The lads trudged into the dressing room, some with their heads down, others muttering about missed chances and misplaced passes. Their boots clattered against the concrete floor, the sound filling the cramped space. Steam rose off damp kits, the smell of sweat and wet grass hanging heavy.
Coach Frank waited by the whiteboard. He didn't rush. He let the noise simmer before he spoke.
"Sit down. Catch your breath." His voice was calm, but there was steel in it.
The boys settled, though Nathan Keene was still shaking his head at a chance he'd fluffed. Harry dropped into his seat, chest still rising fast, jersey sticking to his back. Riley Croft slouched on the bench, staring at the floor.
Coach Frank finally stepped forward.
"First things first. You've matched them. Don't think for a second Walsall are better than you. They're not. But you've got to sharpen up." He tapped the board with his marker. "Too many loose passes in the middle. Jayden, Kai—you've got to move it quicker. Don't hold it. Play to Noah's feet, and let him make things happen."
Noah gave a small nod, wiping sweat from his forehead.
Frank turned to the wide men. "Harry. Riley. Their fullbacks don't like being turned. Go at them. First touch, drive. Don't wait for support—make them panic and hesitate in taking offensive actions."
Harry felt a spark light in his chest. Frank's eyes lingered on him an extra second, as if daring him to prove himself.
"And Nathan..." Frank looked at the striker, who was still chewing at his lip. "Forget the miss. Strikers miss. But if you let it get in your head, you're done. Keep running, keep pressing, and when the next one comes—bury it."
Nathan's jaw tightened. He gave a small, determined nod.
Frank's tone hardened. "Listen. This is the Youth Cup. You don't get many shots at nights like this. Play scared, you'll regret it. Play brave, you'll remember it forever."
The room went quiet. No one fidgeted now. The words stuck.
Frank clapped his hands once. "Right. Red bibs back out. Same shape. Be ready from the whistle. Let's show them we want it more."
***
Meanwhile, in the opposite end of the hall, the dressing room door slammed shut. Steam rose from the Walsall players as they dropped onto the wooden benches. Sweat dripped from their faces onto the concrete floor below.
The captain, Josh, pulled his shirt away from his chest. It stuck to his skin like glue. Next to him, a teammate gulped down water from a plastic bottle. The liquid ran down his chin.
"We're playing well," someone said between heavy breaths.
"Yeah, just need that one goal," another voice added.
The room buzzed with quiet chatter. Some players stretched their legs. Others retied their boots. A few stared at the ceiling, still catching their breath.
Then the door opened.
Coach Martin Haynes walked in. His face was red from shouting instructions all half. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. The players went quiet.
Haynes walked to the front of the room. He picked up a marker and tapped it against the white board. The sound echoed in the small space.
"Right then." His voice was calm but sharp. "Listen up."
Every player turned to face him. The room was dead silent now.
"You've got them worried," Haynes said. He drew a quick diagram on the board. "Look at their faces out there. They're not comfortable, despite their early lead."
Josh nodded. He had noticed that too.
"Their left side is weak," the coach continued. He pointed to the diagram. "Number seven - Whittaker. He's slow to get back. Every time we attack, he's out of position due to overlapping."
Connor leaned forward on his bench.
"Josh." Haynes looked directly at his winger. "You've got the pace to burn through that wing. Get in behind him and the left-back. Don't wait for the perfect pass. Just run."
Josh felt his heart beat faster. "Yes, coach."
"And when you get there," Haynes added, "cross it early. Don't try to beat three men. Get the ball in the box."
The coach turned to his midfielders. "Connor. Liam. You two have been brilliant. Keep it simple."
Both players sat up straighter.
"But their number ten - Perring. He's dangerous. Don't let him enough space. The moment he gets the ball, be on him. Press him. Make him pass backwards."
Liam cracked his knuckles. "Got it, coach."
Haynes walked closer to his players. His voice got quieter, but somehow more intense.
"Boys, they're scared. Did you see their striker's face after he missed that chance? It's eating at him. He's thinking about it right now."
Some of the players smiled at this.
"Keep pushing them. Keep running at them. One mistake and they'll crumble."
The energy in the room was changing. The tiredness was fading. Players were sitting forward now.
"This is cup football," Haynes said. "This is what you dream about as kids. The fourth round is right there. You just have to take it."
He slammed his hand against the board. The bang made everyone jump.
"Don't wait for luck. Don't hope for a gift. Go out there and earn it."
Players started nodding. Feet began tapping on the floor.
"Forty-five minutes to change everything. Forty-five minutes to make history for this club."
The players felt goosebumps on their arms.
"Who wants it more?" Haynes shouted. "Us or them?"
"US!" came the reply from twenty voices.
"I can't hear you!"
"US!"
The coach stepped back and pointed at the door. "Then go show them."
The team exploded into action. Players jumped up from their benches. Hands slapped backs. Voices filled the air.
"Come on, lads!"
"Let's do this!"
"Fourth round, here we come!"
***
Out in the tunnel, the cold night air rushed back. The crowd, thin but loud, clapped and shouted as both teams walked out. Harry looked up at the floodlights. His heartbeat steadied.
The referee raised the whistle.
Fweeeee!~
The second half began.