Coach Darren Reid – West-Bridge POV)
There's a particular kind of silence before a storm.
Not peace. Not calm. Just pressure the kind that hums beneath your ribs.
That's what I felt standing in the tunnel before our semifinal against Fairview. The players were stretching, joking, doing their rituals. I just stared at the pitch through the rain, my reflection faint in the glass of the dugout.
I didn't see Fairview.
I saw East-Bridge.
The scoreline still haunted me. 1–0.
That day had burned itself into my chest. I could still see that kid Malik Amari standing on the touchline with that limp and that cursed notebook, outsmarting me like some veteran tactician.
I'd walked off that pitch that day hearing whispers "Reid got beaten by a schoolboy."
That's the thing about pride. It doesn't heal it festers.
Tonight wasn't just a semifinal. It was sharpening the knife.
---
The whistle blew.
From the first minute, I knew my boys were angry the right kind of angry.
Doyle pressed like a madman, Luis tore up the flanks, Terrence snapped into tackles like he wanted to bury Fairview under the grass.
It was beautiful chaos.
Fifteen minutes in, we struck. Doyle picked up a loose ball, turned, and unleashed a rocket from twenty yards.
1–0.
The roar felt different this time colder. Focused.
I didn't celebrate. I just folded my arms, eyes on the pitch, mind already on the next move.
"Keep hunting!" I shouted. "We don't stop at one!"
And they didn't.
Another fifteen minutes, another break. Luis slipped between two defenders, squared it to Leo. Tap-in.
2–0.
I caught Fairview's coach shaking his head. Poor man didn't even know he wasn't my real opponent tonight.
Malik was.
---
At halftime, I didn't even talk about Fairview.
I gathered the boys, rain dripping off their hair, sweat steaming in the cold.
"Good half," I said flatly. "But listen up. Forget this match. The next one is what matters."
They looked at me confused.
Jerome's name came to my tongue, but I bit it back. The last thing I wanted was to feed Malik's legend by saying his name aloud.
"You remember who beat us," I said instead. "That little school team. That rookie coach. You remember how they celebrated while we stood there watching."
Every face hardened.
"Good," I said softly. "Hold that. Because they think that's who we are. Losers. Overconfident. Predictable. But next week, we change that story."
I leaned closer, lowering my voice to a whisper.
"We're going to make them play our game."
---
The second half was routine. We managed the tempo, starved Fairview of space, and let the clock do the work.
2–0 final. Comfortable. Clean.
But the satisfaction didn't come. Not yet.
As the boys celebrated, I walked toward the tunnel alone, boots heavy with rain and mud.
The reporters yelled my name, asking how it felt to reach the finals.
I ignored them.
Because I wasn't thinking about Fairview. I was already seeing Malik's diamond formation slicing through Northchester on the highlight screens in the press room.
I watched his tactics the pivot strikers, the narrow buildup and a smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.
"You're smart," I muttered under my breath. "But you're still just a kid."
---
That night, I didn't sleep.
I watched our first match against East-Bridge over and over again. Every mistake. Every gap.
I saw where I'd gone wrong.
I'd tried to overpower them. Tried to play my game harder, faster, louder.
And he'd used that against me.
He'd sat back, absorbed it, and then countered like a knife in the dark.
Not again.
This time, I'd let him believe he had control. I'd let him build from the back, let that little number eight drift free, let Mike think he was untouchable all while closing the space between their lines like a trap tightening.
A smile crept across my face as I drew the plan on paper.
We'd match his diamond. Mirror it. But with man-marking, heavy pressing, and staggered lines. We'd shut down his midfield, force their keeper to kick long, and then… snap.
Once they broke shape, we'd hit fast, direct, brutal.
They wanted tactics? Fine.
I'd give them war.
---
At the post-match press conference, reporters asked about Fairview, about our goals, about the final.
I kept my answers polite, short. Then someone mentioned East-Bridge.
"Coach Reid, how do you feel about facing the team that beat you earlier in the tournament?"
I smiled for the cameras, but the grin didn't reach my eyes.
"They played well," I said smoothly. "They surprised us."
Pause.
"But football is about learning."
The reporters leaned forward.
"And I've learned everything I need to."
---
Back in the locker room, the players were loud again.
Music, laughter, celebration. But I didn't stop them. They needed it.
Let them enjoy tonight.
Because starting tomorrow, it would be silence. Work. Precision.
I was going to rebuild every weakness, every rotation, every inch of ground Malik thought he owned.
He had outsmarted me once.
That would never happen again.
---
As I left the stadium, the rain started again, soft against my coat.
I lit a cigarette, standing by the empty pitch, and exhaled into the night.
Across town, they were probably celebrating too. Malik with his players, the "genius coach," the "boy wonder."
Let them.
Because the final wasn't just another match.
It was payback.
And when it came, I'd make sure East-Bridge and Malik Amari never forgot who ended their fairy tale.