Neutral Pov.
The match started at an intense atmosphere, both academy balling out to their best, both academy fans shouting and motivating their players loudly, Darren Reid the coach of West-Bridge could not believe his eyes, East-Bridge academy defense was solid his players could not breakthrough, the midfield was evenly matched, but there's a line of hope for him the East-Bridge striker (His name being Jerome ) couldn't even hold the ball for a minute, but what will he do? How will he break his opponent defense, East-Bridge coach Malik was looking and shouting instructions to his team, he told them to continue playing as he told them, the players were highly motivated as they were happy they haven't conceded to the best team in the competition, the match went evenly matched for minutes, none could score the first goal, the whistle blowed for half-time. The players went to their various dressing room with different emotions, Darren and his players, shocked and confused at how their opponent could have changed drastically, and Malik and his players so excited about how they were playing, Mike was also shocked at how they could be playing well without him, his ego dropped but he couldn't afford to show it, he was waiting patiently for Malik to put him in for him to show off his football skills.
Malik POV
My heart couldn't contain the excitement of being a coach who everyone had seen to change drastically, I'm happy but the job's not done yet we have to win so as to not let Ms Alvarez disband the football team.
"The team has played very well according to as planned, we have manage to stop West-Bridge from scoring but now we have to look for a way to score" I told the team. " Kudos to the defense and midfielders, and you Jerome you will now play the role of a trequartista striker"
What's that? echoed the room
"Let me explain" I continue. "See, a regular striker hangs up top, always looking to score. Their job is mostly to finish what others create. But a trequartista striker? He's different. He drops deeper, finds space between the midfield and the defense, and pulls the strings. He's not just there to score he creates. He sees passes others don't, draws defenders out of position, and then suddenly, he's in the box finishing the move he started.
It's like watching someone play chess while everyone else is kicking a ball. Think of someone like the great Totti when he's playing deeper. They're not traditional No. 9s they're more fluid, more intelligent. They control the tempo, link the attack, and still bag goals. That's what a trequartista striker is. It's not just a position. It's a mindset. You might not get a hang of it now, but you will as the match proceed". I concluded my speech .
"What about me, won't I get a chance?" Mike asked
" You will when I need you. Jayden and David, I need you to continuously switch wings when possible to open up the opponent defense, with this we should win" I responded
The halftime break is over and the second half is about to start.
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Coach Darren Reid's POV
I strutted into the tunnel at halftime with a hundred thoughts and zero answers.
Nil-nil. Against them. I should've been walking in three goals up, already thinking about substitutions and media interviews. Instead, I was wiping sweat off my brow like some rookie coach chasing miracles.
How the hell are they still holding us?
They weren't even using their best player. Mike that damn phantom hadn't even touched the pitch. And their so-called complete striker? The tall one with the clean boots and zero end product? Useless. I laughed about him all week. "Built like Zlatan, moves like a fridge," I told the staff.
So why the hell wasn't he a liability? Why were we the ones scrambling for rhythm?
I slammed my hand against the whiteboard as the players trickled in, some heads down, others too quiet for comfort.
"Sit down. Now."
They obeyed. I paced.
"This isn't the plan," I snapped. "We're playing below ourselves. They're not special, alright? You've seen it. They've got a striker who does everything except the one job he's paid to do score."
A few of the lads chuckled. That was good. I needed them relaxed.
"Coach…" It was Leo, my midfielder. "They're not attacking much, but they're pressing weird. Like, they're waiting for us to force it."
I raised a brow. "So don't force it. You want them to win a chess match? Then stop playing chess. Play football. Fast, direct, cut them open before they set up shop."
"But coach," chimed in Luis, my winger. "Even when we beat their line, they collapse space in the box. Like they know where we're going before we do."
I stared at him. I didn't like what he was implying.
"They don't know," I said sharply. "They're lucky. That's all this is luck and fear. They're too scared to use their best player, and they're babysitting a striker who looks good on paper but doesn't scare me."
I could feel my voice tighten. I hated this. I hated not knowing why things weren't working.
I pointed at the tactical board again.
"Second half, we go in harder. Stop dancing around the edge. Stop waiting for a perfect moment. Create it. Make them uncomfortable. You've got the skill, the speed, the aggression. Use it. You think that striker's doing something magical? No. He's just there. He's present. That's it."
A silence. Not heavy, but hesitant.
Leo finally asked, "But if he's not doing anything… why does it still feel like they're in control?"
I looked at him for a beat too long.
"Because you're letting them," I snapped. "Now fix it. You're better. We're better. Start acting like it."
I walked out first. Not storming, just composed enough to hide the knot in my gut.
Still nil-nil.
But this time… I wasn't laughing anymore.
The second half kicked off under the weight of expectation. The stadium buzzed, restless. Coach Marco's side returned to the pitch sharp, shoulders squared, determined to break the deadlock. The first half had ended goalless, but everything still pointed toward a home victory.
Then the shift happened.
No substitutions. No visible change in shape. But suddenly, the opponent's striker number 9, the one everyone had dismissed as decorative started to drift. No longer stuck between center-backs, he dropped into the half-spaces, drawing markers out like a puppeteer tugging at string.
> Commentator One (Mitch):
"Looks like the number 9's come alive… odd, he's not really leading the line now. Dropping deeper almost like a… trequartista?"
> Commentator Two (Ray):
"It's clever, Mitch. He's dragging the center-backs with him, and that's creating space… look! The wingers are already exploiting it!"
And they were.
The opponent's wingers, once predictable and isolated, began to switch flanks like whirlwinds. Left became right, right became left every five minutes. It wasn't just chaos; it was calculated misdirection.
The home team's fullbacks hesitated. Man or zone? Commit or cover? Each decision split-second and costly.
In the 62nd minute, a slicing pass from the deep-lying number 9 nearly put the right-winger (now on the left) through. The linesman's flag went up. Offside. The referee blew sharp and loud. Relief washed through the home crowd.
> Crowd:
WOOOOOOOH booooo! Come on!
> PA Announcer:
"Offside. Number 11."
But the pressure didn't stop.
By the 70th minute, the home midfield had collapsed into a defensive shell. The striker still scoreless continued to dictate from the edge of the final third, dropping, spinning, feeding, seeing.
> Mitch:
"You know, he hasn't had a shot on target all game… and yet he's running this second half."
> Ray:
"That's the thing about a good trequartista, Mitch. It's not about the stats. It's about the gravity."
Corner after corner, chance after chance, but still, the scoreline stayed stuck at 0–0.
The clock ticked into the 89th minute. Players were cramping. Fans were shifting in their seats. The coaches one animated, the other silent paced opposite sidelines like caged animals.
Then it happened.
A simple pass from the center-back rolled toward the number 9.
He let it run.
The ball passed his foot and sucked in both center-backs, who anticipated a touch. But the striker spun off without the ball an intentional dummy and received the return pass at the top of the box from the left-winger (now on the right, again).
He took one touch, not to shoot, but to draw four players into him.
And then disguised, divine a no-look backheel split the defense.
The right-winger (on the left again) ghosted in.
A flick.
A toe-poke.
A net ripple.
GOAL.
> Commentator Mitch:
"OH MY THAT'S IN! That's in! They've scored in the dying minutes! What a move what a finish!"
> Ray:
"It's that number 9 again. Still no goal, but every fingerprint on that play belongs to him."
> Crowd:
GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAALLLLL!
One side roared. The other fell into stunned silence.
The referee sprinted to the center circle, pointed firmly to the spot. No VAR needed. It was clean. It was perfect.
The fourth official held up the board. +3 minutes.
The home side pressed recklessly, desperate. But the opposition didn't waste time. They didn't stall, didn't sub. They just passed. Short triangles, calm touches. The striker dropped even deeper now, just keeping the ball moving like a conductor guiding his orchestra into silence.
> Mitch:
"They're not even chasing a second… they're just shutting the book."
> Ray:
"And the home side has no answers left in the ink."
The referee looked at his watch. One final hoofed cross was caught by the opposing keeper.
Tweet.
Tweet. Tweet.
Full-time. 0–1.
The whistle echoed.