Saturday.
The day the city stopped.
Crowds filled the streets by noon. Flags waved from windows. Vendors sold scarves and whistles.
By the time the teams' buses arrived at the stadium, it felt like the whole world had shown up.
The stands were a sea of red and blue split clean down the middle like a heartbeat divided.
Reporters swarmed the entrances. Cameramen jostled for space. Security guards struggled to hold the lines.
Inside the tunnel, the players stood in two rows, side by side, silent except for the echo of cleats on concrete.
Mike's jaw was set. Darnell's eyes were cold focus. Noah stared ahead, lips moving in quiet rhythm.
Across from them, Doyle stretched his neck, grinning. Luis smirked. Terrence cracked his knuckles.
And at the back of each line stood the two coaches.
Malik calm, young, a small smile in the corner of his mouth.
Reid older, sharp, coiled like a spring.
For a brief second, their eyes met.
Neither spoke. But something passed between them not hatred, not even rivalry. Understanding.
They were here for the same thing: to prove themselves right.
---
The referee's whistle echoed from the far end.
Teams stepped out.
The stadium roared.
Commentators' voices boomed over the speakers.
> "And here they come East-Bridge, the miracle team, led by teenage coach Malik Amari!"
"Facing them, the rejuvenated West-Bridge, hungry for revenge after that shocking defeat earlier this season!"
The chants clashed like waves.
EAST-BRIDGE! EAST-BRIDGE!
WEST-BRIDGE! WEST-BRIDGE!
Banners rippled. Flashbulbs popped. The air was alive.
The players lined up for the anthem, heads bowed, boots tapping softly on the turf.
For a moment, everything went quiet.
Then the referee lifted the whistle to his lips.
One breath.
One sound.
Kickoff.
---
From the very first touch, it was clear this wouldn't be like their first meeting.
Both sides came flying out of the gate, pressing, tackling, trading blows.
Malik stood near the sideline, expression unreadable. Every flick of his eyes tracked spacing, rhythm, timing.
Across the field, Reid barked commands, his voice cutting through the crowd.
The chess match had begun.
East-Bridge's passes were crisp, deliberate the familiar diamond rotating like clockwork. But West-Bridge pressed man-to-man, closing every window, shadowing every runner.
Tension coiled tighter with every second.
One wrong pass, one late tackle, and the whole structure could collapse.
The noise from the stands blurred into one endless roar.
Every fan every eye locked on the green battlefield where two bridges, two histories, and two minds finally collided.
---
For now, there was no clear winner.
Only the hum of effort, the clash of will, and the unspoken truth that tonight someone's story would end.
And as the ball zipped through the rain under floodlight glow, the city held its breath once again.
The final had begun.
The roar of the crowd rose like thunder as the ball rolled under the floodlights.
The final had begun.
Rain slicked the turf, glinting under the lights as boots splashed across the pitch. Every pass, every tackle carried more weight than usual like the world itself was watching.
For the first ten minutes, it was chaos disguised as football.
Neither side wanted to blink first.
East-Bridge pressed in their diamond shape, short passes and fluid movement, trying to pull West-Bridge out of shape.
But West-Bridge didn't take the bait. They pressed back higher, heavier, smarter.
The first warning came early.
A long ball over East-Bridge's backline, Doyle running through. One touch, one shot parried away by their keeper.
A scare.
Malik stood at the sideline, arms folded, unreadable.
But the hum in the stands was growing.
Everyone could sense it West-Bridge weren't the same team anymore.
---
Malik's POV
The first fifteen minutes went wrong in all the little ways that matter.
Our buildup was clean, but our spacing wasn't.
Our touches crisp, but our timing off by a half-second.
Every time Noah found a pocket, he was closed down instantly. Their midfielders shadowed him like ghosts.
They'd done their homework.
"Stay calm," I muttered under my breath. "Don't force it."
Jerome glanced at me across the pitch, eyes searching. I nodded once. He nodded back.
We tried rotating shape letting Noah drift wide, letting Mike drop deeper but every pass felt heavier, slower, like the air itself resisted us.
Then, in the 23rd minute, it happened.
We lost the ball in midfield.
Darnell stepped forward to cover, too late.
A quick flick, a run behind Doyle again.
And before I could even shout, the ball was in the net.
1–0.
The stadium exploded.
The blue half of the stands roared like an avalanche.
I didn't move.
I just breathed. Slow. Even.
"Okay," I whispered. "So that's how you want to play."
But my chest was tight. Not from panic from recognition.
He'd read me.
Darren Reid had read me like I used to read him.
---
We kicked off again, tried to regain control.
Noah adjusted his runs, Mike tried to hold the ball longer, Jerome dropped deep to help.
But the pattern didn't change.
Every passing lane closed faster than before. Every time we looked up, there was a shadow waiting.
They weren't just pressing they were predicting.
By the 40th minute, frustration crept in.
Our touches grew heavier. Our voices louder.
"Relax!" I shouted. "Don't chase it! Breathe!"
But they were already caught in the rhythm West-Bridge wanted frantic, reactive, desperate to prove control.
Then came the second punch.
Luis stole the ball on the flank, danced past two of our defenders, and crossed.
Doyle again, arriving like he'd been scripted into the scene.
Header. Net.
2–0.
Silence on our side of the stands.
Even the rain seemed to stop.
I lowered my head for a moment, exhaling through my nose.
We'd prepared for everything except being out-thought like this.