Sleep was a forgotten concept.
Pops lay in his narrow dorm bed, the ceiling a canvas for the shadows of swaying tree branches and the phantom movements of players he hadn't yet recruited. The list—The List—burned a hole in his mind. One Coach. Twenty Players. One Manager. One Physio. Seven Days. The numbers ticked down in his head like a bomb's timer. He'd already lost seven hours.
Across the small room, Leo's rhythmic snoring was a steady counterpoint to the chaos in Pops's mind. Javier, in the bed by the window, was silent, but Pops knew he was awake too.
"Javi?" Pops whispered into the dark.
"Yeah."
"You thinking about Santos?"
A long pause."Yeah. And the twins. And the fact that we have zero of everything on that paper."
That was Javier: always taking inventory of the deficit. It was why Pops needed him.
"We have three players," Pops corrected, sitting up. "Right now. You, me, Leo."
"Leo hasn't officially said yes," Javier muttered.
A snort came from Leo's bed."I said yes in my sleep an hour ago. Stop talking about me like I'm not here." He flipped on his bedside lamp, blinking against the sudden light. His hair was a wild corona. "So what's step one, Architect?"
The new title, even said in Leo's joking tone, sent a jolt through Pops. He swung his legs out of bed and grabbed a notebook from his desk. On the first page, he wrote in bold letters: TEAM ELEVATE.
"Why Elevate?" Leo asked, peering over.
"Because that's what we have to do," Pops said, his pen tapping the paper. "We have to lift ourselves up. We have to lift each other up. And we're starting from the ground."
He created four columns, mirroring the Phantom League mandate.
COACH: Blank.
PLAYERS:Pops Tekhero (CAM), Leo Marquez (LW), Javier Ruiz (CB). 3/20.
MANAGER:Blank.
PHYSIO:Blank.
Three names. A vast, echoing emptiness beside them.
"Player list first," Javier said, pragmatic as ever. He got up and pulled his own laptop over. "We need to assess the academy talent pool before Santos and the others pick it clean. We need to think like scouts, not friends."
For the next two hours, under the glow of a single lamp, they became a war council. The Riverside Academy roster was their chessboard.
"Miguel Santos is out," Javier said immediately, scrolling through the academy database. "He's our biggest rival now. He's got an ego the size of a stadium and he's already telling people he's got a coach lined up from Portugal."
"Striker," Pops noted, writing it down nonetheless. "Top scorer U-16s. But you're right. Not for us."
"The Thompson twins, Aidan and Caleb," Leo said. "Best defensive duo in the school. But they're a package deal. And they're mercenaries. They'll go to whoever they think will win."
"We need them," Pops said firmly, circling their names. "A solid defense is the foundation. Without it, nothing else matters. They're a priority."
Javier nodded, typing notes. "Priority One: Thompson Twins. Approach with caution. Sell the vision, not just the chance."
They moved down the list. Keeper: Rajiv "The Wall" Chaudhary, U-16, with reflexes like a cat but a tendency to lose focus on set pieces. Priority.
Right-back: Finn O'Connell, tireless runner, crosses like a dream, defensive positioning suspect. Potential.
Central midfield: Chloe Adebayo, the only girl in the boys' academy program, and only because she was too good to deny. A metronome, a distributor, saw passes no one else did. But she was quiet, kept to herself. A wild card.
Wingers, forwards, more defenders… they listed them all, assigning rough priority levels. By 4:30 AM, they had a list of fifteen academy targets. They needed at least eleven more bodies from somewhere, but this was the core they had to secure.
"The bigger problem," Javier said, closing his laptop with a soft click, "isn't who. It's how. We have nothing to offer them. No coach, no facilities, no guarantee of anything except a likely brutal loss in the first qualifying round if we're not perfect."
Pops stared at the list. Javier was right. They were selling a dream with no proof of concept. He needed a hook. Something tangible.
His eyes fell on the Coach column. Blank.
"The coach is the key," Pops said, the idea crystallizing. "If we can get a serious coach, a name, someone with respect… that gives us credibility. That makes players listen. The coach comes first."
"But where?" Leo yawned, rubbing his eyes. "We don't know any coaches. Not like that."
A memory surfaced, fragmented and hazy. Pops was twelve, playing for his old club team, the Eastside Hawks. They'd had a fill-in coach for a summer tournament, a man with a quiet intensity who'd changed everything in just three weeks. He was older, with a gravelly voice and a faded tattoo on his forearm of a swallow in flight. He hadn't talked about formations so much as about space and time. He'd seen something in Pops even then. His name… Coach… something with a D. Dyson? Dawson?
"I might know someone," Pops said slowly. "But it's a long shot. A very, very long shot."
"A long shot is all we have," Javier said. "What's his name?"
"I don't remember. But I know where he might be." Pops glanced at the time. 5:00 AM. "We have to skip morning training."
Leo gasped in mock horror. "Blasphemy!"
"Thisis training now," Pops said, his jaw set. "This is the real tryout. Get dressed. We're going to Eastside."
---
The Eastside neighborhood was a forty-minute bus ride away, a world apart from the groomed fields and modern dorms of Riverside. Here, the pitches were patchy gravel-and-dirt lots nestled between aging apartment blocks, the goals were chain-link with tattered nets, and the only floodlights were the orange glow of street lamps.
This was where Pops had learned the game. Where magic happened not because of perfect facilities, but in spite of the lack of them.
The bus dropped them off as a milky dawn lightened the sky. The air smelled of diesel and baking bread from the early-opening panadería. Pops led them through a maze of familiar streets, his heart pounding with a different kind of nervousness. This was a pilgrimage to his past, and he wasn't sure what he'd find.
They arrived at Lot 7, the unofficial home of the Eastside Hawks. It was empty now, just scuffed earth and two forlorn goals. But on a rusted bleacher bench, silhouetted against the rising sun, sat a man.
He was older than Pops remembered. Maybe late fifties. He wore a worn leather jacket over a hoodie, and a battered baseball cap was pulled low over his eyes. He was sipping coffee from a thermos, watching the empty field as if a game were playing out on it.
Pops's breath caught. The tattoo was just visible on the hand holding the thermos. The swallow.
"Stay here," he whispered to Leo and Javier. He walked forward, his steps crunching on the gravel. The man didn't turn.
"Lot's taken, kid," the man said, his voice the same gravelly rumble Pops remembered. It was a voice used to being heard over wind and shouting.
"Coach D?" Pops asked, the name finally unlocking itself. "Coach Declan?"
The man slowly turned his head. His face was lined, his beard flecked with grey, but his eyes were a sharp, piercing blue, missing nothing. They swept over Pops, and for a moment, there was no recognition. Then a flicker.
"Eastside Hawks," the man—Declan—said. "Summer tournament. Three years ago. You were the tiny kid with the giant feet. Couldn't shoot to save your life but could dribble through a keyhole." A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. "Tekhero. The popsicle kid."
Pops flushed. "Pops, sir. They call me Pops now."
"Progress,"Declan grunted. "You're at that riverside finishing school now, aren't you? What brings you back to the dirt?"
This was it. The pitch. Pops's mouth went dry. He fumbled the Phantom League envelope from his jacket. He didn't speak; he just handed it over.
Declan took it, wiped his hands on his jeans, and pulled out the sheet. He read it slowly, his expression unchanging. He took another sip of coffee. Finished the page. Looked back at the field. The silence stretched, agonizing.
"Phantom League," he finally said, the words flat. "They're doing this now? Putting this on kids?" He shook his head and handed the paper back. "No."
The single word was a door slamming shut.
"Why?" Pops's voice cracked. "You're a great coach. I remember. You taught me more in three weeks than—"
"I'm not a coach,"Declan interrupted, his voice hardening. "Not anymore. I tend bar at O'Malley's down the street. That's my profession. Coaching… that's a past life. A life that ends with heartache and empty promises."
"But you have the license," Pops pressed, desperation seeping in. "UEFA B, right? You told us once."
Declan's blue eyes flashed."Had. Past tense. And even if I didn't, the answer would be no. You're a kid with a piece of paper. You want me to throw in with a fantasy? To be responsible for a bunch of teenagers chasing a mirage? The Phantom League will eat you alive and spit out the bones. Go back to your academy. Play your games. Forget this."
He stood up, turning to leave.
Pops felt the dream crumbling, the first brick dissolving to dust. He couldn't let it. He thought of the list, of the blank columns. He thought of the recruiter's assessing eyes. We'd like to see what kind of leader you can be.
A leader didn't accept the first 'no.'
"You watched the empty field when I walked up," Pops said, his voice stronger now. Declan paused. "You weren't just sitting. You were seeing a game. You were tracking runs, judging passes. You can't turn it off. You miss it."
Declan didn't turn around, but his shoulders tightened.
"You told us," Pops continued, stepping closer, "that the most beautiful goals aren't scored on perfect grass. They're scored on broken concrete when everyone's against you. That's what this is. We have broken concrete. We have everyone against us. Santos is already building a super-team. We have nothing. Nothing but this." He held up the list. "And a chance to build something real. Not from a fancy academy system, but from the dirt. Like you used to do."
He took a deep breath, launching his final, desperate play. "You said coaching was a past life. Okay. But what if this isn't about your past? What if it's about ours? Our future. You can help build it. Or you can walk away and keep watching ghosts play on an empty field."
The world seemed to hold its breath. Leo and Javier stood frozen by the chain-link fence. A delivery truck rattled by on the distant street.
Declan turned. His sharp blue eyes bored into Pops, not with anger, but with a deep, weary intensity. He looked from Pops to the list, then past him, to Leo and Javier—two more kids with hopeful, terrified eyes.
"One week," Declan stated.
"Yes."
"No budget."
"We know."
"I'm in charge of training.Completely. You listen, even when you think you know better."
"Yes,sir."
"I'm not a therapist or a babysitter."
"We don't need one."
Declan let out a long, slow breath that fogged in the chilly morning air. He looked up at the now-bright sky, as if seeking an answer there. He found none.
"The first and most important rule of building anything," he said, his voice low and serious, "is to never build on a shaky foundation. You three… you're shaky as hell." He paused, then gave a single, curt nod. "But you're not empty. Meet me here tomorrow at 5 AM. Don't be late. And bring your boots. We see what you're made of."
He didn't wait for a response. He picked up his thermos, tugged his cap down, and walked past them, disappearing down an alley.
For a full ten seconds, no one moved.
Then Leo exploded. "HE SAID YES! Oh my god, he said yes! He's so scary! I love him!"
Javier just sank onto the bleacher, a look of stunned disbelief on his face. "You did it. You actually did it."
Pops felt a surge of euphoria so powerful his knees went weak. He gripped the rusted bleacher bar to steady himself. He hadn't just found a coach. He'd found their coach. A foundation.
He took out his notebook with trembling hands. In the COACH column, he wrote in bold, capital letters: DECLAN.
One blank filled. The first brick was laid in solid, unyielding stone.
---
The return to Riverside Academy felt like re-entering a warzone. News of the Wild Card slots had spread like wildfire overnight. The common areas buzzed with frantic energy. Clusters of players huddled in corners, speaking in low, urgent tones. Pops saw Miguel Santos holding court in the main lounge, a whiteboard beside him with a list of names under the heading "TEAM SANTOS – PHANTOM BOUND." He had a dozen guys around him, including Rajiv the keeper.
Santos caught Pops's eye and smirked, making a show of checking an imaginary watch. "Tick-tock, Tekhero. Heard you took a field trip. Running away already?"
Pops ignored him. He had a coach. That was intel he wouldn't share yet. He, Leo, and Javier grabbed a quick breakfast, their heads together, planning the next assault: the players.
Their first target was the Thompson twins. They found Aidan and Caleb in the gym, moving through a synchronized weight-lifting routine with terrifying efficiency. They were mirror images—same close-cropped blonde hair, same ice-blue eyes, same expression of cool detachment.
"We're busy," Aidan said without looking up from his barbell.
"Five minutes,"Pops said.
"Your five minutes started thirty seconds ago,"Caleb replied, his twin.
Pops cut to the chase. "We want you for our Phantom League team."
Both twins stopped, exchanged a glance, and actually let out identical, humorless laughs. "Your team?" Aidan said. "You have a team? Or do you have a piece of paper and two friends?"
"We have a coach," Pops said, keeping his voice level. "A real one. UEFA B license. A tactician. Someone who can build a defense that's not just strong, but intelligent."
That got their attention. The twins were brilliant, but they knew they were raw. They relied on athleticism and默契. The promise of tactical sophistication was a smart lure.
"Who?" Caleb asked, skeptical.
"We reveal that when you agree to a meeting.Tonight. Lot 7 in Eastside."
"Eastside?That dump?" Aidan sneered.
"That's where the real football is,"Javier interjected, surprising everyone, including himself. "Not in manicured academies where everyone plays the same. It's where you learn to win when you have nothing to lose."
The twins were silent, considering. They were mercenaries, but they were also competitors. The challenge in Javier's words spoke to them.
"A meeting," Aidan said finally. "8 PM. We'll listen. No promises."
It was a foothold. Pops took it.
Next was Chloe Adebayo. She was the hardest to find, always in the library or the music rooms. They tracked her to a quiet corner of the arts wing, where she was practicing scales on a violin, the music haunting and beautiful. She stopped when she saw them, her expression guarded.
Chloe was an island at Riverside. Her talent had forced the traditionally all-boys academy to admit her, but it had made her a target for resentment and isolation. She spoke only when necessary.
"Chloe," Pops began. "We're putting together a team for the Phantom League."
She didn't react,just watched him with large, calm eyes.
"We need a central midfielder.A brain. We need you."
"Why?"Her voice was soft but clear.
"Because you see the game two passes ahead of everyone else.Because you don't panic. Because we're building something from nothing, and we need someone who's used to being an outsider, used to proving herself every single day."
A flicker of something—pain, recognition—crossed her face. She looked down at her violin, then back at Pops. "Santos asked me. He said I'd be a sub. A tactical option."
"With us,"Pops said, "you'd be the engine. Non-negotiable."
She was silent for a long time, the only sound the distant thump of a soccer ball from the fields. "A meeting," she said, echoing the twins. "I'll come to the meeting."
One by one, they went down their list. Some laughed in their faces. Finn O'Connell, the right-back, was intrigued by the "underdog story." Keeper Rajiv Chaudhary was non-committal, clearly waiting to see which team looked stronger. A tricky winger named Diego, known for his flashy skills and poor attitude, said he'd join if he was guaranteed to start and be "the star." Pops told him no.
By dinner, they had maybe seven tentative commitments for the meeting, including themselves. It was progress, but it was fragile. Word was that Santos had over fifteen solid yeses.
The real test would be tonight.
---
Lot 7 at 8 PM was a different place. Under the stark white light of a single, buzzing floodlight mounted on a telephone pole, the gravel pitch looked even more desolate. A chill wind had picked up, swirling dust.
Declan was already there. He'd set up a few old plastic cones and had a duffel bag at his feet. He wore a simple tracksuit now and looked even more like a relic from a bygone football era. He gave Pops the briefest of nods.
The recruits trickled in. The Thompson twins arrived together, faces impassive. Chloe came alone, standing slightly apart, her hands tucked into her jacket. Finn O'Connell showed up, looking curious. A couple of other academy players Pops had spoken to—a solid but unspectacular defensive midfielder named Ben, and a quick left-back Sam. Seven prospects, plus Pops, Leo, and Javier.
Twelve bodies in total. They stood in an awkward semicircle under the light, shivering slightly, looking at Declan with a mixture of skepticism and hope.
Declan didn't greet them. He didn't introduce himself. He simply pointed to the cones.
"Two lines," his voice cut through the quiet. "From here to that crack in the concrete and back. Dribble at pace. Control the ball. Don't let it stray more than a foot from your boot. Go."
No explanation. No warm-up. Just a command.
The players, used to structured academy drills, hesitated for a second. Then Pops moved, grabbing a ball from the duffel and driving toward the first cone. The others followed.
What followed was forty-five minutes of the most grueling, focused, and demanding training session any of them had ever experienced. It wasn't about fitness; it was about concentration under duress. Declan barked corrections with laser precision.
"O'Connell! Your head is down! You're running blind!"
"Marquez!Stop admiring the touch! The game is ahead of you!"
"Ruiz!You're a center-back! Your first touch is a pass! Make it clean!"
"Thompson,both of you! You move as one? Good. Now think as one. Communicate!"
He saved his most intense scrutiny for Chloe and Pops. He had them passing back and forth under increasing pressure, first from him shadowing, then from the twins jockeying nearby.
"Adebayo! Speed of thought! He's making the run now! The pass is now! Not when it's comfortable!"
"Tekhero!You're the architect? Then build! Use her! Don't just take the ball and do it yourself!"
Pops's lungs burned, his legs ached, but his mind was alight. Every command from Declan was a puzzle piece clicking into place. This was what was missing at Riverside—this brutal, uncompromising focus on the essence of the game.
Finally, Declan blew a sharp whistle on his fingers. "Enough."
The players staggered to a halt, breathing heavily, sweat gleaming on their faces under the harsh light. They looked at each other, a new respect dawning. They had just been put through a wringer together.
Declan walked into the center of their weary group. "My name is Declan Ward. I am your coach. That," he pointed at the cones, "was an audition. Not for skill. I already know you have skill. That was an audition for hunger. For the ability to listen when you're tired. For the willingness to be criticized."
He looked at each of them, his blue eyes like flint. "The Phantom League is not a tournament. It is a trial by combat. The teams you will face are not academy boys. They are young men who have been training like professionals since they