The next day at school a announcement came during lunch, shouted over noise and trays clattering, inter-class tournament starting next week, real goals, real whistle, real time limits.
By the afternoon we were already arguing on the school field, grass uneven and patchy, chalk lines half-faded, the smell different from asphalt but still familiar enough to feel honest.
"Ryzen, you're holding," someone said without even asking, like it was obvious.
I nodded once and walked back into the space in front of the center-backs, testing the ground with my boots, softer than concrete, slower, which meant tackles needed patience instead of violence.
That's when Ayaan Rahman jogged up beside me, my best friend since we were ten, lean frame, sharp eyes, playing as an inverted right midfielder who loved drifting inside.
"Don't let them breathe," he said quietly, adjusting his socks. "Their number eight thinks he runs the game."
I followed his gaze. The kid wore captain's armband, tall, clean kit, calm posture, already scanning like he owned the pitch.
Kickoff.
The ball moved cleaner than street games, passes zipped instead of bounced, and I dropped two steps deeper immediately, keeping myself between their midfield triangle and our back line.
Screen the defense, delay the turn, don't dive.
Their eight received on the half-turn, body open, and I closed the space without touching him, forcing him sideways, letting the fullback take over while I slid back into position.
They tried again, this time faster, one-two through the center, and I stepped in at the exact moment the return pass came, toe first, shoulder braced, ball knocked loose without contact.
Ayaan picked it up and drove forward, and I stayed back, resisting the urge to follow, watching their striker hover between center-backs, waiting for a mistake.
They had hard players—one winger built like a sprinter who pushed the ball five meters ahead just to chase it, another midfielder who didn't dribble but moved the ball first time, smart and annoying.
When the winger cut inside, I didn't rush, matched his stride, waited for the heavy touch, then slid across his path and took the ball clean, grass spraying as he stumbled past me.
"Play on!" the ref shouted.
Good.
We recycled possession, slowed it down, and I kept shifting laterally, always five to seven meters from the ball, close enough to kill danger, far enough to see it forming.
They're building left, switch coming.
I moved before the pass was even hit, intercepting the diagonal and knocking it back to our defender, frustration showing on their captain's face.
Late in the half, they finally broke through, quick combination, striker spinning off the shoulder, and I sprinted back, angling my run instead of chasing straight.
He tried to shield, strong kid, but strength doesn't matter if your balance is wrong. I stepped in low, shoulder through hip, ball poked free, and the danger died right there.
Ayaan slapped my back as we reset. "That's it. Keep choking them."
We went into halftime scoreless, lungs burning, legs heavy, but the shape was holding, the center closed, their best player slowly losing patience.
Second half, they pressed harder. Fouls came quicker. Shouts got louder.
I started talking more, short commands, pointing, pulling teammates back into line when they drifted.
When the captain tried one last surge through the middle, I met him head-on, perfectly timed, ball first, body second, and the sound of contact echoed louder than the whistle.
We scored minutes later, not from brilliance, but from pressure, from them forcing a bad clearance because there was nowhere safe to play.
As the final whistle blew, I stayed where I was, hands on knees, staring at the ground, already replaying every moment I could've done cleaner.
No cheers came my way, and that was fine.
The middle stayed closed.
The line held.
And the game went exactly how it was supposed to.