The locker room was hushed. Only the rustle of jerseys being pulled on and the faint squeak of boots against the tile floor filled the space.
Arthur sat on the wooden bench, lacing his boots carefully, fingers trembling more than he cared to admit. Around him, his teammates prepared in their own ways: Adrian stretched with a predator's grin, Thomas muttered a quick prayer under his breath, and Darren bounced his knee restlessly like a caged bird.
Coach Darius stood at the front of the room, arms folded, his steady gaze sweeping over each player. "You all know your roles. We've drilled them a hundred times this week. Today isn't about brilliance—it's about discipline. Stay compact, don't lose your markers, and play with purpose. The goal will come if we earn it."
His eyes flicked briefly toward Arthur. "Hayes, you're starting on the bench. Be ready. Watch the flow of the game. If I call on you, I expect you to know exactly what needs doing."
Arthur nodded quickly. "Yes, Coach."
Relief and disappointment swirled inside him. He wasn't thrown to the wolves right away, but he wasn't hidden either. This was Darius's way—neutral, fair. If Arthur proved himself in training and on the pitch, he'd get his chance. Nothing more, nothing less.
The walk to the tunnel made Arthur's stomach churn. The roar of the crowd bled into his ears even before they emerged. The Hayes crest—once a symbol of nobility and dominance—looked strangely heavy on his teammates' chests. They carried not only their own ambitions, but the burden of a fallen house.
When they stepped onto the pitch, Arthur blinked against the sunlight. The stadium wasn't massive, but every seat seemed filled. Flags rippled. Drums pounded from the rival supporters' section. He spotted one banner that made his chest tighten:
"Ravenworth Rising."
Cedric's family. Even when they weren't playing Hayes today, their shadow loomed over every match.
Arthur clenched his fists. Soon.
The whistle blew.
Arthur sat on the bench, heart hammering in his chest as the match began. The first minutes were a blur of noise, tackles, and hurried passes. From his low vantage point, he saw things differently than in training—the speed, the pressure, the way even a single touch had to be perfect under the eyes of hundreds.
The system flickered faintly in his mind:
[Observation Mode: Active]Scanning Player Movements…]
Ghostly outlines traced across the field. Adrian's runs, Thomas's positioning, Darren's tendency to drift too far inside. It wasn't overwhelming, but it was subtle guidance, sharpening his awareness.
"Come on, Adrian!" Darren shouted as he whipped in a cross. Too high. Too far. The rival keeper plucked it from the air like plucking an apple from a tree.
Arthur winced. Too predictable. Darren didn't disguise it.
Coach Darius muttered, arms folded. "Cross earlier. He had the space."
Minutes bled into each other. Hayes held their ground, but only barely. Their backline was rigid, yet under constant pressure. Jordan, the goalkeeper, made two crucial saves, one diving low to his right, another palming a shot over the bar.
Arthur gripped the bench so tightly his knuckles whitened. He wasn't even playing, yet his shirt was damp with sweat.
"Arthur," Marcus called from the field during a throw-in, flashing a quick grin toward the bench. "Eyes open for me, eh?"
Arthur nodded, though Marcus was already turned back to the match. It was like Marcus trusted him, even here, even as a spectator.
Ironclad academy scored in the 27th minute.
It wasn't a masterpiece—just sloppy marking. Their striker slipped between Ewan and Kelvin, heading home a simple cross. Ironclad supporters erupted in cheers, their chants thundering across the pitch.
Arthur felt the weight sink into his chest. He glanced at Coach Darius, expecting a furious outburst. But the man only scribbled something on his clipboard, his face as calm as stone.
"Regroup," Darius shouted evenly. "Stay compact. Don't chase."
On the field, Clovis threw his arms up, glaring at Lucas. "Where were you? You lost your man!"
Lucas bit back. "He ran across your side, Clovis!"
The argument nearly cost them another chance before Thomas snapped, "Focus, both of you!"
Arthur ground his teeth. Clovis always found someone else to blame. If Arthur had been on the pitch, no doubt the finger would've been pointed at him.
By halftime, the score was still 1–0.
The Hayes players trudged into the locker room, some with their heads down, others with fire in their eyes. Arthur followed silently, his chest aching with the urge to do something.
Coach Darius stood calmly as the players slumped onto benches. He waited until the room was silent.
"You're not out of this," Darius said firmly. "One goal is nothing. But if you lose your discipline again, it will be three. Stop blaming. Stop shouting. Play as a unit. Hayes doesn't crumble."
His gaze swept over them, then settled briefly on Arthur again. The look wasn't long, but it was enough to send a current through him. Be ready.
Arthur clenched his fists. His first half as a bench player had been torture, but he had watched. He had learned. Ironclad's fullbacks overcommitted when pressing. Their midfield left gaps when switching play. If—no, when—his chance came, he had ideas.
The system chimed softly in his mind:
Ding!
[First Half Observed: Tactical Awareness +1.0][Note: Preparedness will influence performance if substituted in]
Arthur exhaled slowly. His time was coming.
And when it did, he wouldn't waste it.