The sun was low. Not heavy, not burning. Just warm, pouring gold across the academy roofs. The boys walked slow, bags slung, water bottles tapping against their legs.
Jory had both hands behind his head. Whistling. Loud. Off-key. "Women's year 1 league, huh? Heard they play cleaner than us. No fouls. No scraps. All passing and smiles."
Percy threw him a side look, lazy grin tugging. "Smiles? You'll see. They'll crush harder than you."
Jory laughed, big and booming, almost startling a group of younger students they passed. "Me? Crushed by a girl? Never."
"Please," Callen cut in, rolling his eyes. "Even a broom could out-dribble you if it leaned the right way."
The boys burst out laughing. Jory shoved Callen's shoulder, almost knocking him into a lamp post. Callen caught himself with a quick sidestep, muttering, "Idiot," but a small smirk sat on his lips.
Bram walked at the back, hands in his pockets. Quiet. His chest still carried the faint beat from yesterday's match, like a drum that hadn't stopped. But here, with the others laughing, the sound softened. The weight on his shoulders loosened.
Daren jogged a few steps ahead, then spun on his heel to face them. He walked backward, arms wide like a showman. "Listen, I've heard their striker—The princess rival—scored a hat-trick last match. Fast. Sharp. Like lightning."
At that, Bram's head lifted slightly. the princess rival.
Felix noticed the flicker in Bram's eyes. He didn't say anything. Just gave him a short nod, the kind of nod that said I saw that thought of yours.
They turned a corner. The Dome for the Women's League sat ahead, domed glass gleaming with sunset fire. Students were flowing in from every direction. Some in uniforms. Some in casual wear. Voices rose in waves. Excited. Curious. Hungry for the show.
Percy whistled low this time, real and sharp. "Looks packed."
Jory puffed out his chest. "Packed to watch me scout future girlfriends."
The boys groaned in unison. Daren slapped the back of his head. "Shut it. They'll throw you out before the whistle."
Jory rubbed the spot, pouting, but it only drew more laughter.
A different kind of storm.
The glass doors opened wide. The moment they stepped inside, the sound hit them.
Not just noise. A wave. High voices, sharp cheers, feet drumming on the stands. It wasn't the heavy roar of the men's matches. This was faster, lighter, like sparks snapping all at once.
Banners hung down from the rails, names painted in bright colors. "Go B-1!" "Ivy!" "Strike like thunder!"
The air smelled different too. Not just sweat and turf. There was sweetness. Popcorn. Caramel. Someone had brought bags of roasted nuts, and the scent drifted through the crowd.
Collins stomach growled loud enough for Percy to hear. Percy elbowed him, grinning. "Already hungry? You just ate!"
"Football makes me hungrier," Jory argued. "Even when it's not me playing."
They climbed the steps. Each row closer, the pitch came into view. Green. Bright. Clean. The players were already warming up, jogging, passing in crisp triangles. Their voices carried, sharper, clearer than the crowd, like bells in the air.
Each team consist of 9 players each, 6 players and 1 goalkeeper as field players, the rest are benched, same as the boys.
Daren stopped mid-step. "They're fast…" His eyes widened as one girl took the ball, tapped it once, spun, and sent a pass flying across the grass like a bullet.
Jory whistled. "Okay… maybe not just girlfriends."
Felix turned his head, giving him that look again. Sharp. Cold. "One more of those lines and you're sitting alone."
The boys laughed, almost tumbling over each other as they found a row near the middle. Percy shoved Jory down into a seat. Jory complained, but the seat squeaked under him and he stayed.
Bram sat at the edge, quiet again. His eyes were locked on the pitch. On the players in blue and white, their feet moving like water flowing around stones. His chest stirred with something between admiration and unease.
Callen leaned forward, chin on his hands. "Look at the control…
The whistle blew sharp. The crowd rose.
The match began.
And Class B-7 sat in the stands, eyes wide, hearts racing again—not from playing, but from watching.
The ball rolled.
Not rushed. Not wild. Smooth. From one blue shirt to another, like it already knew where it should go. The first pass cut through the grass so clean it almost hummed.
"Whoa…" Daren leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "That's fast."
The ball shifted sides. A winger darted down the flank, her ponytail whipping behind her. Her first touch was soft, light, like the ball was part of her foot. One defender lunged—missed. She slipped past, body swaying.
"Did you—did you see that feint?" Callen half-stood, eyes wide. "She didn't even look at the ball!"
Jory groaned, slumping deeper into his seat. "Ugh. Don't make me feel useless already. My legs hurt just watching."
Percy smirked. "Your legs hurt always."
The winger crossed. A blur in the middle met it—boom! A header snapped toward goal. The keeper dived, fingertips brushing, ball smashing off the post and bouncing out.
The crowd screamed. High-pitched, wild. Flags shook in the stands.
Bram didn't move. His eyes followed every detail. The way the striker timed her run. The way the midfielders didn't scatter, didn't lose shape. Every piece fit like gears in a clock.
They move like one body, he thought. No wasted steps.
Beside him, Jory cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled: "Keeper got lucky! Do it again!" His voice cracked. People in the row ahead turned and laughed.
Jory grinned shamelessly. "What? I'm supporting!"
Daren shook his head, muttering, "You sound like a dad at a school play."
The match kept flowing. Each tackle sharper. Each pass faster. One player twisted past two defenders, shoulders rolling, hair flying. She didn't slow down—she spun out of the pressure and passed with the outside of her boot.
The boys all gasped at once.
Felix finally spoke, low. "That's… clean." Just that. But from him, it was heavy praise.
Then came a foul. A crunch. One of the defenders hit the ground, rolling. The referee's whistle cut sharp through the air. Half the crowd booed, half cheered.
Jory stood up, hands cupped to his mouth again. "Hey ref! That's soft!"
"Sit down!" Percy yanked him by the shirt. "You don't even know the rules here!"
"I know unfair when I see it!" Jory shot back, pointing dramatically. The people behind him laughed again.
Bram almost smiled at the chaos. Almost. But his eyes never left the field. He was thinking. Measuring. The movements of every player sank into his mind, one by one.
The system then voice echoed in his mind at last: [ Host why are you so tense, did you missed me already ]
Bram just pretend he didn't hear anything and just dive back into his dilemma.
The free kick was set.
The girl placed the ball down carefully, brushing grass away like it mattered. She stepped back. Three steps. Her hands flexed at her sides, then stilled.
Whistle.
She ran up. Her boot struck—clean, straight. The ball curled high, dipping late. The keeper backpedaled, arms straining. Fingers reached—smack! The ball deflected up, kissed the crossbar, bounced down into the box.
Chaos.
Two defenders swung legs, the striker barged in, hair flying, jersey tugged. Boots clashed, bodies stumbled. The ball popped out, spinning, rolling just outside the box.
A midfielder rushed in—strike! The shot whistled wide, smashing into the advertisement board.
The crowd groaned and laughed all at once.
Daren slapped his thigh. "That almost killed me and I'm not even playing!"
Jory leaned forward, clutching his chest like he'd taken the hit. "Gods, I swear my heart stopped."
Percy smirked, shaking his head. "You lot are dramatic."
Callen didn't look away from the field. "No… they're sharp. Every time the ball drops, they're already there. No hesitation."
Bram sat still, watching. The energy on the pitch felt different. Not polished, but alive. Mistakes happened, yes—passes too strong, touches too heavy—but the recovery was instant. The will to chase, to fight for every ball, burned through the game.
They don't play afraid, he thought. Even when they miss, they push again. No pause.
On the pitch, another duel broke out. One girl charged down the sideline, a defender chasing her shoulder-to-shoulder. Their arms tangled, legs pumping, boots striking the ground in thunder. Neither gave in. The winger swung her leg last second—cross into the middle!
The striker lunged. Header! Off target.
Jory groaned again, collapsing back into his seat. "Why do they keep missing? My soul can't take this."
Daren laughed, loud and raw. "Because they're trying things you can't even dream of, Jory. That's why!"
People around them chuckled at the exchange.
Bram stayed quiet. His chest rose slow, his eyes locked on the field. He wasn't laughing.
This isn't luck, he realized. It's rhythm. They chase rhythm harder than fear.
The whistle blew again—half-time.
The girls jogged off, sweat shining on their foreheads, The stands buzzed with voices, high and low, cheering and arguing.
The boys stayed seated. Nobody rushed to leave.
Daren stretched his arms high, grinning. "Now that is football. You all feel it, right? The fire?"
Felix, still arms folded, nodded once. Quiet. "Yeah."
Bram lowered his head, rubbing his hands slowly against his knees. His heartbeat was steady now, but something inside him burned brighter.
Year Ones, he thought. They're already this fierce.
**
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