Two days had passed since Virtus Lombardia's draw, and the sting of missed chances still lingered faintly in the back of Jaeven's mind. But there was no room for dwelling on the past. Serie D didn't wait for regrets. The pitch awaited, wide and green under a pale morning sun, carrying the faint scent of freshly cut grass and damp earth. The team assembled, gear clanking, voices overlapping in tired excitement. Coach Rossi didn't speak immediately. He stood at the edge of the field, clipboard in hand, eyes sweeping the squad. His silence carried a weight that spoke louder than any words — focus, discipline, and preparation were the only things that mattered.
Jaeven was already on the field, ball at his feet, moving through sequences he had drilled into muscle memory for weeks. The Rising Shot felt natural now, the bursts of acceleration perfectly timed, and his dribbling had a rhythm that made defenders hesitate before they could react. But he didn't rush. There was a difference between power and control, and he was learning to respect it. A shout from the side broke his concentration. "Han! Stop showing off and join the drills!" Matteo's teasing voice had the familiar edge of camaraderie. Jaeven laughed softly, jogging over. Despite the jab, Matteo always pushed him to focus and improve.
Coach Rossi split the squad into units, organizing tactical drills that would test their awareness, passing, and defensive positioning. Jaeven paired with the striker who had missed the penalty in the previous match. They moved in tight sequences: Han feinted a pass, the striker reacted too early, and Han slipped past with a subtle Marseille Turn. A quick burst of acceleration carried him into space before the imaginary defender could recover. Rossi's eyes flicked up from the clipboard, nodding imperceptibly in approval. Every small movement, every controlled turn, every split-second decision was sharpening both his physical and mental game.
The drills escalated into combinations with teammates. Jaeven practiced overlapping runs, timing passes perfectly, anticipating where the defense would open. When the ball was with a midfielder, he read the approaching press, shifting slightly, creating angles, his mind running ahead of his feet. The Rising Shot came naturally, testing power, curl, and placement. Each strike was deliberate, precise, a rehearsal for moments when hesitation would cost him and the team dearly.
Rossi finally called the squad together for a small tactical briefing. He tapped the tactics board to show Siena's formation for the upcoming match. "They're compact in the middle, but their fullbacks push high," he explained. "Han, your job is to exploit the wings, but timing is everything. Don't rush. Everyone else, stay alert for counters, and maintain defensive shape. Balance is key." Jaeven nodded, absorbing every word. The week's work was about more than skill—it was about control, anticipation, and making the right decision at the right moment.
Soon, Rossi organized an intra-squad scrimmage. The teams were uneven, intentionally forcing players into situations where they had to adapt. Jaeven's group was attacking first. He carried the ball from midfield, gauging the movements of defenders. He feinted left, then cut right, using a burst of acceleration to slip past one, then another. Each defender he bypassed drew a small reaction from teammates who had begun to notice just how much his game had changed in the last two days.
"Nice one, Han!" Matteo shouted, chasing the ball downfield. "You're moving like a pro!"
Jaeven smirked, dribbling toward the penalty area, then faked a pass to the striker again. The defender lunged, anticipating the move. Han executed a perfect Marseille Turn, spinning past him, leaving the defender stumbling. His eyes flicked up, seeing the imaginary goal in front of him, and he fired a Rising Shot into the corner. The ball curled beautifully, hitting the target even in practice. His teammates stopped, clapping and grinning.
Coach Rossi's whistle cut through the air. "Good, good! But remember, it's not just about flair. Read the field, make the right choice. Timing wins matches, not just speed or skill."
Jaeven nodded silently, jogging back to restart the drill. He understood. The tricks, the acceleration, the shots—they were tools, not solutions. Knowing when to use them was what would make the difference.
As the scrimmage continued, Jaeven rotated between attack and defense, dropping back to intercept passes, block runs, and cover teammates. Every tackle, every interception sharpened his sense of positioning. He was not just practicing solo skills; he was learning game intelligence. He sensed when a teammate was out of position, when an opponent was about to overcommit, and when a small shift could open a path forward.
At one point, a teammate tried to pass through the center, but Han anticipated it, stepping in to intercept. With a quick pivot, he launched a counterattack, weaving past two defenders, his mind already calculating angles and distances. He could feel the rhythm of the game in his body—the space opening ahead, the timing of defenders' movements, the ideal moment to release the ball. Each practice repetition was a rehearsal for the real battlefield: the match against Siena.
By mid-morning, the scrimmage had intensified. Jaeven tested his Rising Shot from different angles, curling it around imaginary walls of defenders. He practiced bursts of acceleration to create separation in tight spaces and repeated Marseille Turns until the movement felt instinctive. His body responded before his mind fully processed it—an instinctive understanding of the game he hadn't felt before. Matteo watched, shaking his head in disbelief. "Man, you're going to scare their defense next match."
The practice ended with a quick cooldown jog. Sweat dripped down Jaeven's face, his muscles tired but humming with energy. As his teammates left, he stayed behind, circling the empty pitch. The stadium was silent now, the sun climbing higher and warming the turf. He visualized the next game: the whistle, the first touch, the opponent's defensive shape, and the moment when the Rising Shot or Marseille Turn would be needed to break through.
He replayed scenarios in his mind: feints, fake passes, cutting inside, choosing the perfect timing for acceleration. Every imagined sequence was a step toward mastery. The draw two days ago had been a lesson, a spark. Now, that spark had grown into a quiet fire inside him, one that demanded action, precision, and control.
Finally, he gathered his gear, muscles pleasantly fatigued, and jogged toward the locker room. Rossi's voice echoed faintly behind him, a reminder of yesterday's words. "Preparation wins matches before the whistle blows. Be ready."
Jaeven felt lighter, sharper, and more confident than he had in weeks. The draw was behind him. The next game was approaching, and he would no longer hesitate. He had practiced, observed, and prepared. Now, he would decide the game himself.
The sun shone brighter as he walked off the field, carrying not just his bag but a growing certainty. This was the calm before the storm, the quiet before the challenge. He could feel it in his bones: Virtus Lombardia's next match would be different, and he would be ready to take control.
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