Tech High was less a football team and more a construction crew in jerseys.
Their average height was six-two. Their calves were the size of holiday hams. They stood in the tunnel, banging their cleats against the concrete floor.
CLACK. CLACK. CLACK.
It sounded like a military march.
"They're feeding them steroids," Dylan whispered, adjusting his gloves. "I swear to god, their striker has a beard. A full lumberjack beard. He's sixteen!"
Marcus Kane tightened his ponytail. He looked pale but focused. "They play 'Tower Defense,' Soccer. They don't run much. They park the bus, form a wall, and rely on set pieces. Corners, free kicks. They muscle the ball into the net."
Soccer looked at the giants.
He was re-tying his Copa Mundials for the fourth time.
"So they are rocks," Soccer said.
"Moving rocks," Marcus corrected. "Big, heavy, mean rocks."
Soccer stood up. He stomped his feet. He shook his arms out, loose and rubbery.
"Rocks don't move when the wind hits them," Soccer murmured, his eyes glassy. "But if the wind is fast enough... rocks erode."
Coach Cross clapped his hands. "Let's go. Don't let them intimidate you. Size is just a bigger target to miss."
First Half: 10 Minutes In.
It was suffocating.
Tech High played a formation that looked like a brick. 5-4-1. Five defenders in a line. Four midfielders right in front of them.
There was no space. No air.
Every time Northwood tried to pass, a massive Tech player just stood in the way.
THUD.
Elijah Storm bounced off a midfielder's chest like a tennis ball hitting a wall.
"Foul!" Elijah yelled.
"Play on," the referee signaled. Standing still isn't a foul. Being enormous isn't a crime.
Soccer stood near the penalty box, surrounded by three defenders who looked like bouncers at a biker bar. They weren't holding him. They were just occupying existence around him.
"You're trapped, little man," one of them grunted. Number 12. The Beard.
Soccer looked at him.
Usually, Soccer smiled. He joked. He asked about their lunch or their shoes.
Today?
His face was blank.
He was thinking about a white ball falling from the sky. He was thinking about a matte black car and a boy who "killed" momentum.
Kai stops time.
Soccer watched the ball rolling slowly toward Marcus.
I have to move faster than time.
"Hey," Soccer said to Number 12.
"What?"
"Don't blink."
Marcus passed the ball. It was a simple ground pass intended for the winger.
Soccer intercepted his own team's pass.
He exploded.
This wasn't the Ghost Step. That was about stealth.
This wasn't the Storm Dribble. That was about chaos.
This was The Gale.
Sheer, unadulterated velocity.
Soccer touched the ball forward. He ran.
Number 12 stepped in to block him. "Going nowh—"
Soccer didn't juke. He didn't go around.
He kicked the ball through Number 12's open legs—the Nutmeg.
Standard move. Except Soccer didn't slow down to collect it. He dove.
He turned his body sideways in mid-air, sliding through the gap between Number 12 and Number 5 like a piece of paper slipping through a door crack.
He popped up on the other side.
He collected the ball.
"Breach!" the Tech goalkeeper shouted. "Collapse!"
Three defenders turned. The Wall was closing in. They were going to crush him.
Soccer saw the space closing. A triangle of beefy limbs shutting down the light.
Kai would stop here, Soccer thought. He would freeze the ball, make them miss, and shoot.
Soccer grit his teeth.
No stops.
He sped up.
He drove the ball directly into the collision point.
Ricochet Dribble.
He kicked the ball against Number 4's shin. Hard.
The ball bounced off the shin, hit Soccer's knee, bounced to Number 6's ankle, and popped back into the air.
It was chaos calculated in milliseconds.
While the defenders were reacting to the pinballing object, Soccer was already moving to where the ball would be.
He chest-bumped the ball out of the air, vaulting over a sliding tackle.
He was in the box.
The keeper—six-foot-five, wingspan of an albatross—spread out.
"MINE!" the keeper roared.
Soccer didn't plant his foot to shoot. Planting takes 0.2 seconds.
He shot while running. A toe-poke at full sprint.
The Cobra Strike.
Fast. Unexpected. No wind-up.
The ball rocketed off his toe.
It flew between the keeper's ear and shoulder. A space of maybe four inches.
SSSSHHH-POW.
The net ripped back.
GOAL.
Northwood: 1 - Tech High: 0
Soccer didn't celebrate. He didn't do a backflip.
He ran into the net, grabbed the ball, and ran back to the center circle. He placed it on the dot.
"Again," Soccer said.
The Tech High defenders looked at each other. They were used to speed. They weren't used to violence. That run wasn't elegant. It felt like being in a car crash that only hit the ball.
Halftime.
Northwood: 2 - Tech High: 0.
Soccer sat on the bench, chugging water. He was vibrating. His leg bounced up and down so fast it blurred.
"You're rushing," Coach Cross said, standing over him. "You're playing frantic. You're forcing the issue."
"I have to," Soccer gasped, wiping sweat. "If I slow down, I lose."
"You're winning 2-0."
"Not this game." Soccer looked up, eyes wild. "The game in my head. He's watching, Coach. Even if he's not here. The perfect boy is watching."
Cross sighed. He knew this look. It was the look of a player who had found his Rival. The person who makes you crazy. The person who makes you better. Or breaks you.
"Tech High is adapting," Cross warned the team. "They know they can't stop Soccer with a wall anymore. So they're going to the air. Long balls. Crosses. They're going to bypass the midfield entirely."
Marcus nodded. "We need to clear the headers. But they're taller than us."
"Soccer," Cross said.
"Yeah?"
"How are your jumping legs?"
Soccer crushed the paper cup in his hand.
"Spring-loaded."
Second Half.
Tech High changed tactics.
"Launch it!" their coach screamed.
Every time they got the ball, they punted it high. High, towering arcs into the Northwood box.
It was bombardment.
Marcus battled, but he was giving up four inches of height to The Beard.
Tech High won a corner kick.
Their entire team lumbered into the box. It looked like a forest of red jerseys.
"Box them out!" Dylan screamed, looking tiny in goal.
The kick sailed in. High. Curving. Aimed right for the penalty spot where three giants were waiting.
The Beard jumped. He had a clear header. This was a guaranteed goal.
Then, a black blur launched from the edge of the box.
Soccer ran.
He stepped on Marcus's lower back.
"Oof!" Marcus grunted.
Soccer used his captain as a stepladder.
The Mountain Goat Leap.
He flew.
He rose above the pack. He rose above The Beard. He rose until his waist was level with their heads.
He hung in the air, defying gravity for a sick, beautiful second.
He didn't head the ball away.
He caught it with his chest.
Mid-air. At the peak of his jump.
He controlled the ball, twisting his body, and landed lightly on the grass outside the scrum.
The Tech players landed heavily, looking around. Where's the ball?
Soccer was already twenty yards away.
"Counter!" Luna screamed from the sideline.
This was it. The entire Tech High team was in the Northwood box. The field was open prairie.
Soccer sprinted.
The ball stayed glued to his feet. He was running faster with the ball than most players ran without it.
One defender left. The sweeper.
He was backpedaling, terrified.
Soccer didn't use a technique. He didn't use a fancy name.
He just burned him.
Pure athletic supremacy. He knocked the ball ten yards ahead and simply ran past the guy.
He reached the goal. Empty net. The Tech keeper was still jogging back from the halfway line (he had come up for the corner).
Soccer stopped the ball on the line.
He looked back.
The field was littered with exhausted, beaten giants. They were bent over, gasping.
Soccer looked at his reflection in the camera lens of a photographer sitting behind the goal.
"Too slow," Soccer whispered.
He tapped the ball in.
GOAL.
Northwood: 3 - Tech High: 0
Post-Match.
The whistle blew. Northwood erupted. The fans were screaming. They were going to the Semifinals. They were one of the top four teams in the region.
The locker room was a party. Music blared. Soda sprayed everywhere.
But in the shower room, Soccer stood under the cold water.
He scrubbed the dirt off his legs.
Coach Cross walked in. He leaned against the tiled wall.
"You won," Cross said. "But you look like you lost."
"I made mistakes," Soccer said, water dripping from his nose. "I touched the ball too many times. My touch on the second goal was heavy."
"It was a goal, Soccer. A Hat Trick."
"Kai would have done it in half the steps." Soccer turned off the water. He grabbed a towel. "Friday. What time?"
"7:00 PM. Under the big lights. Center stadium."
Soccer nodded.
"Good. Darkness."
Friday Evening. The Semifinals.
The stadium was different tonight.
It wasn't the high school fields. This was the Regional Main Stadium. Seats for five thousand. Professional turf. A jumbotron.
And it was full.
Word had spread. The savage from the mountains. The assassin. The boy who broke physics.
And on the other side... The Golden King.
Northwood walked out of the tunnel. The roar was deafening.
Dylan looked like he was going to faint. "There are so many people. Why are there so many people?"
"They want blood," Marcus said grimly.
Royal Vanguard walked out.
They looked impeccable. White and gold kits. Pristine socks. Not a hair out of place.
At the front, Kai Rivers.
He didn't look at the crowd. He adjusted his captain's armband.
He looked across the centerline.
He found Soccer.
Soccer was hopping up and down. Bouncing.
Kai smiled. It was cold.
They met at the center circle for the coin toss. The referee looked nervous standing between them. The air pressure dropped.
"You made it," Kai said softly. "I'm surprised."
"I ran fast," Soccer replied.
"Speed covers mistakes," Kai said. "But it doesn't fix them. Tonight, I'm going to expose every flaw you have. Every bad touch. Every frantic step."
"Maybe," Soccer grinned. The mountain wildness was back in his eyes. "Or maybe I'll just run so fast your eyes can't track the flaws."
"Heads or tails?" the ref squeaked.
"Heads," Kai said. "The head always rules the body."
The coin flipped.
Heads.
"We'll kick," Kai said. He leaned in close to Soccer.
"Watch closely, savage. Class is in session."
Kickoff.
The whistle blew.
Kai touched the ball to his midfielder, then turned and walked—walked—forward.
The Northwood midfield pressed.
The ball came back to Kai.
Elijah stormed in. "I got him!"
Kai didn't look at Elijah. He stared straight ahead.
As Elijah tackled, Kai did a Drag-Back Turn. Smooth as silk. No wasted motion. Elijah slid past him like he was on ice.
Kai advanced.
Marcus stepped up. "Contain him! Don't dive!"
Kai feinted right with his shoulder. A tiny movement. Minimal energy.
Marcus bit on the fake. He shifted his weight left.
Kai tapped the ball through Marcus's legs. He casually walked around the frozen captain.
He was thirty yards out.
"Shoot!" the Vanguard crowd screamed.
Kai ignored them. He saw Soccer running back to defend.
"Come here," Kai whispered.
He waited. He stood still with the ball.
Soccer came in hot. Fast. A black lightning bolt aimed at the golden statue.
"Ghost Step!" Soccer mentally screamed, shifting his weight to vanish.
Kai watched Soccer's feet.
"Too loud."
At the exact moment Soccer swiped for the ball, Kai lifted it.
Just an inch.
Soccer's foot swept underneath the ball.
Kai volleyed the ball over Soccer's head, ran around him, and caught it on his chest.
The Sombrero. Disrespectful. elegant. Perfect.
Kai let the ball drop. He was twenty yards out.
He swung his leg. The impact sounded like a gunshot.
The ball didn't curve. It was a Knuckleball. It wobbled in the air, shifting left, right, then dipping violently.
Dylan didn't even move.
BOOM.
Top corner. The net exploded.
Royal Vanguard: 1 - Northwood: 0
Time: 0:45.
The crowd roared. A deafening wave of noise.
Kai stood at the edge of the box. He didn't celebrate. He just smoothed his jersey.
He pointed a finger at Soccer.
"Is that your storm?" Kai mouthed. "It feels like a light breeze."
Soccer stood near the midfield line. He felt the vibration of the goal celebration through the turf.
His hands shook.
Not from fear.
He touched his cheek. He was smiling. A wide, terrifying smile that showed too many teeth.
"Okay," Soccer whispered. "Okay."
"He saw through the Ghost Step," Marcus gasped, running up. "Soccer, he read you like a book."
"Yeah." Soccer tightened his fists. "He read page one."
Soccer grabbed the ball out of the net. He ran back to the center circle.
"Marcus."
"Yeah?"
"Pass it to me."
"And?"
"And get out of the way."
Soccer slammed the ball onto the center spot.
The rocks were about to slide.