By Wednesday, East-Bridge wasn't just a team anymore we were headlines.
Every local station wanted an interview. Kids who'd never kicked a ball were posting "East-Bridge till I die" on their feeds. Even the city paper had a photo of Mike celebrating his second goal, mouth wide open, fists raised, the caption reading: "The Boy Who Revived East-Bridge."
Except it wasn't just Mike who revived us. But that's not what people saw.
By Thursday, the attention was eating into everything. Reporters waited outside the school gates. Some of the younger students asked for autographs on their notebooks. Teachers smiled a little too wide when they said "good morning."
It should've been flattering. It wasn't.
It felt like pressure tightening around our throats.
---
Training that evening started rough.
Tariq and Jayden were late caught in a crowd of fans wanting selfies. Mike showed up wearing new boots, bright red and brand-new, the kind of boots players wear when they want the cameras to notice.
"Nice shoes," I said, half-joking.
He smirked. "Gotta look the part if people are watching."
"Just make sure you play the part too," I replied.
That wiped the smirk.
We started warm-ups, but the mood was off. Too many eyes on them lately. They weren't training for each other anymore they were performing for the world.
During passing drills, Tariq over-hit a ball that nearly hit Jamal in the face. Laughter broke out, but it wasn't friendly.
"Oi, you trying to kill him?" Jerome snapped.
"Relax, man," Tariq said. "It's just training."
"Then act like it," Jerome shot back.
Mike rolled his eyes. "Both of you shut up. Just play."
But even his tone carried edge.
---
We moved to scrimmage. Red v. Yellow bibs. First goal wins.
From the first whistle, it wasn't football it was chaos. Sliding tackles, shouting, nobody listening. Jayden went for one too hard on Darnell, who shoved him back.
"Are you serious?" Darnell barked. "You'll injure someone before Saturday!"
Jayden threw his hands up. "Then maybe you should move faster, Captain!"
"Enough!" I shouted.
They froze, breathing hard, eyes still blazing.
I walked into the middle of the pitch, heart pounding. "You think cameras win matches? You think interviews matter? The reason people care about us is because we played like a team. Not like this. This " I pointed around. "This is what losing looks like."
No one spoke. Only the sound of wind and their breathing.
"Do it again," I said quietly. "Properly this time."
They obeyed. No one laughed anymore.
---
After training, I sat on the bench watching them leave one by one.
Noah waved shyly before heading off. Jerome stayed behind to gather cones. Mike lingered longest, bouncing the ball under his foot, unreadable.
I finally said, "You okay?"
He didn't look up. "We're fine. Just tired."
"That's not tired," I said. "That's pressure. It's different."
He shrugged. "Pressure's part of it. If they can't handle it, they shouldn't be here."
"And you?" I asked.
He looked up then, meeting my eyes. "I live for it."
For a moment, I believed him. But deep down, I saw something flicker not arrogance. Fear.
---
Friday morning, the school was chaos.
A local sports show had posted a clip titled "Can East-Bridge Go All the Way?" It had over twenty thousand views overnight.
Every hallway I walked through had someone talking about us. "They're playing Northchester, right? Those guys are monsters." "No chance, man." "You didn't see Malik's tactics last time!"
It was strange hearing people debate your life while you were standing next to them.
During lunch, Ms. Alvarez showed up at the field, arms crossed, watching quietly as we practiced corners. She didn't say anything. She didn't need to. Her presence alone said focus.
Afterward, she pulled me aside.
"You're holding them together," she said softly. "But you're starting to forget yourself. Rest tonight. Clear your head. Tomorrow will test you more than the last two matches combined."
I nodded, even though my head was already buzzing with formations and counter-press triggers. Rest felt like a foreign word.
---
That night, I sat at my desk again, light dim, notebook open, rewatching Northchester clips. Their passing was crisp. Their striker, Callum, scored from impossible angles. Their midfield suffocated space like a net closing around prey.
I paused the video on a frame of Callum celebrating. Blonde hair slicked, arms spread wide. Calm. Controlled.
"This guy," I muttered, "isn't playing football. He's conducting an orchestra."
I spent another hour adjusting the formation. 4-2-3-1 wouldn't hold. I needed something tighter. Maybe 4-4-2 midblock. Maybe switch wingers late game.
At 1 a.m., my phone buzzed a message from Darnell.
Captain D: "Coach, don't worry. The boys are ready. We'll fix it tomorrow."
I smiled tiredly. "Thanks, Cap. Just keep them focused."
Darnell: "Always. We believe in you, man."
That last line hit harder than he knew. Because the truth was I didn't know if I believed in myself tonight.