Full-Time
The Ajax dressing room was a graveyard of sweat-soaked bodies and silent stares.
Coach Bakker stepped in, his expression unreadable. No one spoke.
Then, his voice cut through the weight in the air. "You fought like Ajax players. And you didn't lose."
He let it hang. Then pointed.
"Liam — relentless. Josip — a monster in the press. And Femi—" Bakker met his gaze. "Mistake or not, you led tonight. You showed guts."
Femi, still raw, raised a hand. Not to interrupt, not for attention. Just a silent call to refocus. The rest of the team saw it.
Josip gave a short nod. Liam thumped his fist against the bench.
Meanwhile, in the Bayern Dressing Room
Vogel sat alone, icing his ribs. Brandt dropped onto the bench beside him.
"Adeleye's trouble," Brandt muttered.
Vogel traced the thin scar on his wrist with his thumb, a faraway look in his eyes.
"I used to be like him. Before Berlin."
Brandt glanced over. "What happened in Berlin?"
Vogel gave a tight smile. "Lost a final. Tried to win it alone. Got my shoulder snapped in two places. Learned my lesson."
Brandt nodded slowly.
At the Ajax Team Hotel
Players from other squads mingled through the lobby and courtyard. Arsenal's pink-haired prodigy Kai Sterling stood out instantly, laughing with his teammates. His presence wasn't subtle. The whole hotel buzzed with tension as the tournament's final group matches loomed.
Femi sat alone, his knee aching. The night was warm, the air thick with city noise.
A shadow flickered.
Kai Sterling.
The Arsenal forward strolled over, slow clap and smirk in place.
"Not bad out there. Shame about the giveaway, though. Deja vu."
Femi frowned. "What are you on about?"
Kai leaned closer. "Rotterdam. U-17 Invitational. Last minute. You. A header. Me? Watching while Lars hoisted you like some hometown hero."
Femi blinked. The memory came sharp and fast — a floodlit pitch, the ball arcing through night air, a net rippling. Kai on his knees.
"You cared more about who was watching than about winning," Femi said, voice low.
Kai's grin twitched. "They forgot me that night. They won't forget this time."
He turned and left.
Later on in the night, the squad was gathered in the hotel lounge, the group standings lit up on the screen.
Group C
Barcelona: 6 pts
Bayern: 4 pts
Ajax: 1 pt
Juventus: 0 pts
"If we don't beat Juve, we're done," Ramon muttered.
Josip scowled. "They'll be playing for pride too. You think they want to go home pointless? Not a chance."
Liam nodded. "They press high, leave gaps. It'll be a war."
Everyone knew it.
Terrace, Midnight
Femi sat watching tournament highlights alone.
Liam appeared without a word, dropped into the chair beside him.
No grand speech. No pep talk.
Just a simple line.
"You're not done yet. Neither are we."
Femi let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
One more fight...