest, Harry. Not yet. But players like you — ones who think, adapt, work hard — they can run the game. Don't let height fool you. Diego Maradona was 5'5, and no one could touch him on the ball."
He was on a roll now.
"Steven Gerrard — different player, sure — but he could've played anywhere. You know why? Because he understood the game, and he never stopped working."
A cheeky voice from the back piped up, "Who do you support, Mr. Hadley?"
Mr. Hadley gave a sheepish smile. "Liverpool."
A ripple of laughter passed through the group. But he wasn't done.
"I want to see how you adapt, Harry. First half, CAM. Second half, right back. You'll be up against Malik directly — big test."
Harry nodded. The idea of marking Malik sounded terrifying, but also — exciting. A few days ago, he'd only dreamed of playing in a proper game. Now he was living it.
As the game kicked off, the pace caught Harry by surprise. The school team players weren't messing around. They had something to prove — that their second-place finish hadn't been luck, and they weren't about to be replaced by newcomers. The ball zipped across the pitch, bodies clashed, voices barked instructions.
At first, Harry felt lost. Every time he got the ball, someone was closing him down. But gradually, he started seeing things. Gaps. Mistakes. Weaknesses.
One stood out.
Malik, though dazzling going forward, couldn't be bothered to track back when he lost the ball. Liam, already tasked with controlling the midfield, had to cover double the ground — Harry could see it draining him.
Positioned just behind the striker, Harry wasn't involved in aerial duels. At 4'2 and a peanut, he knew better. So, he hung back, watching, waiting. Then, on a goal kick, it happened.
Liam jumped for the ball — so did two of Harry's teammates. It bounced awkwardly off a shoulder, landing perfectly at Harry's feet. He took one clean touch, spun toward goal, and drove forward.
The defenders were caught off guard. Both fullbacks were distracted, man-marking the wingers too tightly. Harry had space. He took two more touches, fainted left — then slipped a perfect pass with his right foot between the centre-back's legs.
The striker latched on. One touch. Bang. Bottom corner.
1–0.
Harry couldn't believe it. His heart pounded as his teammates crowded around him. His first assist. Was that real? He actually read the game, saw the pass before it happened — and it worked?
Across the pitch, Liam was shouting at his teammates. Especially Malik, who just shrugged, acting as if the goal had nothing to do with him.
"Come on!" Liam barked. "Wake up!"
The game restarted with more bite. Harry found himself closely watched now. Liam stayed tighter, and one of the centre-backs even stepped up earlier whenever Harry drifted near the box. Space vanished. Pressure grew.
By the end of the half, Harry barely touched the ball. He was boxed in, marked out of the game. But he didn't care. That first moment — that assist — had proved something.
He belonged.