As the teams swapped sides and Mr. Hadley gave new instructions, Harry jogged over to the right-back position, still buzzing from his first-half contribution. His shirt clung to his back with sweat, his breathing was steady but deep. It was a strange feeling — this blend of exhaustion and excitement. Like he could keep playing forever if his legs would let him.
"Right back now," Mr. Hadley called out as Harry passed. "Malik's your man. Keep him quiet."
Harry gave a quick nod. He wasn't sure he could stop Malik. The boy was quick, skilful, and confident — and most of all, he knew he was good. But something about the way Mr. Hadley trusted him… made Harry want to try.
The whistle blew to restart the game. Almost immediately, it became clear that without Harry in midfield, the creative spark had dulled. The team that had gone ahead now looked like they were holding on. Harry had done more than assist a goal — he'd been the link, the player who could read the chaos and find meaning in it. Now, without him up top, they struggled to stitch three passes together. The opposition — with Liam pulling the strings and Malik lurking out wide — grew in confidence and poured forward.
And yet, Harry wasn't out of the game. Not even close.
If anything, he was more involved now.
Malik didn't take long to test him. Liam, driving forward from midfield, played a sharp diagonal pass into space behind Harry. Malik was already on the move.
Harry turned and chased, feeling his legs pump with urgency. Malik had a slight head start, but Harry closed the gap quicker than expected. As Malik tried to cut inside, Harry stuck out a foot and clipped the ball away cleanly, shoulder-to-shoulder. Malik stumbled slightly but didn't go down.
Mr. Hadley clapped from the sideline. "Well timed, Harry!"
Malik looked annoyed. The grin was gone.
Again and again, the ball was played out to the left wing. Again and again, Harry stood firm. A well-timed toe-poke here, a nudge to force him wide there. As the second half wore on, Malik's frustration mounted. After the third strong tackle, he threw up his arms and shouted for a foul.
"Ref, man! That's a foul!"
There was no referee — just Mr. Hadley on the side, arms folded. He didn't flinch.
"Play on," Mr. Hadley called.
Harry didn't respond. He just jogged back into position, eyes focused, breath controlled.
The players on both sides started to take notice. Malik — usually the star, the untouchable — had been almost silenced. And yet the game wasn't over. He started drifting deeper to get the ball, trying to shake Harry off by changing his starting positions.
Then it came — the one moment where it looked like he might have cracked it.
Malik received the ball near the halfway line, turned sharply, and without hesitation, knocked it past Harry and into the open space down the line. The ball flew like a stone down the touchline. And they both ran.
Full sprint.
The entire pitch seemed to stop.
Everyone watched.
Malik – known as the fastest in the school.
Harry – the quiet boy from nowhere.
The gap between them was barely anything. Harry chased hard, pumping his arms, his strides longer, faster than anyone thought he had in him. Malik was just ahead, but Harry's acceleration shocked even Mr. Hadley. At the exact moment Malik stretched to control the ball again — bam — Harry slid in, clean and perfect, sending the ball out of danger and Malik stumbling.
The silence from the players was deafening. Then someone muttered, "No way…"
Malik pushed himself up, flushed with anger and disbelief. He stared at Harry, eyes narrow, chest heaving. The silence turned tense.
Malik stepped forward.
Harry stood up slowly, brushing grass from his knees. Their eyes locked — not in mutual respect, but something more raw. Malik looked like he wanted to say something. Or do something. But nothing came.
Liam jogged over and put a hand on Malik's chest. "Leave it, mate."
Malik stayed frozen, breathing heavily, face tight with frustration. But then he turned away, muttering under his breath.
The whistle blew.
Full-time.
1–0.
And in that game — in one half — Harry had created a goal, then completely neutralised the best winger in the school.
Mr. Hadley scribbled something rapidly in his notebook. He looked up once more at Harry, eyes narrowed in thought.
Could this quiet kid be even quicker with training?
Had they just discovered something special?
Harry didn't know.
But what he did know — as he sat on the grass after the game, barely able to breathe — was that his performance in PE yesterday wasn't a fluke.
If anything… he'd just gone one better.