The party didn't stop when we left the locker room. Outside, parents clapped backs, little kids ran up asking for autographs like the boys were pros. The team soaked it in, living their fifteen minutes.
I hung back. I didn't feel like the hero they thought I was. My stomach still twisted with doubt.
Then Kenny showed up. My old strike partner. My best mate before the injury. He walked with that same casual swagger, a grin tugging at his face.
"Feels like the old days, huh?" he said.
"Back when we played instead of shouted from the sidelines," I muttered.
"You still barked like a striker today," he said, laughing.
"More like panicked like one."
Kenny nudged me. "Nah, you did good. Don't let Alvarez scare you. She's stone on the outside, but she wants this team to succeed. She just won't say it."
I wasn't sure. But I nodded anyway.
---
Later that night, the team gathered at Tariq's cousin's café nothing fancy, just plastic chairs and cheap fries. They replayed the match in loud voices, arms flailing, laughing over mistakes they got away with.
Everyone except Mike.
He sat at the far end, scrolling his phone, not saying a word. Every time someone mentioned the goal, his jaw clenched tighter.
Finally, he stood, knocking his chair back. The chatter died instantly.
"You all think this is special," he said, voice low but sharp. "But you only won because the other team underestimated you. Next time, when they come prepared? You'll get crushed. And when that happens, don't come crying to your little rookie coach."
The room fell silent.
I stood. Not angry. Just calm. "Mike, you're a talented player. Everyone here knows it. But talent without trust doesn't win games. Today proved that."
His smirk faltered. He glanced at the others, but no one backed him. Not tonight.
He grabbed his jacket and left, the café door slamming hard enough to rattle the glass.
The boys looked back at me. Waiting. Testing.
"Eat your fries," I said finally. "Next match is in six days."
Laughter rippled, and the noise returned. But deep down, I knew Mike wasn't done. Not by a long shot.
---
That night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling. The roar of the crowd still echoed in my ears. But louder than that was the whisper of doubt.
What if it was a fluke? What if next time, we collapsed?
Then I remembered Jamal's fingertip save, Jerome's backheel, Jayden and David switching wings like whirlwinds. That wasn't luck. That was belief.
Maybe that's all I needed to give them. Belief.
Still, one thought pressed heavy on my chest as I drifted into restless sleep:
Monday morning, Ms. Alvarez would decide if I was truly a coach… or just a kid playing at one.
---
Monday morning smelled like nerves and cheap coffee.
I stood outside the council building in my only decent jacket hand-me-down from my uncle, sleeves too long, collar too wide. My knee brace itched beneath my jeans, but I didn't scratch. I needed to look composed. Coach-like.
Inside, the council chamber looked like a courtroom for people who hated football. A long wooden table, stacks of paperwork, and faces that had never sweated under floodlights.
Ms. Alvarez sat at the center, sharp as always, flanked by two board members: Mr. Dalton, whose bald head gleamed under the lights, and Ms. Chen, who looked like she was grading my soul with every blink.
"Malik Amari," Ms. Alvarez said, reading off a file. "Age fifteen. Former East-Bridge Youth striker. Injury ended your career four years ago. Now you claim you can coach the U-16s."
Her tone wasn't hostile. Just cold.
"Yes, ma'am," I said. My voice almost cracked, but I caught it.
Mr. Dalton snorted. "He's still a boy himself. How can he coach boys his own age?"
"I'm not asking to coach forever," I replied quickly. "Just to give them a chance. You said it yourself if no one steps up, the team folds. They deserve better than that."
Ms. Chen leaned forward. "And what qualifications do you have? Any badges? Certifications?"
My throat tightened. "No. Just experience. I study tactics every day. I know these players their strengths, their weaknesses. I can make them a team."
Mr. Dalton smirked. "Anyone can scribble on a chalkboard."
I clenched my fists under the table. "Not anyone can beat West-Bridge."
That silenced him for a moment.
Ms. Alvarez watched me carefully. "One upset doesn't make you a coach. But…" She glanced at her colleagues. "It does buy you time. The council is willing to extend provisional recognition. You'll act as interim coach until the end of the season."
My chest lifted, but she wasn't finished.
"However. There are conditions. You will attend coaching workshops once a week. You will submit match reports and training logs. And most importantly you will keep this team disciplined. No scandals. No fighting. No excuses."
I nodded quickly. "Yes, ma'am. Whatever it takes."
Mr. Dalton muttered, "This will blow up in our faces."
Ms. Alvarez ignored him. "Very well. East-Bridge U-16 survives. Malik Amari, you are " she paused, as if weighing the words " coach. Interim."
It should have felt like triumph. Instead, it felt like a whistle blowing before kickoff. The real game was just beginning.
---
Outside, Kenny was waiting on the steps.
"Well?" he asked.
I grinned. "I'm the coach. Interim. Whatever that means."
He clapped my back. "Means you're stuck with us. Training starts tomorrow, yeah?"
I nodded, though my stomach twisted again. Training. Strategy. Keeping them all together. Especially Mike.
Especially Mike.
---
The next afternoon, the cracked concrete pitch looked different. Not just a place for kickabouts anymore. This was our training ground.
The boys trickled in, some still giddy from Saturday, some dragging their feet like they'd rather be anywhere else.
"Alright, listen up!" I shouted. The voice came out stronger than I expected. They gathered, forming a loose semicircle.
"No more playground football. No more star players doing whatever they want. From today, we train as a unit. Controlled Chaos. That's the system. Everyone presses. Everyone covers. Everyone runs."
A few groans. Mike, standing with his arms crossed, muttered, "Sounds like slave labor."
I ignored him. "You'll hate it at first. It's hard. It's tiring. But if you commit, it will make you stronger than any team we face."
Jayden grinned. "So what's first, coach?"
I smirked. "Fitness. Laps."
Groans erupted, but they ran. Even Mike. Slowly. Complaining. But he ran.
As I watched them circle the pitch, something shifted in my chest. Not fear. Not doubt. Something new.
Responsibility.
This wasn't just a hobby anymore. These were my players. My team. And if I was going to keep them alive in this league, I'd have to grow faster than any of them.
The whistle hung heavy around my neck. But when I blew it, the sound cut sharp and clear across the pitch.
For the first time, it felt like it belonged to me.