The bus ride home was chaos singing, chanting, kids banging the windows with victory songs. Jamal finally cracked a smile, Noah shyly took selfies with teammates, and Jerome kept replaying the goals on his phone like he couldn't believe it himself.
Mike sat at the back, earbuds in, looking out the window. But even from where I sat, I could see the faint curve of a grin he couldn't hide.
I didn't tell the boys about Jones Ferdinand's words that morning. Not yet.
They didn't need more pressure. They just needed to enjoy this moment, this proof that East-Bridge weren't nobodies anymore.
I looked out at the night flashing past the bus window. My reflection stared back tired, young, still just a boy. But maybe, just maybe, a coach too.
And in the back of my mind, I knew: the further we went, the heavier it would get.
But right now, all that mattered was this
East-Bridge were in the semifinals.
Monday morning at school felt like walking into a stadium.
The second I stepped through the gates, conversations froze. Heads turned. Whispers rose like a chant.
"That's him."
"East-Bridge's coach."
"Did you see that goal? Mike's second one? Madness."
"Nah, it was Malik. He's the brain. They don't win without him."
I wanted to melt into the ground. My notebook felt heavier in my bag, like it had a spotlight attached.
By the time I reached my locker, Tariq and Jayden were already surrounded. Jayden was reenacting Mike's rocket, arms flailing, voice carrying across the corridor. "Top corner, bro! Keeper didn't even smell it!"
Tariq laughed so loud it echoed. "East-Bridge to the final, trust me! No one can stop us!"
I shook my head, hiding a smile. Confidence was good. Overconfidence? Dangerous.
Noah stood off to the side, clutching his books, red-faced as a group of Year 9s begged him to sign their planners. Jerome tried to walk past unnoticed, but kids clapped his back, shouting "Header King!" until he gave a shy wave.
Even Jamal, normally invisible, got stopped by two sixth-formers asking if he "really trained like that every day." He stammered something about "just doing my job" and hurried away.
And then there was Mike.
He strode down the hall like he owned it, hood down, headphones blasting so loud I could hear the bass. People cleared a path for him. Some cheered his name, others just stared. He didn't smile, didn't wave. Just kept walking, cool as stone.
But I noticed the way his eyes flicked sideways now and then, drinking in the attention even as he pretended not to care.
---
Classes were worse.
In Maths, Mr. Patel wrote a problem on the board, then turned and said, "Before we start, can I just say well done, lads. That was something special. East-Bridge in the semifinals? History."
The class clapped. My ears burned.
In English, Ms. Monroe ditched the poem we were supposed to analyze. "Instead," she said, "I want a two-hundred word reflection on Friday's match. Structure it properly introduction, body, conclusion."
Half the class groaned. The other half cheered. I sat there, pen frozen, realizing I'd have to write about my own team like it was literature.
At lunch, the cafeteria buzzed louder than the stadium had. Kids crowded tables, chanting, replaying clips on their phones, debating tactics like they suddenly had UEFA licenses.
"Mike's goal was pure Ronaldo."
"No, no, Noah's passes changed everything."
"Malik's the real star. He's like Pep Guardiola with homework."
That last one nearly made me choke on my sandwich.
I spotted Mike sitting alone at the edge, chewing slowly, eyes fixed on the table. Even with the school buzzing around him, he looked distant, like he was already somewhere else.
I knew where. The semifinal.
---
Training that evening felt different.
The boys arrived still buzzing, riding the wave of attention. Some had new boots gifts from uncles who suddenly believed in them. Others wore grins so wide I wondered if their faces hurt.
I clapped my hands, pulling them back to earth. "Enjoy the hype, boys. But hype doesn't win semifinals. Discipline does. Work does. You think people are watching now? Wait until Saturday. Everyone will have eyes on us. That means every mistake will be magnified. So tonight we sharpen."
Groans. Eye-rolls. But they obeyed.
We started with sprints, lungs burning. Then rondos, tight and quick. Passing drills until their legs ached.
For set-piece practice, I split them. Noah whipped in corners, Jayden and Jerome crashed headers, Jamal stretched and dived like a man possessed. I rotated free-kick takers Mike with his thunder, Tariq with his curl, even Noah sneaking a cheeky low drive under the wall.
"Who's our best set-piece taker?" I shouted.
They laughed, shouting names, teasing each other. But deep down, I already knew the answer: whoever believed most in the moment.
Finally, I ended with an eleven v eleven. "Two goals, winner stays on," I barked.
They played like their lives depended on it. Tackles flew in, sweat poured, voices clashed. Mike's side won three games straight, mostly thanks to him blasting shots no one dared stand in front of. But I noticed something he passed more tonight. Not often, but enough. Small steps.
When training ended, their shirts clung with sweat, their legs heavy. But their eyes? Alive.
"We're not done yet," I told them as they stretched. "We're not satisfied with semifinals. East-Bridge doesn't just want survival anymore. We want glory."
They roared agreement, fists pumping.
---
That night, I sat at my desk, notebook open, watching highlights of our semifinal opponents Northchester Academy.
They were dangerous. Not Riverside's polish, not Greenfield's chaos. Something colder. Organized. They played like machines every pass crisp, every press suffocating. Their striker, a tall boy named Callum, scored in almost every match. Their coach shouted less than me, but his team moved like they were controlled by one mind.
I scribbled notes furiously. Exploit flanks. Overload wide. Press keeper. Watch Callum mark tight, double if needed.
But as the notes filled the page, I felt the weight pressing down.
Because this wasn't just football anymore.
It was expectation.
From the school. From the community. From Ms. Alvarez, who watched every session from her window. From Jones Ferdinand, whose words still echoed in my head. Youngest ever. Coaching license.
I pressed the pen down harder than I meant to, ink blotting the paper.
For the first time, I wasn't just afraid of losing.
I was afraid of letting everyone down.
---
At school the next day, things only grew heavier.
Reporters had shown up at the gates, snapping pictures of us arriving. Local news wanted interviews. Kids waved makeshift East-Bridge scarves, chanting in the corridors. Even teachers who had ignored the team for years suddenly wore red ties or pins, as if they'd always supported us.
It was flattering. It was terrifying.
Mike brushed past it all, hood up, face set. Tariq thrived in it, joking with cameras, promising hat-tricks. Noah looked like he might faint every time someone pointed a phone at him.
Me? I just kept my head down, clutching my notebook, walking faster, praying no one would call me "Coach" in front of teachers who still gave me homework.
By Friday, the semifinal felt less like a match and more like a storm cloud hanging over everything.
And I couldn't help but wonder
When the whistle blew, would we rise higher again?
Or would the weight finally crush us?