The league table was posted on the wall of the Crestwood changing room. Coach Shaw had circled two numbers in red marker.
Crestwood: 26 Riverton: 23
"Three points," Shaw said, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. "That is the width of a piece of paper. It can be one bad tackle. One slip. One moment of arrogance."
He turned to face the squad. They looked different from the boys who had lifted the trophy last year. They were broader, scarred, and always covered in mud. The flair was gone, replaced by a grim efficiency.
"Today is Linton away," Shaw continued. "They are seventh. They have nothing to play for, which makes them dangerous. They would love to be the team that cost you the title. Riverton are playing Eastfield today, and they will win. If we drop points, they catch us. Don't give them that satisfaction."
Callum tightened his captain's armband. He looked at Mason, who was staring at the floor, lost in his pre-match trance. "Let's go," Callum said, standing up. "Standard service. Clean sheet. One goal. Home."
The match at Linton brought back memories of Ethan's departure. The pitch was narrow and bumpy and surrounded by a hostile crowd of parents who still remembered Crestwood winning the title on their ground last year.
From the first whistle, it was clear that the "Heavy Metal" machine was not working well.
Linton didn't hold back. They matched Crestwood's physical style. When Mason went into a tackle, he faced equal force. When Callum chased a long ball, he got pushed into the advertising boards.
The game turned into a series of fouls and throw-ins. There was no rhythm.
In the 32nd minute, disaster hit.
Mason committed a foul on the edge of the box—a clumsy, frustrated challenge. The Linton winger took the free kick and curled it over the wall. It wasn't a great shot, but the Crestwood keeper slipped in the mud. The ball bounced awkwardly and found its way into the corner.
1-0 Linton.
For the first time in months, Crestwood was behind.
Panic set in. The "Heavy Metal" style depended on leading and controlling the game. Chasing a match required creativity, patience, and vision—all the things they had given up in favor of efficiency.
"Forward!" Callum shouted, waving his arms. "Just get it forward!"
They tried. They kicked long balls, but the Linton defenders handled them easily. Ryan attempted to dribble but ran straight into traffic. Mason tried to force passes that weren't there.
Halftime arrived like a mercy. 1-0 down.
In the changing room, Shaw didn't shout. He kicked a water bottle across the room, creating a spray that silenced everyone.
"You look like strangers," Shaw said sharply. "You're panicking. You're trying to force the long ball every time. They know it's coming! They are laughing at you!"
He turned to Callum. "You're the captain. Fix it."
Callum stood up. He looked at his teammates. He noticed the mud on his boots. He realized Shaw was right. They were trying to be a machine, but the machine was broken. They needed a spark. They needed a moment of... Ethan.
"Stop kicking it long," Callum said, his voice surprisingly calm. "Mason, stop trying to win headers every time. Drop short. Get the ball. Ryan, don't run into walls. Look for the overlap."
He took a deep breath. "We play football. Just for ten minutes. Let's actually pass the ball. Can we do that?"
Mason nodded, his jaw set. "We can do that."
The second half began.
It wasn't Barcelona. It wasn't even the Crestwood of last season. But it was better. Mason stopped running forward and began linking play. He made simple, short passes to feet. The Linton defenders, expecting a barrage of long balls, were caught off guard.
In the 65th minute, the patience paid off.
Mason collected the ball in midfield. Instead of launching it, he turned and made a sharp pass to Ryan. Ryan, finding space for the first time, drove to the byline and cut it back.
Callum was there. He didn't smash it. He guided it into the bottom corner with the side of his foot.
1-1.
"Get the ball!" Callum yelled, rushing into the net to grab it. "We're not done!"
The last twenty minutes were agonizing. Crestwood pushed for the winner, but Linton defended fiercely.
85 minutes. 1-1.
88 minutes. 1-1.
On the sideline, Shaw paced like a caged tiger. A draw would leave them only one point clear of Riverton, with a much worse goal difference. It felt like a loss.
In the 90th minute, Mason won the ball deep in his own half. He looked up and saw Callum making a run—not into the channel, but dropping deep, pulling a defender with him.
Mason didn't pass to Callum. He saw the space Callum had opened behind the defense.
"Ryan! Go!" Mason shouted.
He sent a pass—not a hopeful ball, but a driven, diagonal switch. It was the kind of pass Ethan could make in his sleep.
Ryan sprinted and reached the ball just before it crossed the line. He had no support. Callum was too deep. Mason was too far back.
Ryan improvised. Instead of crossing, he cut inside the full-back, looked at the goal from a tight angle, and toe-poked it.
It was a scruffy, desperate shot. It hit the near post, bounced along the line, hit the far post, and trickled in.
GOAL.
2-1 Crestwood.
The noise from the Crestwood bench was deafening. Ryan disappeared under a pile of bodies. Mason sprinted the length of the pitch to join the huddle. Even Shaw allowed himself a fist pump.
The final whistle blew moments later.
In the changing room, relief was in the air. It wasn't triumph; it was survival.
"Riverton won," Shaw announced, looking at his phone. "5-0 against Eastfield."
The room went quiet. 5-0. Riverton was doing well.
"They think they've caught us," Shaw said, a dark smile appearing. "But they haven't. We are still three points clear. We are still the Kings."
Callum sat in the corner, scraping mud off his boots. He was exhausted. His legs ached. He took out his phone.
To: Ethan 2-1. Last-minute winner. We nearly threw it away. Riverton won 5-0.
A minute later, the reply came.
Ethan: Three points is three points. Champions win when they play badly. That's the rule.
Callum showed the phone to Mason. "He's right," Mason grunted as he pulled his shirt over his head. "But I'm getting too old for this. My heart can't take it."
Callum laughed, leaning back against the wall. "Four games left, Mase. Just four more battles."
"Joy," Mason said flatly. "Can't wait."