The ball sat on the center spot. A white sphere of synthetic leather waiting to be brutalized.
Soccer stared at it.
The crowd was still buzzing from Kai Rivers' goal. It wasn't just a goal; it was a statement. A forty-five-second execution.
"He's watching you," Marcus whispered, standing next to Soccer. His voice shook. "Look at him. He looks bored."
Soccer looked.
Thirty yards away, Kai Rivers stood with his hands loosely at his sides. He wasn't in a defensive crouch. He looked like a statue made of ice and gold.
"He reads the Ghost Step," Soccer muttered.
"So don't use it!" Marcus hissed. "Pass the ball! Play safe!"
"Safe?" Soccer tilted his head.
On the mountain, playing safe meant walking around the cliff. It took three hours. Running across the cliff took five minutes. But if you missed a step, you died.
Soccer tightened his fists.
"I don't have time for safe."
The whistle blew.
SCREEE.
Soccer didn't pass back. He tapped the ball forward and launched himself.
He didn't accelerate smoothly. He burst. A chaotic, violent explosion of speed.
The Avalanche Rush.
He hit the Vanguard midfield line like a meteor. Two midfielders, trained in prestigious academies, stepped in to close the gap.
"Left!" one shouted.
Soccer didn't go left. He ran straight into the space between them.
He knocked the ball twenty yards ahead—a heavy, reckless touch.
"Too far!" the midfielder sneered.
But Soccer wasn't chasing the ball. He was chasing the space. He slipped between the midfielders, his shoulder dipping low, practically scraping the grass.
He recovered the ball.
He was past the first line.
Now, only the King remained.
Kai stood at the top of the defensive arc. He saw Soccer coming. He didn't blink.
He's wild, Kai thought, analyzing the gait. Heavy touches. Erratic breathing. He relies on reaction time, not prediction. Primitive.
Soccer charged.
"Ghost St—"
"No," Kai said simply.
As Soccer initiated the feint, dipping his shoulder to vanish, Kai took one step.
Just one.
He stepped exactly into the space where Soccer wanted to go.
BUMP.
Soccer slammed chest-first into Kai. It was like hitting a marble pillar. Kai didn't budge. He absorbed the impact, stripped the ball with a delicate tap of his heel, and spun away.
Soccer stumbled, nearly falling on his face.
"Sloppy," Kai tossed the word over his shoulder as he dribbled away. "You telegraph your intent. You look at the destination before you move."
Soccer stood up, gasping.
He had been stopped. Again.
Cold.
It felt... cold.
The Counter-Attack
Kai Rivers didn't run. He flowed.
He glided through the Northwood midfield. Marcus lunged—Kai drifted right. Dylan screamed orders—Kai chipped the ball over a sliding defender.
He was a conductor, and the Northwood team were playing broken instruments.
Kai reached the box.
He cocked his leg. The fake shot.
Three Northwood defenders jumped, desperate to block it.
Kai didn't shoot. He froze his leg mid-swing—a physical impossibility that required core strength bordering on inhuman.
He rolled the ball sideways to a winger who was wide open.
"Shoot," Kai ordered.
The winger shot.
Low. Hard. Corner.
Dylan Foster, the coward who found bravery, dove. He stretched his body to the limit. His fingertips grazed the ball.
Tink.
The ball hit the post.
It bounced out.
Scramble. Bodies flying everywhere. Elijah Storm kicked it blindly upfield.
"Clear!" Marcus screamed, his voice cracking.
The ball sailed high into the night sky, away from the danger zone.
Soccer stood at the midfield line, watching the chaos. He watched Kai turn around, annoyance flickering on his perfect face.
He missed, Soccer thought. Or... the winger missed. But the plan failed.
Soccer looked at the goalpost. The white paint was chipped where the ball hit.
The post is a rock. The rock doesn't care about your perfect pass.
A realization bloomed in Soccer's chest.
Kai played chess. He moved pieces. He calculated angles.
But mountains aren't chessboards. Mountains crumble.
"Hey!" Soccer shouted.
Kai stopped jogging back. He looked at Soccer.
"You blocked me," Soccer said. He sounded impressed. "You knew where I was going."
"Biology," Kai said, tapping his own temple. "Your eyes moved. Your hips shifted. 0.3 seconds before your feet moved. I have plenty of time."
"My eyes..." Soccer touched his face.
"Don't look where you're going," Kai sneered. "And you'll run into a wall. Look where you're going, and I'll be there waiting. You're trapped, Savage."
Soccer looked down at his black Copa Mundials.
Trapped.
If he looked, Kai knew. If he didn't look, he was blind.
Soccer smiled. A small, strange smile.
"Okay. Then I won't be me."
Minute 25. 1-0 Royal Vanguard.
The game had settled into a rhythm of domination. Vanguard controlled the ball. Northwood defended for their lives.
But every time Soccer got the ball, something changed.
Elijah intercepted a pass. He smashed it forward to Soccer.
Soccer was isolated on the wing. A Vanguard defender—a senior named Rex—closed in.
Rex was good. He stayed low. He watched Soccer's eyes.
He's looking left, Rex analyzed. He's going to cut inside.
Soccer's eyes were locked on the infield. His hips turned left.
Rex committed. He stepped to block the inside run.
Soccer didn't cut inside.
His legs did something that disconnected from his upper body.
The Drunken Stumble.
Soccer's knees buckled. He looked like he was falling. He pitched forward, abandoning the cut entirely, and stumbled straight ahead.
It wasn't a move. It was a failure of balance.
Or so it looked.
By stumbling, Soccer accelerated faster than a controlled run. He practically fell past Rex, catching his balance at the last millisecond to tap the ball forward.
"What the—" Rex grabbed at air.
Soccer was past him.
"I didn't look!" Soccer laughed breathlessly. "I just fell!"
He cut toward the box.
Kai was there. The fail-safe. The Golden King dropped back to defend.
"Falling works on idiots," Kai said, stepping into the path. "But I see your center of gravity."
Kai planted his feet. He was the Wall.
Soccer looked at Kai.
Don't look. Don't plan.
Soccer closed his eyes.
For a terrifying, suicidal second, he closed his eyes mid-sprint.
Feel the turf. Hear the breathing. Smell the sweat.
Kai hesitated. Just a fraction. He closed his eyes? Is he giving up?
Soccer moved.
He didn't Ghost Step. He didn't feint.
He jumped on the ball.
Literally. He jumped with both feet, landing on top of the rolling ball.
It was madness. He should have broken his neck.
But he used the rolling ball as a ball-bearing. His momentum carried him over the ball, spinning him 360 degrees.
The Rolling Stone.
He slipped off the ball on the other side, dragging it with his heel.
He was past Kai.
The crowd gasped. It was ugly. It was dangerous. It was impossible to predict because it made absolutely no sense.
Soccer opened his eyes.
Goal in front. Keeper charging.
"BLOCK HIM!" Kai roared from behind.
Two defenders collapsed on Soccer.
Soccer pulled his leg back to shoot. The defenders slid to block.
Soccer didn't shoot.
He stabbed his foot into the ground under the ball.
The Earth-Raiser.
He dug the nose of his cleat into the turf and popped the ball straight up into the air. Vertical.
The sliding defenders swept beneath him.
Soccer headed the ball while it was in the air. A powerful nod.
Forward. Past the keeper.
But the angle was tight. Too tight.
The ball hit the far post. CLANG.
It bounced across the goal line. Spinning. Mocking.
A Vanguard defender cleared it with a panic-kick.
The whistle blew for a foul elsewhere.
Soccer stood near the post, hands on his knees. Sweat dripped from his chin onto the pristine white paint of the goal line.
"So close," Dylan screamed from the other end. "SO CLOSE!"
Kai walked into the box. He looked at the divot Soccer's cleat had made in the expensive turf. Then he looked at Soccer.
Kai wasn't smiling anymore.
"You closed your eyes," Kai said. His voice was quiet. Dangerous.
Soccer turned around. He looked exhausted but electric.
"If I don't know where I'm going," Soccer grinned, "you can't know either."
Kai stared at him.
For the first time in his career, Kai Rivers felt a variable he couldn't calculate.
Madness.
"Fine," Kai adjusted his captain's armband. The boredom was gone. Replaced by sharp, icy focus. "If you want chaos, I'll show you what organized destruction looks like."
Kai raised a hand to his team. He signaled with two fingers.
"Code Red," Kai announced. "Exterminate."
Code Red.
The atmosphere shifted.
Royal Vanguard didn't just play faster. They played meaner.
They stopped playing possession. They started hunting.
When Marcus got the ball, two players slammed into him instantly. No hesitation. Perfectly timed, synchronized pressing.
THUD.
Marcus lost the ball.
When Elijah got the pass, three gold jerseys surrounded him before he could turn.
"They're swarming!" Luna shouted from the sideline. "Coach, they're playing a high press! A suicide press!"
"It's not suicide if they never miss," Cross muttered, chewing his toothpick until it splintered. "They have the stamina to do this for ninety minutes. We don't."
The Northwood players were crumbling. The gap in conditioning was showing. Vanguard trained like pros. Northwood trained like high schoolers.
Minute 40.
Kai received the ball at the edge of the box.
He didn't dribble. He one-touched it to his winger, ran into the box, received the return pass, and volleyed it without the ball ever touching the ground.
WHAM.
Bottom corner.
GOAL.
Royal Vanguard: 2 - Northwood: 0.
Soccer watched the ball hit the net.
He felt the fatigue in his legs. The mountain air was thin, but down here, the humidity was thick. It felt like breathing soup.
"Two," Kai said, walking past Soccer. He held up two fingers. "By halftime, it will be three. Then four. Then you disappear."
Soccer didn't answer. He walked to the center circle.
"Marcus," Soccer said.
"Yeah?" Marcus was wheezing. His jersey was soaked. "I... I can't keep up with them. They're everywhere."
"They're pressing fast," Soccer noted. "Running to the ball like hungry wolves."
"Yeah."
"When wolves run fast," Soccer whispered, "they leave their den empty."
Soccer knelt down. He re-tied his right shoe. He pulled the laces so tight circulation almost cut off.
"Coach told us to play the Distraction Gambit," Soccer said. "But that's too slow."
"What do we do?"
Soccer stood up. He looked at Kai. Then he looked at the massive expanse of green behind the Vanguard defense.
The perfect, manicured field.
"Marcus, when I get the ball... don't look at me."
"What?"
"Look at the horizon. And run."
Kickoff. Minute 42.
Soccer touched the ball.
Code Red activated.
Three Vanguard players, led by the central midfielder, charged at Soccer. It was a coordinated pincer movement. Efficient. Deadly.
Soccer waited.
He waited until he could smell their deodorant. He waited until their shadows touched his feet.
Now.
Soccer turned his back to them.
He shielded the ball. It looked like he was trapped. Giving up.
"He's pinned!" the midfielder yelled. "Strip him!"
Soccer wasn't pinned. He was loading a spring.
He planted his left foot deep into the turf.
He back-heeled the ball.
Not a gentle pass. A violent, screaming kick with his heel.
The ball rocketed backward, between his own legs, through the legs of the charging midfielder.
It rolled into the open midfield.
Marcus was there.
He hadn't watched Soccer. He was already running.
Marcus collected the ball in stride. He had space. For the first time in forty minutes, he had space.
"GO!" Soccer screamed, turning and sprinting.
He didn't sprint toward the ball. He sprinted away from it, pulling two defenders with him.
Marcus drove forward. The Vanguard defense was fractured. They had over-committed to the press.
"Elijah!" Marcus yelled, passing wide.
Elijah caught it on the wing. He had a lane.
He crossed it. High and deep.
The ball soared toward the penalty box.
Kai Rivers was there. Of course he was. He had read the play. He positioned himself perfectly to head the ball away.
"Predictable," Kai muttered, jumping.
He jumped perfectly. Timed perfectly.
But he felt a shadow.
Someone jumped behind him.
Soccer.
He hadn't run to the ball's landing spot. He had run to Kai.
Kai was perfect technique. Vertical leap.
Soccer was mountain chaos. He stepped on Kai's shoulder—just a fleeting touch, a illegal boost that the ref missed in the cluster—and launched himself higher.
The Eagle's Perch.
Soccer rose above the Golden King.
His head met the ball a full foot above Kai's perfectly styled bun.
He slammed it down.
Not toward the corner. Toward the ground.
The ball spiked into the turf right in front of the goal line. It bounced unpredictably—spinning sideways off the grass.
The Vanguard keeper, expecting a clean header, dove left.
The ball spun right.
It crawled over the line.
GOAL.
Royal Vanguard: 2 - Northwood: 1.
The whistle blew for Halftime.
The stadium shook.
Soccer landed on his feet. Kai landed, stumbling slightly from the impact of Soccer's leverage.
Kai touched his shoulder where a dirty cleat-print was stamped on his white jersey.
He looked at the smudge. Then he looked at Soccer.
Soccer was grinning. A wild, exhausted, ecstatic grin.
"You can predict the ball," Soccer panted, pointing at the cleat mark. "But you can't predict being a ladder."
Kai's face lost all emotion.
The boredom was gone. The arrogance was gone.
What replaced it was pure, cold malice.
"You dirtied my jersey," Kai whispered.
"I told you," Soccer walked away, towards the tunnel. "Dirt washes off. But losing? That stains."
Halftime Locker Room.
Northwood was alive.
"We scored on them!" Dylan was hugging the water cooler. "We actually scored!"
Coach Cross slammed the door.
"Sit down! You poked the bear. Now the bear is awake."
Cross pointed at the tactical board.
"Kai Rivers gave up a goal. Do you know what happens when he gives up a goal?"
Luna answered, checking her tablet. Her face was pale.
"In the last three years, whenever an opponent scored on Royal Vanguard... Kai Rivers scored three goals in response within ten minutes."
The room went silent.
"He takes it personally," Cross said. "The second half won't be a game. It will be an execution."
He looked at Soccer.
Soccer was lying on the floor, legs up against the wall to drain the lactic acid. He had his eyes closed.
"Soccer," Cross said.
"Yeah?"
"Can you stop him?"
Soccer opened one eye. It was grey and sharp.
"Stop him? No. He's perfect. You can't stop perfection."
"Then we lose."
"No." Soccer sat up. "You can't stop a falling rock, Coach. But if you hit it with another rock... you can break it."
He looked at his team.
"I'm going to break him."