The final week of training felt like no other. At Crestwood, there was an edge in the air. Every sprint, every pass, every whistle from Coach Warren carried the weight of the championship.
"Don't forget what's at stake," Warren barked as the players lined up for sprints. "One game. Ninety minutes. That's what separates us from glory. Train like champions, and you'll play like champions."
Practice was hard work. Sweat glued Ethan's shirt to him as he did drill after drill. He worked on his passing, grabbing balls off Callum's feet under pressure. Mason organized the rondos, yelling, "Faster! Tighter! Don't give them a second!" Callum went for elaborate finishes on shooting drills, dead set on proving that he'd be the one to score them to victory.
When they were practicing set pieces, Warren made his point. "Westford don't give much away, but we can hurt them if we catch them cold. Ethan, watch for Callum's breaks. Mason, time your arrivals late. That's where we can damage them."
The boys sat down on the grass after the session, their faces worn but focused. Ethan lifted himself up, gasping, and said softly, "We can do it. I know we can."
Meanwhile, across town, Westford trained with the same intensity. Their ground was pristine, their drills precise. Their coach, a tall man with a booming voice, paced the sideline.
"Crestwood think they can outplay us? We'll show them who runs this league. Discipline. Shape. Work for each other."
Westford's defenders practiced tirelessly. Dispossessing crosses, deflecting corners out, stopping attackers in one-on-ones. Their tall captain center-back shouted above the chaos: "No room for Matthews. No easy balls for Reid. Stop them and we win."
In midfield, Westford players streamed through press patterns, overloading the ball in twos and threes. Their top scorer turned opportunity after opportunity into cash with clinical ruthlessness. The keeper yelled encouragement, saving and then yelling straight away instructions at his back four.
Where Crestwood practice had been in flair and pace of movement, Westford's had been in discipline and sheer weight. Two different approaches, both tempered to the same payoff.
As the week wound down, Ethan sat in the changing room after their last training session. Callum bounced a ball against the wall, Mason leaned against the bench, arms folded.
"Tomorrow," Ethan said quietly, "it's all on us."
Mason nodded. "We've worked too hard to let it slip."
Callum smirked. "And I'm not letting them stop me from scoring. No chance."
Ethan smiled, but his eyes were hard. The practice hours, the months of relentless effort, it all came down to a single game. Down the street, Westford thought the same thing.
One pitch. One whistle. One champion.