Sunday morning came with grey clouds and the smell of rain.
I woke up late, sore in every muscle but light in the chest. The semifinal was done; the ghosts of doubt were gone. For the first time in months, I'd slept without dreaming about defeat.
Then my phone buzzed.
SportsFeed Live: WEST-BRIDGE CRUISE INTO FINAL – 2–0 WIN OVER FAIRVIEW. REMATCH SET.
I sat up slowly, scrolling. The headline felt like a drumbeat.
"East-Bridge vs West-Bridge: The Return."
"Reid Gets His Revenge Chance."
"The Boy Coach vs The Veteran."
I opened one of the highlight clips. Rain, tackles, goals, celebrations all efficient, all ruthless.
And then, at the end, Coach Reid's interview.
He stood at the podium, jaw tight, smirk faint.
> "They surprised us last time," he said, his voice calm, measured.
"But football is about learning."
Pause.
"And I've learned everything I need to."
The reporter laughed softly in the background; Reid didn't. He just turned and walked away.
I watched the screen for a long time after it went black. Then I smiled.
Not wide. Just a small, quiet smile.
"Good," I murmured. "So have I."
---
By noon, the city had already picked sides.
Posters went up near the station: "THE BRIDGE DERBY – THE FINAL SHOWDOWN."
The local radio station ran a countdown like it was a holiday.
Kids outside the store wore red or blue scarves; some yelled my name, others shouted "West Bridge 4–0!" and laughed.
At school the next day, the atmosphere was electric.
Every hallway was a debate. Every classroom turned into a prediction panel.
"You think Coach Reid's coming for blood?"
"Nah, Malik's got him again. That kid's a genius."
"I heard West-Bridge are training double sessions now."
"East-Bridge by one goal, calling it!"
I walked through it all with my hood up and earbuds in, pretending not to hear. But I heard every word.
In the teachers' lounge, Ms Monroe waved her tablet at me. "You've seen the news? They're calling it The Bridge War!"
I smiled politely. "Catchy."
She laughed. "Understatement of the year."
---
At practice, the boys were buzzing.
Tariq arrived first, headphones blasting, already chanting, "Final, final, final!"
Jayden followed, juggling a ball through puddles.
Noah, quiet as always, came last, carrying his water bottle and that focused look I'd learned to trust.
They were riding the high. But that kind of energy the reckless, happy kind fades fast if you don't channel it.
So I blew my whistle before they even finished stretching.
"Alright, listen up!"
The chatter stopped.
"We made it to the final. Great. But we're not celebrating yet."
A few groans.
"We've been here before," I said, looking each of them in the eye. "West-Bridge. You know how it felt walking off that pitch last time tired, ignored, underdogs no one believed in. Now they're the ones chasing redemption."
Mike folded his arms, jaw tight. "They want revenge."
"Good," I said. "Let them. Revenge makes people emotional. And emotional players make mistakes."
The words hit home. Heads nodded.
I clapped once. "Now, back to work. Same discipline. Same hunger. But this time, we play our game, not theirs."
---
Training that day was sharp. Passes snapped through the rain, tackles crunched, voices cut the air.
Every drill had purpose.
I'd already decided: no tactical overload, no late-night rewrites. The 4-3-1-2 stays. Noah keeps his free role. Mike and Jerome remain the spearhead.
They'd figured us out once or thought they had.
Now they'd prepare for that version. But we'd evolve again.
I spent half the session watching body language who moved first, who hesitated, who carried fatigue. You learn more from silence than shouting sometimes.
By the end, the boys were drenched but smiling, the right kind of tired.
"Tomorrow's rest," I said. "After that, we lock in."
---
That night, I couldn't resist turning on the TV.
Every sports show was the same. Two panels, split screens, our highlights and theirs.
> "Malik Amari, the teenage tactician, has led East-Bridge to their first final in decades."
"Darren Reid, the veteran strategist, looking to restore his reputation after that early-round embarrassment."
"Who wins the rematch?"
Clips rolled: my players celebrating, West-Bridge thundering into tackles, Reid pacing his line.
Then the pundits started.
"Reid has experience."
"Malik has momentum."
"East-Bridge play too narrow."
"West-Bridge are too emotional."
It was noise endless, swirling noise.
I turned the volume down and just watched the moving pictures in silence.
Two teams, two philosophies.
One chasing redemption, the other chasing proof.
Ms Alvarez called just before midnight.
"You've seen the coverage, I assume?"
"Hard to miss."
She chuckled. "Don't let it get to you. They'll talk, analyze, twist everything you say. Ignore them."
"I plan to," I said. "We're focused."
A pause. "Good. Because if you win this final, Malik…"
She stopped herself. "Just win it."
The line clicked dead.
---
Tuesday morning brought the first media visit to the school.
Two vans parked outside the gates, reporters waiting with cameras. They weren't after the players they wanted me.
A teacher tried to keep them out, but one managed to call my name across the courtyard.
"Malik! Any thoughts on Coach Reid's comments?"
I didn't stop walking. "He's right," I said. "Football is about learning."
They scribbled, hungry for more. "So you've learned too?"
I smiled faintly. "Enough."
Then I walked inside.
---
By evening, social media had already turned that line into a headline.
"Malik Amari Responds to Reid: 'I've Learned Enough.'"
The clip went viral in less than an hour.
Students screenshot it. Fans argued in comment sections. Someone even made a poster edit of me and Reid staring each other down like a boxing match promo.
It was ridiculous and kind of beautiful.
Two bridges. One final.
The world wanted chaos.
I just wanted ninety minutes of silence between whistles.