The morning after Riverside didn't feel real.
I woke up half-expecting someone to tell me it was just a dream, that we'd been thrashed five–nil and the newspaper had printed the wrong scoreline. But no. The paper lay right there on the kitchen table, the front page smudged with my mum's fingerprints.
"EAST-BRIDGE STUN RIVERSIDE 4–1."
My name wasn't in the headline why would it be? Coaches don't get their names printed, not at this level. But still, my chest tightened when I read the words. For the first time since my injury, East-Bridge and the word victory shared the same sentence.
Mum noticed me staring. "Don't let it get to your head," she said, sipping her tea. "They'll expect more from you now."
She was right. That was the problem.
School didn't help.
The moment I stepped through the gates, I felt it. Heads turning. Whispers. Nudges. Yesterday I was the kid with the brace who scribbled football notes in the back of class. Today? I was the boy who had somehow outsmarted Riverside.
"Yo, Coach Malik!" someone shouted from across the yard.
I cringed. Tariq came jogging over, grinning like he hadn't stopped since the final whistle. "Man, you should've seen Riverside's faces. Like they'd just been robbed. Priceless."
I shook my head, laughing under my breath. "You should be in class, not running commentary."
"Even teachers are buzzing," he said. "We're legends right now."
He wasn't wrong.
In first period, Mr. Langley paused mid-roll call, adjusted his glasses, and clapped. "Congratulations, boys," he said, eyes flicking to me and Tariq. "You've put East-Bridge on the map again."
The class applauded. I wanted to sink into the floor.
Not everyone was clapping, though.
Mike sat slouched in his chair, hood up, earphones in, staring out the window like the applause was an insult aimed directly at him.
By lunch, the cafeteria was a circus. Kids banged trays like drums, chanting "East-Bridge! East-Bridge!" like we were still in the stadium. Jamal sat quietly in the corner, barely touching his food, eyes wide at the attention. Noah got mobbed for autographs on napkins actual napkins after scoring two penalties.
Jayden and David loved it, of course. They signed their names like they were celebrities. "One day this'll be worth millions," Jayden bragged, handing his messy scrawl back to a freshman.
I laughed, but part of me worried. Victories fade. Hype fades faster. What wouldn't fade was how much we still had left to prove.
And Mike wasn't even in the room.
I found him later, out by the fence near the field, juggling a ball alone. Each touch sharp, precise, angry.
"You skipped lunch," I said.
"Wasn't hungry." He didn't look up.
"You scored too, Mike. You were important yesterday."
He trapped the ball under his boot, finally meeting my eyes. "Doesn't feel like it. Everyone's talking about Noah, about Jerome. About them. I'm the one who drew the fouls. I'm the one who broke their defense. And still " he shook his head. "No one cares."
I swallowed. He wasn't completely wrong. But he was missing the point.
"You're not invisible," I said. "You're good. Maybe the most talented player we have. But talent without trust doesn't win games. Yesterday proved that. Noah finished because he trusted you. Jerome scored because the team worked around him. You want to be remembered? Lead them, Mike. Not just yourself."
His jaw tightened. He looked away. "You don't get it. Alvarez only lets you play coach. That's not real."
I didn't argue. Sometimes it's better to let words hang than to force them.
But as I walked away, I thought: he's wrong. It is real. And that scares him.
Training that evening felt different too. The boys came in buzzing, talking about the next round, already dreaming of quarterfinals. I had to drag them back to earth.
"Celebrate tomorrow," I told them. "Tonight we work. If Riverside can bleed, so can Greenfield. But if you slack now, you'll be the ones bleeding next."
That shut them up.
I started light recovery stretches, rondos, ball circulation. Nothing too heavy. Their legs still carried yesterday's war. But the energy was sharp. Jayden chased every pass like it was life or death. Tariq pushed him harder, refusing to lose. Darnell barked orders mid-drill, surprising me with a voice I hadn't heard before leadership in the making.
Even Jerome moved differently. More confident. He wasn't just the boy who once sat in Mike's shadow anymore. He was the boy who'd scored the dagger against Riverside.
And Mike… well, Mike joined in. But every misplaced pass, every touch that didn't go his way, I saw his fists clench tighter.
At the end, I gathered them.
"You fought well yesterday. But the tournament doesn't stop for us. Greenfield won't roll over. They're direct, they counter fast, and they love balls in the air. If we don't own the midfield, we're dead."
They nodded, eyes focused now. Even Mike.
I dismissed them, but pulled Noah aside.
"You kept your head from the spot," I said. "Twice. Don't let it get to your head, but know this we'll need you again."
He blushed, nodding quickly. "Yes, coach."
That word still sounded strange. Coach. But I didn't correct him.
Later, after the boys left, I stayed behind. The sun dipped low, painting the pitch orange. My notebook rested on my knees, pages crowded with arrows and circles. My phone buzzed beside me, playing Greenfield highlights again and again.
They were sharp. Quick wingers, strikers who thrived on chaos. But their midfield? Thin. Spaces between the lines. If we pressed hard and trapped wide, they'd crack.
"Controlled Chaos will eat them alive," I muttered, scribbling. "High press, fast rotations, flood the half-spaces."
Kenny wandered over, tossing me a bottle of water. "You look like you're studying for finals."
"In a way, I am," I said.
He chuckled. "Difference is, you're the teacher now."
I smiled faintly, but in my chest I felt the truth: I was still learning, one drill, one mistake, one night at a time.
Meanwhile, in her office, Ms. Alvarez stood by her window again. The council chambers were quiet, papers stacked neatly on her desk. But her eyes weren't on them.
She watched the empty pitch outside, the faint echo of the boys' laughter still clinging to the air.
For the first time in years, she saw more than just a team running from disbandment. She saw discipline. Unity. A spark.
Her lips curved into the faintest grin.
"Maybe," she whispered, "this boy really does know what he's doing."
That night, lying in bed, I couldn't sleep. Not from nerves this time. From something else.
Hope.
Tomorrow, the grind continued. School, training, scouting. The quarterfinal was days away, and the world expected us to crumble again.
But deep down, I knew something had changed.
We weren't just playing to survive anymore.
We were playing to matter.