The sun beat down on the freshly painted field, its lines almost too perfect for Liberty Storm's taste. This was nothing like the patch of rough turf behind the gym—they'd never played anywhere that looked so official.
The stands were nothing special, just a pair of battered bleachers and a string of rope. Most seats were empty. Only a few scattered faces watched for Liberty Storm: Mei Lin, calm and quietly proud; Kanda with her ever-present clipboard, biting her lip and scribbling notes; a couple of teachers with their arms folded, and three or four students who remembered the team's name for one reason or another and had nothing better to do.
Near midfield stood Sophie and Aidan Gallagher. Sophie cheered, waving a little Irish flag and calling out encouragement. Aidan watched in silence, arms folded, face set with quiet pride. At the end of the bleachers, Reed's sister perched with a small camera, ready to capture every moment her brother got near the ball.
On the opposite side, the Brookwell supporters brought the noise. Drums. Shouts. A cluster of orange-red shirts and self-made banners. Brookwell's parents lounged in folding chairs, already chatting about goal differences and tournament seeding.
Both teams were called to the center circle for the formal lineup. The two squads faced each other, shoulder to shoulder, tension crackling in the sunlight.
Liberty Storm's uniforms weren't new, and it showed. Numbers faded in some parts. No name on their backs. Cheap is the word most would use to describe them, except old, of course. But even then, it didn't bother Liberty Storm's players, and most were happy to finally wear them in an official setting. It looked out of place on most of them, but they stood in a solid line, nerves and excitement tangled together. Brookwell's players, in contrast, could be said to be the exact opposite of their opponents. Their clothes looked new or at least well taken care of. Their players looked more experienced and a little too at ease. Their warmups had been all tricks and banter.
The ref called for the captains to step forward.
Brookwell's Captain strode out first, tall, every movement brimming with self-assurance. His cleats flashed orange and gold, his grin all practiced bravado.
He looked over the Liberty Storm lineup, pausing a beat on Ronan before speaking. "Didn't catch your name, Keeper," he said, arrogance dripping from every syllable. "I'm Cole Pyre. Better remember it—by the end of today, you'll hear it plenty as they announce the goals."
He turned theatrically, addressing the whole lineup. "You guys look new. First match nerves, or just used to losing?" His gaze swept down the row, stopping on Ronan and then on Reed, a mocking eyebrow raised.
Tracy met his gaze, calm and steady. "We'll remember your name, Cole," she shot back, "for when we shake hands after the match."
Cole's smirk widened. "Love that confidence. Hope you can back it up when the goals start pouring in."
The referee motioned for handshakes. Brookwell's players offered quick, limp grips—barely even looking at their opponents. When Cole reached Ronan, he squeezed a little harder than necessary, leaning in to whisper, "Get ready, rookie. I'll be making you famous for all the wrong reasons."
Ronan's reply was flat and fearless. "We'll see."
Cole swaggered back, firing a wink at his own bench.
The teams took their places. Liberty Storm was all nerves and adrenaline, hearts hammering. Reed looked once to the sideline, catching his sister's encouraging wave, then fixed his eyes on the field. Mei Lin gave Tracy a quiet thumbs-up from the bench. Sophie's cheers pierced the quiet, but the home side's applause was thin—this team had never given them a reason to believe before.
Tracy gathered her teammates for a last huddle. "Forget what they think.
Play for each other. Play for yourself. We earned this."
Ronan nodded, calm as ever. "Let's go."
The ref's whistle shrilled. The game was on.
And for the first time, Liberty Storm wasn't just a name—they were a team, standing under the sunlight, ready to prove it.
—
The referee's whistle cut the afternoon air, sharp and clear.
Players shifted into formation. The ball waited at the center spot, sunlight glinting off its white panels.
Tracy stood at midfield, feeling every eye on her—her team, the rival Captain, even the few scattered faces in the stands. The armband around her left arm felt heavier than any piece of clothing she had ever worn. She reached over and pressed her fingers to it, just for a moment. The soft fabric was warm from her skin.
She hadn't asked to be Captain. She never would have.
But the memory surfaced, unbidden:
—
It was a week earlier, late in the clubroom after practice. The team was sweaty and tired, sprawled across folding chairs and gym bags. Leon was cracking jokes about the last goal; Mason and Chris were debating positions. Ronan stood by the window, silent as ever.
Kanda, flipping through paperwork, looked up. "We need a captain. League rules. Anyone want the job?"
Isaac shot up from his seat like he'd been waiting all day. "I'll do it!" He puffed out his chest, trying to look official. "I've got ideas. I know how to motivate people—"
Leon rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you'd motivate us to run away."
Devon grinned. "He'd have us doing trust falls in midfield."
Jules scoffed without looking up. "I'd rather quit."
Isaac glared around, undeterred. "Hey! I can lead. I've got leadership qualities. I read a book about it once. Plus, I already bought a whistle."
Chris quietly tried to raise his hand, but Devon elbowed him gently and whispered, "You'd be too polite."
The group dissolved into chaos, everyone tossing out names and half-serious suggestions.
"Make Ronan do it—he's got scary eyes."
"Devon, you'd talk us into a yellow card."
"Let Jules do it! With her scary presence, she would—"
Amidst the noise, Ronan turned from the window, gaze steady. "It should be Tracy."
The chatter stopped dead. Tracy blinked. "Me? Why not you?"
Ronan shrugged. "You already lead. On and off the field. People listen to you. That's all that matters."
Chris nodded. "She keeps us organized."
Devon smirked. "If she can keep Ronan under control, she can handle anyone."
Jules finally looked up, unimpressed. "Just not Isaac."
Isaac crossed his arms, scowling. "This isn't fair. You didn't even give my plan a chance. I had a speech and everything. I bought a captain's notebook. You guys just want Tracy because she's bossy."
Leon patted him on the back. "Exactly."
Isaac grumbled, "This is a mistake. I'm still making motivational posters."
But the group was already moving on, Tracy's protest lost in the general agreement. In the end, it was unanimous—whether she wanted it or not, Tracy was Captain.
—
Now, standing on the field, the memory gave her strength. She adjusted the armband, drew a slow breath, and let the noise of the crowd fade away.
Cole Pyre swaggered into position opposite her, smirk wide and taunting. "Ready to lead your team to slaughter, Captain?" The last word was filled with mockery and sarcasm, making it undoubtedly clear that he didn't even acknowledge her as a Captain.
Tracy met his gaze—steady, unblinking. "We'll see whose name they remember."
She looked back at her teammates, meeting each set of eyes—Ronan's silent support, Reed's nervous resolve, Leon's goofy grin, and everyone in between.
This was her team.
Her match.
Her moment.
The ball trembled slightly as the breeze caught it.
Tracy raised her hand, signaling the start.
"Let's go, Liberty Storm."
—
Kanda stood on the sidelines, arms crossed, feigning indifference as the players lined up at midfield. She kept her eyes on the field, trying to ignore the flutter of nerves in her stomach.
She'd never cared about matches before. In fact, she barely noticed them—always tucked away with a book, letting the team noise wash past her. She wasn't here for school spirit or anyone on the field. Usually, she wasn't even here at all.
Now, somehow, she was, and she was invested. She told herself it was just curiosity. Maybe she wanted to see if all the training and chaos had actually led somewhere, if Tracy and Ronan were able to make a change.
Mei Lin, standing beside her, adjusted her hat and watched the field in calm silence. After a long moment, Mei Lin spoke softly, almost to herself, "It's exciting, isn't it? Seeing them like this."
Kanda glanced at her, a little surprised. "I guess. It's… different."
Mei Lin smiled gently, never taking her eyes off the team. "Sometimes, when you watch people try their hardest, you start hoping for them before you even realize it."
Kanda looked back at the field. Tracy was giving last-minute instructions. Ronan stood motionless in goal, and Reed scanned the stands for his sister. The tension was electric, contagious.
'I don't really know any of them,' Kanda thought, almost annoyed. 'But… if they can put in this much effort, the least I can do is watch what happens. I want to see if they can really change something.'
She hugged her elbows tighter, finding herself, for once, rooting for the team on the field, not the characters in her books.
The whistle was about to blow, and Kanda found she actually cared about what would happen next.
—
"Welcome, everyone, to this afternoon's district opener here at Greenway Middle School! We're set for an exciting match between two teams eager to make their mark in this year's competition."
"First up, wearing orange and red—please welcome Brookwell Blaze! A familiar face in the district, known for their aggressive attack and confident play."
"Leading them is number nine, their Captain, Cole Pyre. Keep an eye on those signature orange cleats and that attitude to match—he's been making headlines since his first year on the team and never passes up a chance to show off."
"On the wings, number seven, Max Sutter—watch for his speed. Center back Tyler Groves anchors the defense, and in goal today, Ryan Jacobs, always reliable between the posts."
"Brookwell's a team with high expectations. They've got the experience, they've got the chemistry, and they're not shy about it."
"And now, let's meet the other side—Liberty Storm FC!"
"This is a brand-new lineup for Liberty Storm, making their first official appearance of the season. Not much is known about this team yet, but word around the district is that they've been training hard and have a chip on their shoulder after struggling with numbers in the past."
"Captaining the side, number eight, Tracy Lin—a newcomer to the armband, but rumored to have a sharp tactical mind. In goal number one, Ronan Gallagher. Keep an eye out for those nerves or maybe some hidden talent."
"The rest of the squad includes some familiar faces and a few wild cards: Reed Yamada at left back, Devon Ruiz up front, and the energetic Leon Mitchell in midfield. The roster's rounded out by Isaac Moore, Chris Sanders, Mason Chu, Jordan Price, Malik Banks, and the always intense Juliette Yang. There's a lot of curiosity about how this group will come together on the pitch."
"Coaching for Liberty Storm this afternoon is Mei Lin, stepping in so the team could compete. That's real dedication from the sideline."
"Both teams have lined up at midfield now for the handshake. It's a neutral venue, a fresh start for both squads—no home field advantage today, just pure soccer."
"Brookwell Blaze comes in favored, but as always in middle school sports, anything can happen. Will experience carry the day, or will Liberty Storm's new blood shake things up?"
"Sit tight, folks—kickoff is just moments away!"
—
"And there's the whistle—Cole Pyre starts us off, tapping back for Brookwell Blaze. And you can see their intent immediately: bodies surging forward, Pyre already calling for the ball. That's confidence bordering on arrogance, folks."
"Sutter on the wing sprints into space, and listen to that—Brookwell already taunting as they move upfield. 'Hope you brought your running shoes, Storm!' Pyre shouts with a grin as he pings a pass right past midfield."
"Liberty Storm scrambling to organize—Tracy Lin is shouting for shape, and there's Malik Banks, stepping in! The big man muscles his way into the passing lane and shuts down Sutter, just in time. That's a statement play from Liberty's defense."
"But Brookwell isn't shy—number ten, Bryce Ford, flashes a smirk and calls, 'Better luck next time, big guy!' as he recycles the ball, trying to rattle the Storm defense."
"Malik knocks the ball free, and Tracy's on it, quick pass to Leon Mitchell in the center. Leon looks up and sees Devon Ruiz making a run. This is Liberty Storm's first real push!"
"Devon takes off, the crowd on its feet—but here come Brookwell's defenders. They close in, and, oh—textbook stuff! Tyler Groves steps across, times his tackle perfectly, and Devon's knocked off the ball like it was nothing."
"One of Brookwell's defenders even laughs as they recover. 'Is that all you've got? My little brother runs harder at the playground!' Liberty Storm's forward looks frustrated, but that's the reality of learning on the job in this league."
"Brookwell is making it look easy right now, and they're not afraid to say it out loud. But Liberty Storm's defense is holding firm so far, thanks to Malik Banks—he's got presence and isn't backing down from anyone."
"You can sense the nerves from the newcomers, but it's early. We'll see how Liberty Storm responds to this pressure—and if they can find a way to break through that confident Blaze back line."
"Brookwell regroups, Pyre with the ball at his feet again, but this Liberty Storm side is showing some grit. Still no score—but the battle lines are clear."
—
"Brookwell pressing again—Sutter has the ball on the left flank, Ford making a supporting run. Malik and Reed close in, Liberty Storm tightening the gap. But wait—what's this?"
"Sutter plants his foot, then bursts forward, shouting—'Blaze Dash!' In an instant, his form blurs with a streak of orange and yellow behind him, almost as if flames are curling around his boots! It's more than speed—it's an eruption. The turf seems to shimmer beneath him."
"Malik lunges in, expecting a shoulder clash, but Sutter twists with impossible agility, flicking the ball behind his planted leg. He weaves between Malik and Reed with a rapid series of step-overs, sparks almost flying from every contact with the ball. Reed tries to stick out a leg—too late. Sutter accelerates, splitting the two defenders and bursting through with the crowd gasping."
"He's not done yet—Chris comes in for support, but Sutter spins on a dime, the ball glued to his foot, and leaves Chris off balance. That's Brookwell's signature—speed and style, and now the defense is wide open!"
"The ball squirts free—Sutter flicks it ahead as Pyre streaks into the box. Cole Pyre doesn't hesitate for a second and swings with all his might."
"The ball erupts in swirling fire, a spiral of red and gold energy. The shot is so fierce it almost distorts the air, streaking towards the goal with a force that makes the net ripple before the ball even reaches it. The crowd is on its feet—this is the moment everyone was waiting for!"
"Inferno Shot!"
"Brookwell just tore through with pure skill—first the Blaze Dash, now the Inferno Shot! It's a one-two punch. How will Liberty Storm's goalkeeper answer that?"
"Inferno Shot explodes off his boot—flames spiraling, the ball screaming toward the goalkeeper. The stadium holds its breath—no one's expecting Liberty Storm's rookie keeper to even see this one, let alone stop it!"
"Ronan Gallagher sets his stance, eyes fixed and burning with determination. The fireball closes in—he doesn't flinch. Then, just as the Inferno Shot looks unstoppable, Ronan thrusts out his right hand upwards, shouting—'God Hand!' "
"For a heartbeat, emerald green energy surges out from Ronan's arm as he thrusts it in front of him, shaping itself into a massive, translucent hand of light, fingers spread wide. The entire field seems to freeze as the Hissatsu aura crackles across the goalmouth!"
"The Inferno Shot collides with the God Hand. There's a shockwave, like two storms colliding. For a moment, it looks like the flaming shot will break through—but it seems my own eyes deceive me because just moments later, the shot is stopped. The God Hand stops Inferno Shot, and as the projection of a hand disappears, it leaves Ronan holding the ball in his right hand."
"Unbelievable! Ronan Gallagher just unveiled a Hissatsu of his own—God Hand! And it's a save for the highlight! The crowd erupts—Brookwell's attack is stunned, and Liberty Storm's bench is on its feet! The Liberty Storm supporters are jumping and screaming! Even Brookwell's coach looks rattled."
In the meantime, Sophie is shrieking with joy, and Reed's sister almost drops her camera in shock. Ronan stared at the ball in his hands, his thoughts known only to himself. For many watching the match, he didn't show any reaction, but on the inside, he was overjoyed about stopping his first ever Hissatsu, but it was still only the beginning. At the same time, for the first time today, you can see doubt flicker on Cole Pyre's face.
"With one incredible stop, Liberty Storm's keeper has sent a message—this match is anything but over! And seeing the look on his face, he doesn't plan on letting the ball inside his net today. I don't know about you folks, but I believe him."
—
Cole Pyre stares, frozen, foot still hovering in the air where he'd unleashed his trademark shot. For a second, he can't even process what's happened.
Sutter jogs to a halt, his usual swagger gone. "He… he just caught it?" he mutters, almost to himself.
Ford runs a hand through his hair, forced to hide a flicker of respect. "That was a Hissatsu technique? He's never played a match before. How—?"
Pyre finally lowers his foot and stalks back toward midfield, jaw tight. For the first time, there's real focus—no jokes, no smirk, just a silent promise: next time, he'll go even harder. Ronan was just a nobody in his eyes, and he won't allow that nobody to stop him like it's nothing.
A couple of Brookwell's midfielders swap uneasy glances. "He made Pyre look… ordinary," one whispers, voice tinged with disbelief.
Devon's on his feet waved his arms so wildly he nearly lost balance and fell on his back.
"That's what I'm talking about! Did you see the size of that hand? Did you see Pyre's face?"
Leon grabs Mason in a half-hug, almost lifting him up. "We've got a real keeper! We've got a real shot! I believed in him before, but now I believe even more!"
Isaac throws both hands skyward. "All day, Ronan! All day!"
Chris just sits there stunned, a wide grin slowly spreading across his face. Jules actually lets out a low whistle, then punches her palm. "That's what I wanted to see," she mutters, finally satisfied.
Kanda just stared open-mouthed, genuinely caught up in the energy for the first time.
Reed doesn't cheer—but his eyes, for a rare moment, absolutely shine.
Tracy, receiving the ball from Ronan, feels a rush of pride and responsibility. 'That's our keeper', she thinks, a new strategy already forming in her mind. 'I can't be left behind.'
Sophie is practically standing on the bleachers, bellowing with pride: "That's my boy! Show them what real goalkeeping looks like, Ronan!" Her Irish lilt rises above the rest.
Reed's sister, hands shaking from excitement, finally manages to take a picture, mouthing "wow" over and over before signing Ronan's name to him with a huge grin.
Even teachers, used to tuning out these early matches, sit up a little straighter.
The neutral crowd is buzzing now. A couple of Brookwell parents look genuinely rattled, while a group of younger kids in the front row mimic Ronan's God Hand motion, laughing and shouting, "God Hand! God Hand!"
Brookwell's side of the field is suddenly quiet, energy undercut by disbelief. The Blaze fans try to recover, but their chants definitely sound quieter.
In contrast, Liberty Storm's small cluster of fans find their voice, chanting Ronan's name, banging on the side railings, starting a wave that catches on among the neutrals. The air crackles with new possibility.
On the field, Pyre stalks past Sutter and Ford, not saying a word—but now his eyes are locked on Ronan with pure challenge. You think you can stop me twice? They seem to say.
Ronan, for his part, remains cool and unruffled. He doesn't celebrate, just scans the field, already ready for the next play.
—
"Liberty Storm's keeper, Gallagher, wastes no time—he punts the ball deep, right to his Captain, Tracy Lin, waiting at midfield! Brookwell's players are already closing in, but Lin's got fire in her eyes. She's not just a strategist, folks—she's about to make her mark!"
"Here come two Blaze midfielders—Ford and Sutter, trying to box her in. Pyre's barking orders from behind them, still shaken from that God Hand moment. But Lin doesn't hesitate. She steps forward, the ball glued to her feet—then suddenly, her pace shifts!"
"She plants her left foot, feints right, and then—whoa!—the turf seems to shimmer around her! Tracy Lin blurs for a split second, her body splitting into three afterimages 'Mirage Step.'—two illusions, one real. It's 'Mirage Step!'"
"Ford lunges for the left image—nothing but air! Sutter reaches for the right—she's not there either. He goes right through the illusion. Tracy darts right through the gap, real as can be, her afterimages vanishing as she accelerates past both defenders. The crowd gasps—nobody expected a Hissatsu dribble from Liberty Storm's Captain!"
"What a move! Tracy Lin just turned the tables with her own signature Hissatsu! That's the result of countless hours of training and vision—Mirage Step leaves Brookwell reeling!"
Tracy races forward, head up, eyes scanning for Devon, Jules, or other midfielders. Her teammates are just as shocked as the crowd—she's never pulled off the move before in front of anybody other than Ronan, but anything seems possible with the momentum on their side.
Tracy then looked for somebody to pass to. Jules was being covered, and Devon was free, so the choice was obvious despite his previous unsuccessful attempt.
"Devon, it's going to you!"
Devon, of course, happily started running to receive the pass, and he winked at Tracy as badly as usual as a thank you.
"If Liberty Storm wanted to make a statement, they just did! Now it's up to the forwards—can they turn this break into their first real shot on goal?"
—
"Liberty Storm is surging—Tracy Lin weaves past the midfield with that stunning Mirage Step! She looks up, and there it is—a crisp, perfectly timed pass to Devon Ruiz breaking down the right!"
Devon receives Tracy's pass with a touch of disbelief, but it is quickly replaced by eagerness. Adrenaline fuels his run as he barrels toward the penalty area. For a split second, he sees nothing but green and glory.
But Brookwell's defense reacts like a wall slamming down. Tyler Groves and a second defender close the gap, boxing Devon in with ruthless efficiency. Their Captain, Pyre, barks out orders: "Don't let him turn!"
Devon tries to juke left, then right, but the pressure is overwhelming. The defenders close shoulder-to-shoulder, cutting off every angle. Devon's footwork falters, hesitation slowing him down—he's still new, and it shows.
But just as Devon looks up for help, Jules explodes onto the scene from the left. With a burst of speed and zero hesitation, she swoops in, sliding her foot between Devon and the ball.
"Move!" she shouts—more command than warning—leaving Devon blinking in shock as Jules rips the ball away cleanly, never breaking stride.
Brookwell's defenders are caught completely off guard, momentarily distracted by the internal turnover. Jules darts into the open seam, angling her run toward the top of the penalty area.
"What a play! Jules Yang just stole the ball from her own teammate—Devon's jaw might actually be on the turf! She's through the defense before Brookwell can react—what initiative! Sometimes that's exactly what you need—raw aggression, unpredictability, and split-second thinking!"
With space now open, Jules lines up for a shot. Brookwell's keeper braces, their defenders scrambling to recover—but Jules has earned herself a split-second of daylight, and every Liberty Storm player was holding their breath.
"Jules Yang, with nerves of steel and no hesitation, steals the moment—can she be the one to break this match open for Liberty Storm? She charges up and unleashes a ferocious shot—straight at goal! That's got real venom behind it, and Jacobs, the Brookwell keeper, sees the danger immediately!"
Jacobs braces himself, drawing in a sharp breath as fiery energy surges around his arms. He takes a deep breath, inflating his chest to comically enormous proportions, and lets out a torrent of flames, roaring:
"Flamethrower!"
Jules's shot barrels into the inferno, the flames whipping around the ball, scorching the air with their heat. It looks like the shot could burst through for a moment, but the torrent of fire holds—the ball is engulfed by the flames, then dropped down to the ground, rolling harmlessly in front of Jacobs' foot as the fire dissipates.
"What a save! That's—Flamethrower—a classic fire-type Hissatsu! Jules Yang's cannon was dangerous, but Jacobs was ready for it, and he pulled that off perfectly to save his team's goal! But to force Hissatsu with a normal kick. She must have real cannons for legs."
Jules comes to a halt, clenching her jaw in frustration as she watches the ball get smothered by fire. She lets out a sharp, annoyed exhale, muttering, "Damn it," as she spins away from the box.
Devon races up, shaking his head in disbelief, and puts his hand on Jules' shoulder. "You nearly melted the net! He just got lucky with that Hissatsu."
Jules didn't look satisfied but didn't say anything as she shook off his hand and walked away silently. Anyone seeing her face could see frustration and anger.
Liberty Storm fans gasp, then groan, so close to a breakthrough. Tracy claps encouragement, shouting, "Great shot, Jules!" Leon yells, "Keep pressing! Next one's in!" But to Jules, they weren't words of encouragement but mockery. She is strong. She always has been. No need for fancy Hissatsu technique when you can overpower anyone your age, but the difference between elementary level soccer and jr. high is big. Jules didn't play during middle school. In her eyes, the team wasn't worth it, but that meant there wasn't anyone who could push her further before.
Training alone can push someone only so far, and Jules needed to realise that at the moment, she is only a big fish in a small pond.
Ronan noticed his teammate's inner turmoil and narrowed his eyes. For now, he'll watch how it develops until he figures out how to solve it.
The Brookwell defenders slap Jacobs on the back, relieved and energized by the save, while Pyre shouts, "Focus! They're more dangerous than they look!"
"It's Hissatsu versus Hissatsu already! Liberty Storm's strikers are forcing Brookwell to reveal their best moves—and there's still a lot of soccer left to play!"
—
"Brookwell wastes no time as they counterattack. The team blitzes through Liberty Storm as if they are not even there. Anyone not blind can see fire in their eyes, and it tells me they are in for revenge. Brookwell came here expecting an easy match, but that's not what they are getting today. They plan on proving that it's wrong as they are about to attempt to score a goal—Cole Pyre gets the ball back just outside the box! He wants payback, and he's not holding back this time!"
Pyre sizes up the goal, driving forward. Sutter and Ford set a pick, clearing space, and Pyre uses the opening to wind up with all his power. This time, the flames swirling around the ball are even fiercer—his signature Hissatsu, dialed up:
He launches the shot—fiery energy erupts, the ball spinning and blazing a trail of red and gold straight for the upper corner.
"INFERNO SHOT!" he roars, the stadium echoing with the name.
The force is enough to make the net billow even before the ball gets close—this is a shot that's toppled goalkeepers all across the district.
But Ronan Gallagher doesn't even flinch. He steps toward the ball, emerald energy flaring around his arm. As the Inferno Shot rockets in, Ronan raises his hand, the aura of God Hand materializing again—huge, shimmering, solid.
But there is something that escapes everyone's eyes. Ronan's eyesight became much clearer and more focused. Every small detail and movement was captured by him and stored inside his head as red eyes seemingly became brighter.
The flaming ball slams into the green barrier. There's a bright pulse—everyone holds their breath—but Ronan's expression doesn't change. The God Hand absorbs the force with perfect control.
The ball drops cleanly into his grip. Not a stumble, not a struggle.
"That's two for two! Ronan Gallagher makes it look routine—he stops Pyre's best shot again, and folks, I don't think Brookwell knows what hit them!"
Pyre stares, his jaw tight. The Brookwell fans are suddenly quiet. Sutter looks to his Captain, then back at Ronan—uncertainty creeping in for the first time.
Ford mutters, "He's not even sweating…"
Even Jacobs, the keeper, shakes his head with a wry smile, quietly impressed.
On the Liberty sideline, the team is buzzing—fists in the air, high fives all around.
Devon grins, "That's what I'm talking about! He's unbeatable!"
Tracy, focused, barks orders for the next play, but there's a spark of pride and trust in her eyes.
Despite her teammate's good work, Jules scowled. This success only makes her failure sting even more.
The fans are on their feet, chanting Ronan's name. Sophie waves her Irish flag with renewed energy, and Reed's sister signs "amazing" from the stands.
"If anyone doubted Gallagher before, they won't now. Brookwell Blaze brought the heat—Liberty Storm's keeper brought the answer. This match is still wide open, folks!"
As Ronan catches Pyre's blistering Inferno Shot, he pauses for a fraction of a second. His eyes narrow—'So that's how it's done…' The memory of Pyre's technique is perfectly clear in his mind, every motion and every surge of fire.
With a quick step forward, Ronan drops the ball to his foot, takes two confident strides, and unleashes a blistering kick—his eyes flaring with wild fire.
Suddenly, red-gold flames swirl up around Ronan's leg as he swings through, mirroring Pyre's motion exactly.
"Inferno Shot!" Ronan calls out, and the ball ignites in a spiral of crimson fire, rocketing down the entire length of the pitch.
"Wait a minute! That's… that's Cole Pyre's own move! Ronan Gallagher with a perfect Inferno Shot—straight from the penalty box! The ball's a streaking fireball, and it's racing toward the Brookwell goal!"
Jacobs sees the flaming missile bearing down on him, shock flickering in his eyes—he has no choice.
He takes a deep breath, gathering energy. "Flamethrower!" A torrent of fire burst from his mouth, creating a massive wall of flame just in front of the goal.
Ronan's Inferno Shot smashes into the Flamethrower, the two fire Hissatsu colliding in a crackling explosion of light and heat. For a heartbeat, it's impossible to see which will win—but Jacobs braces, sweat on his brow, and the flames from his block finally absorb the shot. The ball dropped to the turf, smoldering, but stopped.
"Unbelievable! Gallagher not only stopped Pyre's signature Hissatsu but turned it back on Brookwell—perfect form, perfect fire! Jacobs had to give it everything to keep that out. This isn't just a battle of teams anymore—this is a duel of Hissatsu, and Liberty Storm's keeper just showed he can do it all!"
The Brookwell defenders stare in shock—one whispers, "Did… did he just copy Pyre?"
Pyre's eyes narrow, new respect and rivalry burning in his gaze. He then turns to his teammates. "We are not holding anything back anymore! We are using it!"
His team, of course, knew what he was talking about, and their eyes widened.
"But Pyre, it's not ready yet. We haven't even been able to make it work during training!"
At that, the Captain looked at Ronan with narrowed eyes. "I'll make it work. Just follow my lead."
Jacobs exhales, breathing heavily after blocking a shot he never expected from a keeper.
Liberty Storm's bench goes wild—Devon jumps in the air, Chris almost loses his googles, and even Jules lets out a loud whoop.
Tracy looks at Ronan, a hint of a grin on her face: "That's new."
"What a turnaround! First, God Hand, now a counterattack with Inferno Shot—Gallagher is a phenomenon! Brookwell's going to have to rethink everything if they want to crack this game open!"
—
"If you thought Brookwell Blaze would be thrown off by that display, think again. They're regrouping fast—look at the determination on Pyre's face. Here comes another wave!"
After Ronan's daring Inferno Shot, Brookwell snaps into a higher gear. Pyre gathers his teammates at midfield with a sharp gesture. "No more games. Overwhelm them!"
Sutter, fired up, receives a quick pass and instantly launches his Hissatsu dribble:
"Blaze Dash!"
He blurs forward, flames trailing behind him, slicing between Tracy and Chris with impossible speed.
Isaac tries to close him down, but Sutter uses another hissatsu to storm through yet another player. Fire crackling at his feet, he whips his leg in a horizontal arc and creates a wall of fire in front of Isaac, who is forced to stop.
"Blaze Cut!"
Sutter then runs through the firewall he created and tackles Isaac as he runs forward. He passes the ball further.
Ford is right there for the layoff. Without hesitation, he unleashes his own move:
"Meteor Drop!"
He shoots the ball in the air, and it seemingly vanishes in the sky. Only moments later does it come back like a meteor, hitting the ground near the opposing defender and making him fall because of the impact. Ford himself wasn't affected by his Hissatsu in the slightest, so he ran up to the ball and took it like it was nothing.
"Brookwell is pouring on the pressure—Hissatsu after Hissatsu! Liberty Storm's defense is scrambling, desperately trying to plug every gap!"
Malik tries to get a foot on the ball, but Ford doesn't allow it. He passes it to Pyre, who wasn't being covered as the defence was trying to take the ball back at all costs.
The Blaze's offense surges; Tracy and Reed double-team Pyre, but he flicks the ball over them, sending the Brookwell supporters wild.
Brookwell's forwards are relentless, always moving, always shouting—"Keep pushing! Don't let up!"
The pressure is suffocating—Liberty Storm finds themselves pinned inside their own half, the defense forced to make desperate tackles, sliding blocks, and last-second clearances.
"Liberty Storm is being battered! Brookwell is unleashing everything they have, testing every defender of Liberty, and they are succeeding in breaking them down! They can't stop the onslaught that is coming! Hissatsu after Hissatsu—how long can they hold?"
Finally, Pyre orchestrates one more attack. He passes the ball to Ford as he backs away. Ford passes the ball to Sutter, and the ball gains a glowing, almost fiery radiance to it. The next time the ball was passed, the glow became clearer. Ford and Sutter quickly passed the ball between each other a few more times, and the speed of the ball was visibly increasing. At that point, the ball seemed to be covered by magma, and that was the moment Ford shot the ball upwards. Pyre was ready for that as he had already jumped a bit earlier. With a front flip, he axe-kicked the ball towards the net.
"Volcanic Drive!"
"Did you see that?! That's—wait—that's Volcanic Drive! The ball was blazing like an eruption, and Pyre just brought it down like a meteor with that aerial kick! I've never seen Brookwell using that Hissatsu before. It certainly looks more powerful than Pyre's Inferno Shot, but we'll see if that's enough to go through Liberty's goalkeeper, as he already showed himself to be a reliable wall."
—
Pyre's Volcanic Drive comes crashing down—fiery, molten, seemingly unstoppable. The ball screams toward the goal like a falling star, its heat shimmering in the afternoon air. The crowd rises, everyone bracing for impact.
But Ronan Gallagher is ready.
He plants his feet, hands glowing with emerald light. As the ball descends, he thrusts his arm upward, summoning the shimmering form of God Hand—the massive, translucent green palm—and then thrusts it in front of him.
The meteor-like ball slams into God Hand with a thunderous, echoing boom!
For the first time in the match, Ronan feels the weight behind the shot—his shoes skidding back across the turf, digging twin lines as the force pushes him nearly to the goal line.
The God Hand flickers, but holds.
The fiery ball finally loses momentum, caught in the glowing palm, and Ronan's boots come to a stop.
There's a beat of silence—then Ronan looks down at the streaks in the turf, adrenaline surging, and a wild, fierce grin splits his face.
"Unbelievable! Gallagher does it again—God Hand against Volcanic Drive! But for the first time, he's pushed back! Did you see the turf? Even he couldn't stop that shot dead… but he still caught it! And—wait—look at that! For the first time today, Ronan Gallagher is smiling. And not just any smile—that's the look of someone who's loving the challenge!"
Pyre lands and stares, a spark of rivalry igniting.
Brookwell's players are frozen in a mix of disbelief and respect.
The Liberty Storm defense, catching their breath, feels the shift: their keeper in front of an almost overwhelming challenge is having fun.
"Gallagher just took Brookwell's best shot—and now he's grinning like he's just getting started. Liberty Storm's keeper isn't just a wall—he's a warrior. This match just kicked into another gear!"
—
Tracy was the first to notice, caught off guard by the ferocity in Ronan's eyes. "Whoa," she muttered, half to herself, half to the group. "He's actually enjoying this."
Devon sidled up to Leon, wide-eyed. "Dude, am I the only one who's kind of freaked out by that smile?"
Leon clapped Devon on the back, grinning widely. "Nah, that's what we want! If he's having fun, then everything's fine."
Jules shot Ronan a sharp look, but otherwise didn't say anything. But she kept her distance, wary of the intensity.
Isaac frowned, lowering his voice so only Chris could hear. "That's not normal, right? You don't see keepers look like that unless they've totally lost it."
Chris nodded, shifting nervously. "I'm just hoping he doesn't expect us to pull something that crazy."
Mason, breathing hard, looked from Ronan to the rest of the team, voice hushed but in awe. "He's… actually smiling? Is that supposed to happen? It's kind of… cool, but also scary."
Jordan tried to play it off, elbowing Mason with a crooked smile. "He grins, we win. Or maybe he eats the ball. Either way, better than panicking."
Malik, stoic as ever, just nodded once. "At least someone's confident. Guess we follow his lead."
From near the back, Reed caught Ronan's eye, and for a split second, he smiled back, nodding supportively. But even Reed hesitated, as if unsure whether to celebrate or brace for something wild.
Kanda, watching from the sidelines, furrowed her brow, notebook forgotten in her lap. "He's not normal, that's for sure," she muttered. "But if it works, I guess I'll keep watching."
For a brief moment, the team's huddle buzzed with unease and adrenaline—some fired up, some uncertain, a few just trying to keep up with the energy. Ronan, for his part, didn't say a word—he just met each teammate's gaze, that wild grin refusing to fade, daring the team to rise to the challenge with him.
But just as the tension peaked and Ronan's wild grin lingered at the center of the huddle, the shrill blast of the referee's whistle cut through the stadium air.
FWEEEEEEEET!
Everyone froze.
The momentum, the adrenaline, the uncertain mixture of awe and nerves—it all fizzled as players glanced around, the realization hitting: halftime.
As the sound echoed over the field, Ronan's expression shifted. The wild smile faded, replaced by his usual unreadable calm, like a curtain drawn shut, hiding whatever storm had just flickered behind his eyes.
Jules groaned, rolling her eyes. "Figures. Just when it gets interesting."
Leon let out a noisy exhale, bouncing the ball off his hip. "Man, we were just getting started!"
Devon clapped his hands together, relief and disappointment warring on his face. "I need a minute, anyway. Did anyone else forget how to breathe?"
Isaac shook his head, still eyeing Ronan warily. "He's got all that energy. Maybe he can share."
Chris, hands on his knees, mumbled, "Halftime… thank you."
Tracy quickly gathered herself, already shifting into leader mode. "Alright, everyone—reset. Grab some water. We're still in this."
Mason nudged Jordan. "Think the second half will be even crazier?"
Jordan smirked. "With him grinning like that? I guarantee it."
Malik just nodded, heading quietly for the bench.
Reed lingered a moment, eyes on Ronan, then jogged after the others, signing a simple, steady: Let's go.
On the sidelines, Kanda snapped back to focus, flipping open her notebook and scribbling down the final moments of the half, her curiosity stronger than ever.
The field emptied as Liberty Storm regrouped, the echo of that wild grin and the chaos it brought following them all the way to the side of the pitch where their team gathered—where, win or lose, the real match would be decided in their hearts.
—
Liberty Storm gathered in the shadow of their bench, scattered on the grass, and passed water bottles from hand to hand. The heat of the match still clung to their skin, sweat glistening as they slumped down. Some stretched, some just stared at the ground, and others eyed Ronan as if waiting for his wild grin to return.
Tracy took a central spot, voice still steady but tinged with urgency.
"Alright. That was a rough half. They're coming at us with everything—Hissatsu after Hissatsu. But we're still standing. And we hopefully made them use their best moves."
Devon sprawled back on the grass, fanning his face with his shirt.
"Standing is being generous."
Leon, bouncing a ball against his heel, shot back, "Hey, at least you didn't nearly get roasted by Volcanic Drive. I thought Ronan was going to get set on fire."
"They're not unbeatable. Pyre's good, but he doesn't trust anyone else to finish. If we double up on him, maybe the others will panic." Tracy added as she made her point and gave her opinion.
Chris gulped down water, glancing at Isaac. "We need to close down their midfield faster. I keep losing Ford in the shuffle."
Isaac nodded, rubbing a sore calf. "If we don't stick tighter, they'll break us down again. But if Ronan keeps making saves like that… maybe we just need to buy time and strike on the counter."
Tracy shook her head. "That's a dangerous way of thinking. Ronan is literally our wall that keeps us from losing, but he is still a human. Using Hissatsu multiple times in a short period of time is tiring, and even he can't do it all day. He should be the last line of defence, not the only one."
Isaac shrank down at a somehow reprimanding tone of voice and didn't argue, but it was frustrating having his idea shot down by someone who has the position he wants to have.
Mason piped up, nervously twisting the cap off his bottle as he tried moving along the topic so it wouldn't become awkward. "We can't let them pin us in again. In the first five minutes, let's just get the ball out wide and run. Even if it's just clearing our lines."
Reed, sitting cross-legged in the shade, tapped Tracy's shoulder and signed, and Ronan translated: Don't change too much. We can do this. I can cover the left more if needed.
Tracy nodded, catching the message and turning to the group. "We keep our heads. We play smart. If we get the chance, Jules, Devon—take it early. Don't wait for the perfect shot. Force their keeper to use Hissatsu again."
Devon grinned, recovering a little of his bravado. "If he does, maybe Ronan can just copy that one too."
That finally drew a little laughter, even from Mason and Chris. The two most nervous players on the field.
At the edge of the huddle, Ronan sat on the cooler, toweling off his hands. The wildness on his face had faded, but not in his eyes. He spoke softly, but every player went silent.
"We're not out of this. They're strong, but we're not weak either. Weaker? Definitely, but even an elephant is scared of a mouse, lions wary of honey badgers, and we can show them why."
For a moment, the team was silent—then Tracy stood, pumping her fist. "Second half, we score a goal. Ready?"
Devon grinned confidently, Malik nodded, and Mason gave a short, firm "Yeah." Even Reed signed "Let's go."
Devon bounced to his feet, shouting, "Bring it on!"
Leon spun the ball on his finger. "Time to show them what we're made of."
Kanda, standing quietly at the back, scribbled in her notebook, a small smile finally appearing. She muttered to herself, "Now this is worth writing about."
The ref's whistle echoed from the pitch, and Liberty Storm rose as one, their exhaustion replaced by fresh determination. As they jogged out, Tracy caught Ronan's eye, nodding once. She recognised it. She didn't know what he was planning to do, but whatever it was, it was going to be crazy. That she is sure of.
—
Brookwell's players huddled near their bench, the air thick with sweat, heat, and the sting of unexpected resistance.
Pyre was pacing, scowl fixed and voice sharp. "Why aren't we winning? We should have broken them already!"
Ford tossed his bottle aside, shaking his head. "It's that keeper. He and Tracy are the only two using Hissatsu at all. The rest of them? They're just running and scraping by."
Sutter grunted, wiping his brow. "I've never seen a team lean on two players like that. Are they hiding something, or is that all they've got?"
Ford shrugged. "Doesn't matter. They're nobodies. If Gallagher or Lin gets tired, they're done for."
Jacobs, crouched near the water cooler, looked thoughtful instead of cocky. He finally spoke up, voice low: "That's what you think, but did you see Gallagher's Inferno Shot? It… it actually felt heavier than Pyre's. More raw power." He flexed his fingers, remembering the impact. "If he can copy that well, we need to watch for something new."
Sutter snorted, but there was uncertainty in his eyes. "Copycats don't last long. He'll slip."
Pyre stopped his pacing, jaw clenched. "No, we force him to slip. And Tracy? Shut her down. Double-team if you have to. If nobody else on their team can use a real Hissatsu, we overwhelm them."
Ford forced a confident grin, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Easy. Just like practice, right?"
Jacobs was still watching Ronan across the field, more wary than before. That kid's dangerous. If he's just getting started…
Pyre slapped a fist into his palm. "Second half—full press, full heat. No more letting up. Volcanic Drive until they break. And if that keeper wants to play hero, we'll see how many shots he can stop."
Ford and Sutter nodded, each stealing glances toward Liberty Storm's huddle.
As the whistle echoed across the field, the Blaze pushed up, Pyre's glare locked on Ronan and Tracy. Brookwell had underestimated Liberty Storm—but not anymore.
This half, they were coming for blood.
—
In the patchwork crowd, two figures stood out not by appearance, but by the energy around them—Sophie Gallagher, waving a little Irish flag with infectious pride, and her husband Aidan, arms folded, his eyes fixed on the field with an intensity that matched his son's.
Sophie was the first to react as Ronan made his impossible saves. She shot out of her seat after the first God Hand, shouting, "That's my boy! Did you see that, Aidan? He caught it like it was nothing!"
Aidan cracked a rare smile, nodding approvingly. "He always did have good hands. Still, I've never seen him go toe-to-toe with shots like that."
When Ronan copied Pyre's Inferno Shot and launched it downfield, Aidan blinked, then let out a low whistle. "He's showing off, now."
Sophie elbowed him with a smirk. "Like father, like son. You were always flashing something new during your old games, too."
But it was the moment after Volcanic Drive—the skidding turf, the wild, exhilarated grin on Ronan's face—that made Sophie go quiet for a split second. She watched her son closely, eyes shimmering with a mix of awe and nostalgia.
"I think it's the first time I've seen him make this expression. He was always so reserved. So in control of his emotions," she said, voice softer. "I'm happy. To see him having so much fun. Seeing him do something he enjoys so much to let his emotions out like that."
Aidan watched, lips pressed together in thoughtful pride. "Not to mention, he is talented as well. To be good at something you enjoy. I would call him lucky if I didn't know how much he trained and learned when he was younger."
The two shared a look, equal parts joy and worry. Sophie put away her flag again, took out a bigger one from under her feet, and yelled louder. "You keep grinning, Ronan! Show them what a Gallagher can do!"
Aidan, less showy but no less proud, gave a firm nod in his son's direction. "Don't let up, son. You're just getting started."
As halftime approached and Ronan's expression returned to neutral, Sophie leaned closer to Aidan. "Win or lose, I haven't seen him this alive in ages."
Aidan's reply was simple, but his eyes never left the pitch: "That's what matters, but I somehow doubt he'll lose."
And as the team left the field for their break, the Gallaghers stayed standing, hearts pounding with pride—and maybe just a little bit of nerves—for whatever was coming next.
—
The break ended quickly. Liberty Storm retook the pitch with new determination—Tracy adjusting her armband, Ronan quietly steady behind the line, the rest finding their places.
But as soon as the whistle sounded, Brookwell's change in attitude was apparent. Their formation snapped tight, movements sharp and deliberate—no more underestimating. Pyre barked quick orders from midfield: "On them! Double Tracy! Don't give that keeper a moment to breathe! Attack him with everything you've got!"
Ford and Sutter surged forward, Ford instantly shadowing Tracy with dogged persistence. Every time she tried to slip free, he cut off her passing lanes. Sutter, just as relentless, moved in for support, making sure she couldn't use her Hissatsu without being surrounded.
Brookwell's midfield pressed hard on the Storm's defenders, swarming Mason and Malik whenever they touched the ball. Whenever the ball swung wide, the Blaze wingers clamped down on Devon and Jules, herding them toward the sidelines and away from goal.
Meanwhile, every clearance or long ball forward ended up at Pyre's feet. With each turnover, he drove at Liberty's defense, Ford and Sutter at his flanks, Brookwell's attackers pressing high, quick one-twos slicing open gaps.
"Brookwell's strategy has shifted—they're smothering Tracy, closing down their opponent's options, and hounding Liberty Storm all over the pitch! They want to force a mistake, and they're not letting up for a second!"
Devon, unable to find space, tried to break free—only to be blocked at every turn. Jules, fuming, threw herself into challenges, but was forced wide, always facing two defenders. Mason and Chris found themselves passing backward more than forward, pressured into mistakes.
On defense, Isaac barked instructions, trying to cover for Tracy, who was shut down and trying to escape the clutches of two players surrounding her, but he wasn't enough. The pressure was relentless. Ford and Sutter exchanged a rapid-fire set of passes, dazzling Reed on the left before slicing inside.
Isaac and Leon dove in for desperate tackles, barely slowing the attack. The ball pinged around, never settling, Brookwell's movement forcing the Storm to chase, never dictate.
Jules was getting even more frustrated, and her movements, while wild and full of power, were also predictable—like a bull seeing only red.
But the struggle was clear. Brookwell's new plan was ruthless: isolate the stars, overload the defense, and break Liberty Storm's will through sheer numbers and intensity.
And with each passing minute, the pressure only grew.
—
Brookwell's relentless assault continued—pass after pass, quick feet, every Liberty Storm player penned deep in their own half. Ford broke free at the edge of the box, unleashing a fierce shot—only for Ronan to read it perfectly and snatch the ball from the air, landing with poise.
But this time, instead of booting it upfield or calling for his defenders to spread out, Ronan paused, surveying the chaos. He watched as Brookwell's players double-marked Tracy, hemmed in Jules and Devon, and forced Mason, Isaac, and Malik into defensive shells.
We're boxed in. If they cover everyone else…
The crowd waited for his signature booming punt, but instead, Ronan did the unthinkable: he dropped the ball at his own feet, looked upfield, and began to run.
At first, nobody moved, too shocked to process it. The opposing coach was out of his seat, shouting, "Don't let him through! Press the keeper!"
"Wait—Gallagher isn't kicking it away—he's… he's running with the ball! The Liberty Storm keeper is charging upfield!"
Ronan's strides lengthened, the ball glued to his foot with surprising skill for a goalkeeper. The longer he ran, the wider his grin became. Pyre was the first to react, shouting at his teammates to step up.
The Brookwell midfielders scrambled to close him down, but Ronan sidestepped one, then shielded the ball from another with his frame, pushing into the empty space.
Now past the center line, he locked eyes with Pyre, who dropped back to defend, disbelief and determination warring in his face. The stands roared; even the referee hesitated, stunned by the keeper's audacity.
For Ronan, every second burned with possibility. If Brookwell wanted to bottle up his team, he'd smash open the game himself.
He pushed farther upfield, the goal in sight, the world holding its breath.
Brookwell's defenders closed in, but Ronan drew on what he'd seen. He mimicked Sutter's dribbling Hissatsu—Blaze Dash—flames licking the turf as he broke through the press, defenders lunging and missing as he streaked past. The grin showed itself again and widened as he surged into Brookwell's half, their defenders stumbling to recover from the shock of a keeper on the run.
Even Pyre, locking eyes with him as he moved to block the path, felt a chill. Ronan's grin was wolfish now—hungry, unstoppable, utterly fearless.
Ronan cut right, stepped hard with his left, and broke through the last line of red jerseys.
He barely slowed, that grin never fading, as he glanced toward Pyre.
"You want to see a real fire shot?" he said, voice low and charged.
Without warning, he leapt up together with the ball, spinning with the crisp precision of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. Flames spiraled up around his leg as he struck with his left leg.
"Fire Tornado!"
The ball became a pillar of fire, roaring through the air and crashing past Jacobs with impossible force. The net bulged, embers raining down as silence fell over the field for just a second.
"Gallagher—he just tore through the whole field and launched a shot out of a legend! Did you see that grin? I've never seen a keeper move like that. Absolute power, absolute confidence! He not only scored a goal but also completely embarrassed all the forwards in the field. He heard once 'If you want something done, do it yourself' and he took it to heart!"
As Ronan jogged calmly back to his goal, the predatory smile lingered for a moment, then faded, leaving only cool, unreadable composure in its wake.
The stadium was still catching its breath. Liberty Storm's players looked at each other with wild excitement. Brookwell's defenders stared after Ronan, shaken and silent.
For that moment, there was no question: he was hunting, and everyone else was just trying to keep up.
—
The roar in the stands was still building when Jules slammed her fist into her palm, storming over to the edge of the team huddle as Ronan jogged past. She glared at his back, her voice low and sharp enough to cut glass.
"You have got to be kidding me," she hissed. "All that—after I've been grinding for weeks—and he just… just walks it in and scores with that?"
Devon blinked, still gaping, then gave her a shaky thumbs-up. "Honestly, I think he might be part robot. Or like, secretly thirty."
Leon was nearly bouncing out of his cleats, laughing in disbelief. "That's our keeper! If I ever tried that, I'd trip over the halfway line."
Chris, on the other hand, looked a little pale, eyes darting between Ronan and the goal. "I… didn't even know a human could do that. Are we supposed to follow that up?"
Mason nudged Chris, still awestruck. "He just… didn't even look nervous. He looked like he was having fun."
Jordan, ever the joker, faked a deep breath. "Remind me never to call him out for not practicing his shooting. I don't need that smoke."
Isaac folded his arms, a stubborn edge to his voice. "It's cool and all, but we can't just rely on miracles. We need to step up or he's going to do everything himself."
Malik's eyes narrowed, but not in anger. "He's raising the bar for all of us. Good."
Reed watched Ronan quietly, a small, impressed smile tugging at his lips. He signed to Tracy, That was wild.
Tracy grinned, eyes fierce, pride and determination flickering together. "You're right. We keep fighting. Ronan's not the only one with fire."
But it was Jules's simmering frustration that burned hottest—her glare locked on Ronan, jaw set. Not jealous, but frustrated. Next time, that's going to be me.
—
Silence hung heavy on the Brookwell side as Ronan's shot rippled the net and the crowd's roar faded to a stunned hush. For a few seconds, none of the Blaze players spoke. It was Pyre who broke the spell, voice harsh:
"You let a keeper run the whole field and score on us. A keeper!"
Sutter threw his arms out, frustration raw. "We had everyone marked! Who was supposed to cover him?"
Ford snapped back, "He's a goalkeeper! Nobody's supposed to cover him!"
Jacobs, still kneeling from his failed save, stared at his gloves, mind racing. "That wasn't a normal shot. I've never seen anything like it. It was… heavier. And those flames…" He trailed off, shaking his head.
Pyre clenched his fists, glare fixed on the spot where Ronan had struck. "He said he'd show us a real fire shot. Well, he did. But that's it. That's the last time he gets through. We shut him down. I don't care if he's a keeper or a striker—if he crosses the halfway line again, put him on the ground."
Ford forced a nervous laugh, but it sounded weak. "Yeah, let's just hope he doesn't start pulling out more moves like that. If he does, we're all toast. Pun absolutely intended."
Sutter kicked the turf, angry but secretly unsettled.
Pyre growled, rallying them with a cold, burning focus. "Heads up. Play tighter. Double-mark him if you have to. They want to play wild? Then we make it a war."
Jacobs, quieter now, glanced over at Ronan, then up at Pyre. "He's not afraid of us. That's what scares me."
Pyre spat into the grass, eyes narrowed with challenge. "Then it's time to give him something to worry about."
But it was only Pyre that was thinking that.
—
The crowd, which had started the match half-heartedly and unevenly—mostly parents, a few students from both schools, and scattered neutral fans—exploded into a chaos of voices as the net bulged from Ronan's impossible goal.
Liberty Storm's not-so-numerous supporters leapt to their feet, eyes wide in disbelief, unsure whether to cheer or laugh. A handful of younger kids near the front started chanting Ronan's name, their voices rising above the stunned murmurs.
"He's a goalkeeper!" someone gasped from the bleachers. "Did you see that? He ran the whole pitch!"
One Liberty Storm parent slapped her friend on the arm, grinning, "I told you my son's team was worth coming to see!"
Near the center stands, Reed's sister jumped up with both fists raised, face shining with pride. "Go, Ronan!" she called, echoing Sophie Gallagher's wild, joyful cheering.
A group of students who'd only shown up for the spectacle were suddenly on their feet, one of whom was with a camera he brought to record the match. "Send me that later! You gotta send me that! That's crazy!"
Meanwhile, on the Brookwell side, the energy was tense and brittle. Some fans grumbled and shook their heads. "That's not fair," one muttered. "He's supposed to stay in the goal." Others were silent, lips pursed, waiting for their team to answer.
But the neutral crowd—the few teachers, a couple of bored siblings, even the referee's assistant—were buzzing with new energy. "If every match was like this," a teacher whispered to herself, "I'd never miss a game."
In the sudden, stunned silence that followed, one kid's excited voice rang out clear: "Do you think he'll do it again?!"
And for the first time during the match, the stands were united, caught up in the impossible, electric hope that maybe, just maybe, something special was happening right in front of them.
—
As the game resumed, Liberty Storm's bench still buzzed with excitement from Ronan's impossible goal. But Jules's jaw was set, her eyes fixed on the Brookwell net with a burning determination.
The next time Liberty Storm gained possession, Tracy called for the team to regroup—"Pass, keep it moving!"—but Jules barely listened. She charged forward the moment she got the ball, brushing off Leon's offer for a quick one-two.
"Jules, wide!" Devon called, sprinting into space.
She ignored him, muscling past Sutter with raw speed. For a moment, it looked like she might break free, her aggressive drive carrying her through Brookwell's midfield. But the defenders saw her coming—two converged.
Instead of looking for a pass, Jules tried to bulldoze through, shoulder lowered, teeth gritted. She flicked the ball ahead, eyes locked on the goal.
But the opposing player anticipated the move, sliding in for a perfectly timed tackle. The ball shot away, and Sutter snapped up the loose pass.
Jules stumbled, frustration boiling over. She spun, jaw clenched, glaring at the space where her chance had vanished.
From the sidelines, Tracy's voice rose—equal parts encouragement and warning. "We need to play together! You can't force it, Jules!"
But Jules only kicked at the turf, furious. The team's momentum wobbled—Devon looked discouraged, Leon shook his head, and even Reed hesitated, uncertain whether to push forward or cover back.
Brookwell quickly turned defense into attack, pressing the shaken Storm with renewed confidence. Jules tried to sprint back into position, but the opportunity was lost. The game had shifted again, and Liberty Storm felt it.
On the sidelines, Kanda scribbled furiously in her notebook, noting every misstep, hoping it would help in the future.
"Strength is nothing without teamwork," she muttered.
And as the ball sped the other way, Jules's frustration only deepened—her hunger for a goal burning hotter than ever, but now matched by the bitter taste of missed chances.
—
Brookwell's attack fizzled, but Liberty Storm's energy was ragged, anxiety hanging in the air like a storm about to break.
Tracy cut across the grass, making a beeline for Jules before anyone else could speak. "What were you doing out there?" she demanded, breath coming short but words razor-sharp.
Jules didn't even bother looking up, shoving her hands on her hips. "Trying to win. You might give it a shot sometime."
Tracy's jaw clenched. "Trying? You ignored every call. You went through three defenders alone and lost the ball."
Jules's eyes finally flicked up, hard and cold. "Because every time I pass, nothing happens. Maybe if someone besides you and Ronan could finish a play, I wouldn't have to do everything myself."
Tracy stepped in, just shy of Jules's space. "No one's asking you to do everything. We need to play as a team, or else we're just eleven people running in circles."
Jules laughed without humor, voice edged with anger. "Teamwork? Where's all that gotten us? The score would be 0-0 if not for Ronan ignoring so-called teamwork and scoring the goal himself. I'm not about to pass just to watch us cough it up again."
Tracy shot back, "Ronan made a calculated play that ended up in a goal. You charge forward like a bull without a trace of thought in your head. Are you going to try doing the same thing again and again, hoping some miracle will happen? Do I need to explain the definition of insanity to you?"
Jules's fists curled tighter. "At least I'm trying to make something happen! Half this team's too scared to touch the ball, and the other half just hides behind instructions."
Devon shifted, clearly stung, but didn't say anything. Leon gave Jules a dirty look, but the tension was too thick for jokes.
Tracy's tone dropped lower, voice controlled but intense. "You're not helping. You're making it worse. One person can make a difference, but it's the team that wins."
Jules's glare didn't waver. "You're not my Captain. You just got the armband because Ronan didn't want to be one and said you would be the best choice. Doesn't mean you get to boss me around."
That hit a nerve. Tracy's eyes flashed, but she forced herself to take a step back, drawing a steadying breath. "I don't care if you like me. I certainly don't like you. But if you care about winning—even a little—you'd stop making it easier for Brookwell. Whether you like it or not, we are a team. Your failures are the team's failures as well."
Jules snapped, "Get out of my face." She turned away, stalking a few paces down the sideline, jaw clenched, shoulders rigid.
Tracy lingered, eyes narrowed in frustration.
The rest of Liberty Storm looked on, uneasy and silent. Even Ronan, returning to his goal, glanced over with a frown.
For now, the rift remained—a crack running straight through the team, threatening to split wider with every play.
—
After the heated exchange, the match slipped into a stubborn deadlock. Brookwell pressed hard, desperate to save face, but Liberty Storm, still rattled by the rift in their ranks, held together just enough to keep them out. Ronan made a few more solid—if not spectacular—saves, and Tracy kept barking instructions, but the team's earlier spark was gone.
Jules kept pushing for opportunities, but every run felt forced, every touch too heavy. The rest of the team moved stiffly around her, unsure whether to trust, follow, or just get out of her way.
Brookwell's attacks grew reckless. Pyre launched another long-range Hissatsu, but Ronan caught it with little trouble, this time not even bothering to hide his smirk. Devon made a decent run late on, but was muscled off the ball. Reed made a key interception, but the ensuing play fizzled when Jules ignored an open pass and took a hopeless shot wide.
The minutes ticked away. The crowd's excitement faded to a restless hum. On both sides of the field, coaches paced and yelled, but everyone knew—something had shifted. The match had peaked, and now both teams seemed to be playing against the clock as much as each other.
As the sun dipped lower, the referee glanced at his watch. A tired, resigned whistle sounded—a single, clear fweeeeeeet.
Full time.
Liberty Storm and Brookwell Blaze slowly gathered themselves. There was no wild celebration, no crushing despair. Just exhaustion, sweat, and the quiet buzz of a match that had promised everything and, in its closing act, left everyone wanting more.
The teams lined up to shake hands. Jules kept her gaze straight ahead, Tracy's lips pressed in a thin line, Ronan back to his usual inscrutable self.
Whatever had started on that field wasn't finished—not by a long shot.
As Liberty Storm walked off, some heads high, others low, one thing was certain: this team had taken its first real step, but they still had a long road—and a lot of growing—to go.
—
END