Morning: Malik is summoned to Ms. Alvarez's office, where Jones Ferdinand is waiting. Ferdinand praises Malik, tells him about arranging his fast-tracked coaching license after the tournament, which would make him the youngest ever. Malik leaves stunned, heavier with both pride and pressure.
Afternoon: The quarterfinal match begins. East-Bridge fight bravely, and in the second half, Mike scores a stunning goal (a long-range banger) to make it 1–0.
The game builds with tension Greenfield pressing, East-Bridge defending with everything.
In the 90th minute, Greenfield win a penalty. The chapter ends just as their striker steps up to take it, leaving the cliffhanger.
Here's the expanded Chapter 6 draft (about 1800 words, human tone):
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Chapter 6: Whistles and Shadows
I didn't expect to be called into Ms. Alvarez's office on match day.
Usually, mornings before a game were mine time to scribble arrows in my notebook, pace the floor, calm the fire in my stomach. But when her assistant caught me outside school and said, "Ms. Alvarez wants to see you," I didn't argue. You don't keep Alvarez waiting.
Her office smelled like coffee and old wood. Papers stacked high, certificates framed on the wall. She sat behind her desk, sharp-eyed as ever. But this time, I wasn't alone.
A tall man stood beside her, hands in pockets, smile calm but confident.
It took me half a second to recognize him, then my breath caught.
Jones Ferdinand.
The Jones Ferdinand. Ex-England defender. Champions League winner. Premier League legend. A man whose analysis I'd stayed up watching past midnight, whose name still carried weight on any pitch in the country.
He turned when I entered, sizing me up. "So this is him," he said.
I froze. "M-me?"
"Sit, Malik," Ms. Alvarez said briskly. "We don't have much time."
I sat, knee brace squeaking as I shifted. My heart hammered like it wanted to tear out of my chest.
Ferdinand leaned against the desk. "I don't usually chase kids through council offices, you know. But you you've caused quite a stir. Riverside, four-one? That's not just an upset. That's tactical work. I've watched clips. You don't stumble into that. You planned it."
I swallowed hard. "It was the boys. They executed."
He chuckled. "And who gave them the blueprint? Don't undersell yourself. You've got an eye, Malik. You see the game differently. And that's something this country doesn't have enough of."
I blinked at him, unsure what to say.
Ms. Alvarez cut in. "Mr. Ferdinand has connections. He believes you should pursue coaching properly. Licenses, certifications."
Ferdinand nodded. "After the tournament, I'll set it up. Fast-track. You'd be the youngest to ever attempt it, if you pass. No promises you'll have to earn it. But the opportunity will be there."
My mouth opened, then closed again. Words failed me. Youngest ever? Me?
"I why me?" I finally managed.
He smiled faintly. "Because football isn't just about who kicks the ball the hardest. It's about who understands it. And kid… you understand it. Better than coaches twice your age."
Silence hung for a beat. Then Ms. Alvarez folded her arms. "Don't let this distract you. Whatever happens today, tomorrow, or in this tournament focus on your team first. Do you understand?"
"Yes, ma'am," I said quickly.
Ferdinand clapped me lightly on the shoulder. "Good luck today, Coach. Show them Riverside wasn't a fluke."
And then he was gone, leaving me sitting in Alvarez's office with my heart still thundering.
Coaching license. Youngest ever. Me.
It was hope and pressure all at once, heavier than any weight I'd carried before.
---
By the time I reached the stadium with the team, the roar of the crowd drowned out everything else.
Greenfield's fans were loud, drums echoing, chants rolling like waves. Our side was smaller, but fierce parents, neighbors, kids from school waving scraps of red and white cloth like flags.
In the dressing room, the boys bounced with nervous energy. Boots clattered against the floor, laughter mixed with mutters. I drew the formation one last time on the whiteboard.
"4-2-3-1. Same press as always. Watch the wings. Don't let them run free. Jerome drop when needed. Jayden, David switch often. Mike " I looked him in the eye. "Lead us. But share when the pass is on."
He smirked, but didn't argue.
"Remember," I said, voice steady, "this isn't about proving Riverside was luck. It's about proving we belong. Play for each other. Fight for each other. No stars, no passengers. Just us."
They roared, fists in the air.
The tunnel swallowed us in echo and tension. Greenfield lined up beside us, taller, sharper, their captain glaring straight ahead. Our boys bounced on their toes, eyes wide, fists clenched.
The referee blew. We walked out. The noise hit like a wave.
The first half was a blur of tackles and tension. Greenfield came at us fast, just as I'd scouted. Long balls, quick breaks, heavy aerial duels. Jamal had to dive twice early to punch clear crosses.
But we didn't fold. Tariq and Jayden bit into every sprint, Jerome dropped deep to link play, Noah tucked in to cover when needed. Piece by piece, we steadied.
Then came the moment.
In the 62nd minute, Jayden won a throw near midfield. He launched it forward. Mike controlled, muscled past one defender, spun another. Space opened twenty-five yards out.
"Shoot!" someone screamed.
And Mike did.
His right boot thundered through the ball. It arced like a bullet, dipping, swerving, slamming into the top corner before their keeper even twitched.
The stadium erupted.
"GOOOOOAL!" our fans screamed, voices cracking.
Mike sprinted to the corner flag, arms out wide, roaring like he'd just silenced the world. His teammates swarmed him, jumping, shoving, laughing. Even I couldn't hold back I punched the air, lungs burning with the shout that tore out of me.
1–0. East-Bridge.
But joy in football is always fragile.
---
The minutes crawled after that. Greenfield grew desperate. They threw men forward, whipping in cross after cross. Jamal saved one with his chest, Ricky warmed up nervously on the sideline, and every clearance felt like a countdown.
"Stay compact!" I screamed, voice hoarse. "Every man behind the ball! No free runs!"
My boys fought like warriors. Tariq threw his body in front of a shot. Jerome tracked back fifty yards to block a cross. Even Mike furious at being denied service sprinted to close down their keeper.
But Greenfield didn't stop.
The board went up: +4 minutes. The crowd groaned. My chest tightened.
In the 90th minute, it happened.
Their winger burst down the right, slipped past Trent, cut inside. He swung his leg to cross. The ball struck Sam's arm.
The whistle blew.
Penalty.
The stadium split in two our fans booing, theirs roaring. My players surrounded the ref, shouting, arms waving. I screamed at them to back off, to focus. But inside, my stomach twisted.
Their striker, Lucas, stepped up. Calm. Confident. He placed the ball carefully on the spot, then stood back, eyes locked on Jamal.
The noise faded into a dull roar in my ears. I could barely breathe.
"Come on, Jamal," I whispered.
The referee blew his whistle. Lucas ran forward.
His boot met the ball.
To be continued…