Narrator POV
The halftime whistle felt heavier than it should have.
East-Bridge walked off drenched, their jerseys clinging, their eyes searching the ground.
Two goals down.
Forty-five minutes left.
A mountain to climb.
The crowd buzzed. Half disbelief, half thrill.
> "West-Bridge are unrecognizable tonight!"
"Darren Reid has done his homework!"
"Malik Amari's side look… human."
The cameras caught everything Malik's quiet expression, Reid's cold focus, the sharp contrast between youth and experience.
In the commentary box, one of the analysts muttered what half the stadium was thinking:
> "The boy genius has finally met his match."
---
Reid's POV
Halftime. 2–0.
I could finally breathe.
For the first time since that humiliating defeat months ago, I felt the balance restored.
The noise from the crowd faded behind the glass of the dugout as I watched my players jog toward the tunnel.
Everything had gone according to plan.
We hadn't just stopped them we'd strangled them.
Man-marking on Noah. Press triggers set on every backward pass. Double coverage on Mike. Compact lines so tight Malik's diamond had no air left to breathe.
He'd expected us to press wild and high like before emotional, reckless.
But this time, I'd built patience into the chaos.
Every move he made, I waited for the second one. Then I struck.
The first goal came from their overcommitment. The second, from frustration.
Classic reaction football the kind Malik used to punish.
He looked lost out there.
I leaned back in my seat, hands clasped. The rain pattered softly against the dugout window.
"Looks like you learned," I murmured, smirking. "But not enough."
My assistant joined me, grinning. "He'll change shape second half, won't he?"
"Probably," I said. "He'll go desperate. Push Noah higher, maybe sacrifice midfield stability."
"What do we do then?"
I smiled faintly. "We wait. Let him think it's working. Then we kill the rhythm again."
I wasn't celebrating yet. But inside, I felt it vindication.
Every sleepless night, every headline calling me finished it was fading away.
Because tonight, Darren Reid had done what no one else could: silence the prodigy.
---
Narrator POV
As the teams disappeared into their tunnels, the rain returned light, steady, endless.
The East-Bridge fans stood quietly, clutching flags against their chests.
The West-Bridge supporters sang in full voice, their chants echoing across the stands.
The scoreboard glowed bright against the storm.
WEST-BRIDGE 2 EAST-BRIDGE 0.
In the press box, reporters typed furiously. Headlines were already forming.
"Reid's Revenge: East-Bridge on the Brink."
"Malik's Magic Fading?"
But down in the tunnel, it wasn't over.
Inside that narrow concrete corridor, Malik walked slowly toward the locker room, rain dripping from his jacket.
His players followed in silence.
And though he said nothing yet, something in his eyes had changed not defeat, not panic.
Calculation.
The kind that doesn't speak until it's ready.
The kind that turns silence into fire.
---
Halftime.
2–0 down.
Forty-five minutes left to rewrite everything.
The real final hadn't even begun.
The locker room was heavy with rain-soaked air and quiet breathing.
No one spoke.
Boots tapped nervously against the tile. Jerseys clung to skin.
The sound of the crowd outside was faint a muffled storm behind concrete walls.
2–0 down.
The boys sat slumped in their seats, eyes lost, like the light had gone out of them.
And then the door opened.
Malik stepped in.
He didn't shout. Didn't slam a board or point fingers.
He just walked to the center of the room, hands in his pockets, and stood there for a long moment.
The air felt different when he finally spoke.
"It's not over."
Just three words.
The players looked up slowly.
Malik met each of their eyes, one by one Noah, Mike, Jerome, Darnell, the keeper steady, unwavering.
"They played better that half," he said softly. "They earned their goals. I'm not going to lie to you they deserved it."
He took a breath. "But football isn't about halves. It's about moments. And we haven't had ours yet."
Silence.
Only the patter of rain on the window.
He pointed toward the ceiling, toward the muffled roar above.
"They think it's over. They think we're done. But I want you to remember something…"
He paused.
"West-Bridge plays to control. We play to believe. And belief doesn't end at 2–0. It starts there."
Mike clenched his fists. Jerome straightened. Noah's eyes flickered.
Malik smiled faintly. "They marked us man-to-man, right? Good. Then we'll make them chase ghosts. Darnell, switch diagonals faster. Noah, drop deeper, pull their six out of shape. Mike, stop playing target man. I want you between the lines, invisible until it's too late."
He turned to Jerome. "When you see him drift, you run."
Jerome nodded. "Behind the center-back?"
"Exactly. Every time."
He stepped back, leaning on the wall. "No panic. No rush. Just one goal that's all it takes to change everything. Once it comes, they'll break shape. Then we finish it."
The boys looked at him differently now.
The quiet wasn't heavy anymore it was charged.
Malik tapped the side of his head once.
"Trust the work. Trust each other. It's not over."
He smiled, soft but certain.
"It never was."
---
Reid's Locker Room
The West-Bridge room was louder.
Laughs. Claps on the back. The smell of sweat and adrenaline.
Coach Darren Reid stood in front of the tactics board, towel over his shoulder, half-smiling as he looked around the room.
"Good half," he said. "No, great half. You did everything we planned tight lines, smart presses, no stupid fouls."
The players nodded, breathing heavy, faces glowing with effort.
He pointed at the screen showing the replay. "This is how you beat a tactician discipline. They'll look for magic, for moments. You give them none."
Luis grinned. "They look frustrated, Coach."
Reid smirked. "Let them stay that way."
Then his tone shifted. Lower. Cautious.
"Now listen we don't need another goal. We just need to hold on."
He drew three quick lines on the board. "We drop ten yards deeper. Compact mid-block. Keep possession when we can, waste time when we can't. No risks."
He looked at his captain, Terrence. "You see them trying long shots? Don't step out. Let them shoot from distance our keeper's ready for that."
The room hummed with confidence.
Reid folded his arms. "We control the tempo. That's what wins finals. Not chaos control."
He glanced toward the hallway where the faint echo of East-Bridge's chant could be heard.
"Malik will throw everything at us now," he said. "And when he does… we make him pay for it."