"It's my spot," David Kerrigan stated, his arms crossed, his chest puffed out. "I won the foul. My ball."
"You won the foul by running into a brick wall," Grant Hanley grunted, placing the ball down with the care of a bomb disposal expert. "This needs power. A captain's touch. I'll take it."
Emre Demir said nothing.
He just stood a few feet away, looking at the angle, at the keeper's position, his mind a quiet supercomputer processing the possibilities.
"Power?" Kerrigan scoffed. "We're not trying to knock the stadium down, skip. This needs finesse. A bit of magic. Something you wouldn't understand."
"I'll give you a bit of magic with my boot if you don't back off," Hanley retorted, not unkindly.
Ethan watched from the sideline, a grin tugging at his lips.
His team was arguing over a free-kick like a group of kids in the park.
It was the most illogical, un-data-driven thing he had ever seen.
It was perfect. He decided not to interfere. He trusted them.
