Practice started the same as always, but everyone could feel it.
A tension had lifted. A beat had synced.
No one said it, and no one wanted to jinx it. But for the first time since the start of the year, the team looked like a team.
Chris Salazar was the first to arrive.
Average height, light brown skin, dark curls barely tamed under a headband. His goggles gleamed in the afternoon sun, and he adjusted them three times before even touching a ball.
He still flinched at passes. But he moved early, even into open space.
"Meet the ball, not the other way around," Tracy called out, sliding him a clean pass.
"Right! Got it!"
"Also, stop apologizing."
"Sor— I mean, okay!"
She sighed. "Progress."
He wasn't fast, but he had a brain for positioning. And lately, he was thinking less and playing more.
Isaac Moore arrived next, already bouncing.
Short sandy-blond hair. Light build. Red armband—unofficial, unnecessary, and worn like a crown.
"Let's GO, team! High energy! Champions don't walk!"
"Dial it down or I'll hit you with the ball," Tracy warned.
"That's how I bond with soccer!"
Still loud. Still a bit much. But he was listening now.
When Malik motioned a defensive shift, Isaac didn't yell—he moved.
When Ronan gave him a nod, he didn't argue—he adapted.
He wasn't leading yet.
But for the first time, he wasn't in the way.
Leon Mitchell didn't arrive. He exploded.
He bounded onto the field with both arms raised like he was entering a stadium packed with fireworks.
Medium-brown skin, sharp green eyes, short, tight curls that somehow defied gravity. His sneakers squeaked even when he wasn't moving.
"Who's ready to set the field on FIRE?!"
He sprinted three laps before anyone asked him to.
"We're doing warm-ups, not auditions," Tracy muttered.
"I'm warmed up, cooled down, and ready to ignite! LET'S GO!"
He zigzagged between cones during a drill that had nothing to do with cone drills, nearly tripped over a ball, shouted "I MEANT TO DO THAT," and then somehow completed a clean one-touch pass before slipping on his own momentum.
Ronan said nothing.
Tracy just stared.
"You think we can… teach him anything?"
"Eventually," Ronan said. "Once he stops bouncing."
Leon sped past them, shouting something about "air drag" and "sprinting into destiny."
But his passes were getting sharper. His positioning—if wild—was improving. And he was smiling the whole time.
Kanda was in her usual spot—a folding chair, book in hand.
Except she wasn't reading.
She hadn't turned the page in five minutes. Her eyes kept flicking up—first at Leon cartwheeling through a midfield drill, then at Chris receiving a clean pass, and finally at Ronan, silent at midfield, making tiny adjustments with just a look.
"Still weirdos," she muttered.
But her mouth twitched like she didn't mean it.
They ended practice with a tight passing drill. Five-a-side, close quarters. Quick thinking. Limited touches.
Chris passed ahead with confidence. Isaac actually waited for a lane before yelling for the ball. Leon—bless him—ran straight through the drill, narrowly missing two players, kicked the ball back with the outside of his foot, shouted "ASSIST OF THE CENTURY!" and kept going.
It wasn't perfect. But no one fell over. And no one gave up.
Tracy stood by Ronan, both of them watching the team slowly become something real.
"Leon's going to give me a heart attack."
"He forces the others to react. That's useful."
"So is not dying during drills."
"He hasn't broken anything yet."
A beat.
"...Yet."
They both watched Leon try to nutmeg Isaac.
And fail.
And cheer anyway.
—
The sun stretched long shadows across the worn-out field. Practice had ended, cones stacked and balls bagged. Most of the team had already peeled off—some to the showers, some to homework, and one (Leon) to chase a squirrel after claiming it "challenged him."
Ronan stood alone at the edge of the field, arms crossed. Tracy approached from behind, sipping from a half-empty bottle and watching two figures still moving across the pitch.
"You know," she said, "for guys who barely touch the ball during practice, they stay late like they own the place."
Ronan didn't look at her. Just nodded toward the two defenders still in motion: Jordan Price and Mason Chu.
Jordan Price, right back, jogged along the touchline with a measured swagger. Not loud, not flashy—but suspiciously confident for someone who had skied two passes into the fence that afternoon.
He received a soft pass from Chris, tapped it forward… and watched it veer five feet off course.
"Perfect placement," he muttered to himself. "Totally what I meant."
Tracy arched an eyebrow. "Did he just lie to himself?"
"He always does," Ronan said. "He misses a tackle and says he slipped because the ground blinked."
"Does he ever admit to a mistake?"
"Not even under interrogation."
Jordan called across the field to no one in particular, "That was a fake-out pass! Defender wouldn't know what hit him!"
He then tripped slightly on a divot and immediately looked around.
"Field's uneven today," he muttered. "Coach should file a complaint."
Tracy stared. "Okay. He's not Devon. He's like… Devon's alternate universe clone who gaslights the turf. I also am not sure if he even knows that we don't have a coach at the moment."
"But he recovers fast," Ronan said. "Gets beat, gets back. He tracks runners. And he commits."
"He lies, but he doesn't quit," Tracy admitted.
"Exactly."
"You think we can make him useful?"
"Being a liar isn't bad in itself as long as he lies to his opponents and not his teammates. If we can direct it however we want, then it can be useful."
She snorted. "Can't wait for the first time he says he meant to lose possession for 'defensive analysis.'"
"He probably has it written down already."
On the opposite side of the field, Mason Chu was jogging in a cautious arc near the sideline.
His gaze flicked constantly—left, right, down at his cleats, back up. Everything in his posture screamed unsure.
He'd spent most of practice hovering near the edge, neither demanding the ball nor outright avoiding it. But when he did move—when he made the decision—his touches were surprisingly clean. Compact. Focused.
"He's not flashy," Tracy said. "But he's clean. He just… freezes sometimes."
"Hesitation," Ronan said. "He's afraid of being the reason we lose."
"So he's hiding at left back."
"It's the safest position for now. Less pressure, more margin."
They watched as Mason intercepted a pass, stepped up with sharp timing, and then immediately passed it to an invisible player on the sideline, realizing too late that no one was there.
"There it is," Tracy muttered.
Mason grimaced and quickly jogged back into formation like he could undo the moment by rewinding time with his legs.
"He plays like he's apologizing in advance," she said.
"But the instincts are there. And when he doesn't overthink, he gets it right."
"We just need to convince him we're not going to cut him alive for existing."
"Exactly."
They stood quietly for a few seconds, watching the two boys—one inventing new ways to justify mistakes, the other trying not to exist at all.
"So what do we do?" Tracy asked.
Ronan didn't blink.
"We keep them."
"Of course we do."
Jordan launched a long ball into the air and shouted, "That's a switch! You don't see that play in textbooks!"
Tracy sighed.
"You hear that?"
"He's learning to use actual terms," Ronan said.
"He used it wrong."
"Progress." But even Ronan didn't believe his justification.
With the last of the sun dipping below the school building, Ronan flipped his notebook shut.
"They're not clean. They're not smart. They're not coordinated."
"But?"
Ronan looked back at the field.
Jordan was now doing side shuffles while Mason cautiously mimicked him.
"There's potential."
—
The air in the clubroom was warm with post-practice sweat and the faint scent of old plastic. A slightly warped whiteboard stood near the front, one corner propped up on an upside-down trash can. A blue marker squeaked across it as Tracy Lin drew a basic formation chart and circled two positions.
"We've got nine reliable players," she said, underlining the blank spots. "But we're still missing two key pieces: a striker and a left-side defender."
Ronan stood to her left, arms folded, silent as always, but clearly invested.
Around the room, the team sprawled in various degrees of exhaustion and disinterest. Some were seated, others lounging. Devon Ruiz had claimed an entire corner with a bench and two chairs. Leon Mitchell had somehow rigged a chair backwards and upside-down like it was a performance piece.
Mason Chu, fidgeting on the floor, stared at the whiteboard like it might quiz him. Jordan Price leaned back in a chair, arms behind his head, nodding as if he already had all the answers.
"So," Tracy continued. "We need two players. One to support Devon upfront—"
"Finally!" Devon sat up, throwing his arms wide. "I've been saying this since day one. I'm amazing, but even I can't score every goal alone."
"You haven't scored any yet," Chris muttered under his breath.
"It's about presence!" Devon countered, wounded.
"And the other spot," Tracy said pointedly, ignoring the exchange, "is a left-back. Someone to balance Mason and give Malik a stable partner on that side."
Mason immediately shrank a little.
"Not because you're bad," Tracy added quickly. "You're just better when you have a little support."
"That... makes sense," he said softly, still staring at his knees.
"So, who do we have in mind?" Isaac asked, leaning forward and pointing at the empty striker slot. "We recruiting from school teams? Other clubs? Open tryouts?"
"No tryouts yet," Ronan said flatly. "We don't have the structure to vet strangers."
"Besides," Tracy added, "we've been watching."
That's when Kanda, who had been sitting near the front with a spiral notebook on her lap, finally spoke.
"I've been keeping notes on students who showed interest at the beginning of the year."
All heads turned toward her. She didn't usually speak up unless she was annoyed.
"There's a girl I've seen practicing alone behind the track lanes," she continued. "Short hair, fast, and very consistent. Doesn't miss the same way twice."
"Jules," said Chris. "Juliette Yang. She was in my chem class last semester. Sharp. Kind of scary."
"She kicked a dodgeball once and popped it," added Isaac.
"She might've aimed for the teacher," said Jordan.
"She's got a cannon," Devon muttered. "That settles it. Recruit her before another club grabs her."
"We're not poaching," Ronan said. "We're offering a better deal."
"Yeah," Leon said, standing on his chair, "a place in history!"
"Sit down, Leon," Tracy sighed.
Leon slowly lowered himself without breaking eye contact.
"She's our striker candidate," Tracy said, writing Juliette "Jules" Yang (?) next to the open spot. "We'll watch her after school tomorrow. If she's open to joining, we approach."
"And the defender?" asked Jordan. "Not to be dramatic, but I'm tired of covering half the field while Mason panic-sprints."
"Hey!" Mason squeaked. "I don't panic. I… reposition rapidly."
"You panic," Chris said.
Kanda flipped another page in her notebook.
"There's a guy I've seen behind the gym building. Always has headphones on. Juggles like it's nothing. Never talks to anyone."
"Sounds like Ronan's type," Devon whispered to Tracy.
"Shut up," she whispered back.
"What year is he in?" Chris asked.
"Not sure. Maybe seventh grade. He looks tired all the time."
"Perfect," Ronan said.
"Do we have a name?" Tracy asked.
"No. I've been calling him 'Headphones Guy.'"
She wrote it on the board: LB/Hybrid – Headphones Guy (?)
"You sure he plays defense?" Devon asked.
"He positions himself like one," Kanda replied. "Let's the ball come to him, then steps in with perfect timing. It's eerie."
Ronan nodded, already imagining it.
"Alright. Jules and Headphones Guy. We observe them, then make the approach."
"If they say no?" Mason asked.
"We keep looking," Ronan said. "But we don't fill slots with people who don't belong."
"What if they're weird?" Isaac asked.
"Have you met us?" Chris shot back.
The whole room chuckled—even Mason cracked a smile.
Leon stood again, dramatically holding his water bottle aloft.
"To scouting!"
"If you don't sit down, I will trip you," Tracy warned.
"Fair."
The meeting ends with Ronan drawing two arrows on the board—both leading to the word "Potential."
The room was still loud, still awkward, still barely glued together. But for the first time, they looked like a team with a plan.
—
The team decided to split into two groups. The first one included Tracy, Leon, Issac, Jordan, and Mason, and they would go after the Headphones Guy. The rest, led by Ronan, would scout Jules.
The late afternoon sun slanted over the back lot as Tracy Lin led her scouting group—Leon, Isaac, Jordan, and Mason—around the side of the gym.
The target was already there.
Headphones Guy.
Tall. Hoodie up. Head down. Methodical touches. No wasted motion. He juggled a ball in total silence, eyes half-lidded, barely blinking.
Tracy held up a hand. "Observe. That means don't talk."
"Does breathing count?" Leon whispered.
"Only if you do it quietly."
They crouched behind a stack of plastic crates and gym mats. Stealthy. Sort of.
Isaac peeked over the edge. "He's like a ghost. A really stylish, mysterious ghost."
"He hasn't dropped the ball once," Mason whispered, eyes wide. "That's… really impressive."
Leon gasped. "What if he's not even human? What if he's, like, the spirit of soccer incarnate?"
"He's not a ghost," Tracy said flatly. "He's just really, really good at juggling the ball."
"Or both," Jordan added from the back.
They all turned.
Jordan Price, leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed.
"You know, this reminds me of when I trained with a monk in the Rockies for two summers. Juggled blindfolded over a canyon. Great guy. Taught me about touch and balance."
Tracy stared at him.
"No, he didn't."
"Yeah, well. Not officially. I watched his YouTube videos in 480p, but emotionally? I was there."
Mason blinked. "Whoa. That's… really cool."
Tracy narrowed her eyes. "He's lying."
"I believe in him," Mason said, nodding with innocent sincerity.
Jordan grinned smugly and gave him a thumbs-up. "Thanks, kid."
They returned their attention to the target.
Headphones Guy let the ball bounce off the wall, turned with a perfect trap, and flowed back into his rhythm. Still no reaction to the world around him. No glance. No flinch. Just the calm, steady repetition of a player who knew his own skill.
"He's like water," Mason whispered.
"He's like a less mean Ronan," Isaac muttered. "If Ronan hated people slightly less."
"He's the type who writes poetry in his head during warm-ups," Leon added. "And it rhymes."
"Weird," Jordan said. "Reminds me of a guy I once met in Portugal. We did beach training on volcanic sand. Guy was blind in one eye. Played midfield with a broken leg."
Tracy blinked slowly. "Jordan."
"True story."
"None of your stories are true."
"I mean, in a spiritual sense—"
"You once said your uncle invented shin guards."
"He did! He just… didn't patent them."
Mason turned, eyes wide. "Wait. For real?"
"Totally," Jordan said smoothly. "We still have the prototype. It's mostly cardboard."
Tracy pressed her fingers to her temples.
"I hate this team."
"We love you too, Tracy," Leon said.
She didn't answer.
But she rolled her eyes.
—
The back of the track lanes wasn't much—just dirt, some worn cones, and a row of dented trash bins used as targets. There was no net. No lines. Just Juliette "Jules" Yang, sleeves ripped off, sweat dripping, absolutely punishing the ball against the walls.
Thud.
She fired another shot.
The ball ricocheted off a bin and bounced back toward her. She trapped it midair and launched it again.
Chris watched from a distance, arms folded. "That's not soccer, that's destruction."
Devon, beside him, leaned forward. "I dunno, man. That's poetry. Like... very violent poetry."
Ronan stood silent and still, eyes locked on her footwork. Not flashy. Not refined. But brutally efficient.
Jules caught her ball again, turned, and noticed them.
She didn't ignore them.
She grinned.
Then she stepped forward and, without warning, fired the ball at Ronan's head.
Not a pass. A missile.
Chris yelped. "DUCK!"
The ball streaked through the air.
Ronan didn't blink.
He lifted one hand.
Smack.
The ball struck his hand so hard it echoed—but he didn't flinch. It kept spinning in his hand, wildly, like it hadn't made up its mind whether to stop. He held it still with a slow squeeze.
Jules jogged over, eyes sharp.
"You've got hands. Didn't think anyone at this school did."
"You always introduce yourself by trying to take someone's head off?" Ronan asked.
"Only when they look like they can handle it."
She was sizing him up now. Not just his height or reach, but his calm.
"You the keeper?"
"Yeah."
"Cool."
She nudged her ball back with her foot, still watching him.
"Been at this school for over a year. Never saw anything worth joining."
"The club changed."
"So prove it."
She dropped the ball at her feet.
"I shoot. You stop it. I don't need tryouts or speeches. If you can stop my shot, I might think about showing up."
Chris whispered, "That seems a little intense."
"I like her," Devon whispered back.
Ronan walked to the opposite side of the makeshift area, toward a loose semicircle of cones.
He didn't speak. Didn't gesture. Just waited.
Jules didn't give him a countdown.
She took two steps.
Boom.
The ball flew fast, low, with spin and heat. An attack dog of a shot.
Ronan dropped low.
Caught it. One hand.
Second shot—same outcome.
Third. Caught.
Jules lowered her stance, breathing hard—not from effort, but from focus.
"...You're serious."
"You wanted proof."
She stood still for a moment, then grinned widely. Her type of grin—more teeth than joy.
"Alright, goalie. I'll bite."
She juggled the ball twice on her thigh and let it roll down her foot.
"But don't expect me to play nice. You want goals? I give you goals. But I'm not your locker room buddy."
Ronan nodded. "I don't want nice. I want wins."
She bumped the ball up with her toe and caught it again.
"Then yeah. You got me. Let's see if your team can keep up."
—
The clubroom was the usual mess of scuffed chairs, dented filing cabinets, and that one ceiling tile that always looked like it might fall. But the energy in the room was different this time. Focused. Almost tense.
Ronan stood at the whiteboard, arms folded.
Tracy was beside him, flipping through her notebook.
Devon, Leon, Chris, Mason, Jordan, Isaac, and Kanda were scattered around the room, some sitting, some leaning, but all unusually quiet.
"We have two names on the board," Tracy began, underlining them with a red marker. "Juliette Yang—Jules—and an unknown defender.
Headphones Guy."
"Didn't she already kick a ball at Ronan's head?" Jordan asked.
"Yes," Ronan said.
"That's the kind of girl we need on offense," Devon said with a thumbs-up.
"She already agreed to consider joining," Tracy added. "What we need to figure out now is how to keep her in the club."
"She hits like a truck," Chris said. "But she's also intense. Doesn't really... talk like a teammate."
"We don't need her to talk," Ronan replied. "We need her to score."
"Yeah, but she needs a reason to stay," Kanda pointed out. "And if she doesn't feel like this is a team, she'll be gone by next month."
"So we build that around her," Tracy said. She's not the final piece. She's the first real threat we've got on offense. We make it work." Although she said that, Tracy glanced towards Ronan fast enough so no one noticed.
"She doesn't pass though," Isaac muttered.
"Neither did Devon when he joined," Leon pointed out.
"I still don't," Devon said proudly.
"We noticed," everyone replied.
"We'll work on it," Tracy sighed.
"So we're confirming her as part of the squad?" Chris asked.
"Yes," Ronan confirmed. "We give her the space to fit in. Then we'll see if she is just a small dog that barks loudly or something more."
"I would argue she is already a lioness." Devon added.
Tracy wrote Juliette Yang – FW in bold next to the team's formation chart.
"That leaves us with the defender," she said. "The guy we've all seen lurking around the loading dock. Headphones Guy. Still no name."
"He's a ghost," Leon said reverently. "A shadow with juggling powers."
"He's real," Mason added, sounding almost defensive. "And good. Like, actually good."
"We haven't talked to him yet," Kanda said. "But he knows we've been watching."
"I've got his schedule noted down," Ronan said. "If he shows up again today, we'll speak to him."
"And if he disappears?" Jordan asked.
"We find him. Again."
"So persistent scouting," Chris said dryly. "Cool. Casual stalking."
"Effective stalking," Leon added. "With team spirit."
Tracy circled the open defender spot. "He's the last piece. If he joins, we're eleven. No more patchwork. No more waiting."
"And then?" Devon asked.
"Then we start playing like a team," Ronan said.
Silence followed. Not uncomfortable. Just real.
They were close now—not just to becoming a full squad but to something that might actually become a team.
And for once, nobody argued.
—
The late afternoon sun was already casting long shadows across the dusty field when Liberty Storm's practice kicked off.
Well… it was supposed to be a practice.
Instead, it turned into staring.
Because Jules Yang had shown up—hands in her pockets, backpack slung over one shoulder, and a look on her face like she'd already decided at least half the team wasn't worth her time.
She chewed gum.
She wasn't wearing the full practice uniform.
And when she stepped onto the field, she didn't look at anyone—just let her eyes scan them like they were items on a shelf.
"You're late," Tracy called out.
"I'm here, aren't I?" Jules replied, kicking a ball into the air and catching it on her knee.
Devon, already jogging in place, gave her his best grin. "Glad you made it! You ready to be impressed?"
"By what? You tripping over your own ego?" she shot back, then turned toward Ronan, standing in goal as always. "Red Eyes, you running this circus?"
"I'm keeping the net safe. Ask Tracy if you want drills."
Tracy let out a tight breath. "We're doing positioning warm-ups. Then basic three-on-threes."
"Neat," Jules muttered. "Let's see how many of you know which foot to pass with."
The team gathered near midfield. Jules leaned on one leg, watching them with open skepticism.
"Alright," Tracy barked. "Pair up and rotate. Five passes, two-touch rule."
As the players moved, Jules didn't bother remembering names. She just gave everyone a label.
"Liar," she called toward Jordan, who was fixing his hair in his reflection on his phone screen. "Try passing instead of posing."
"You talking to me?" Jordan grinned.
"Who else here looks like they think they're in a shampoo commercial?"
Leon jogged past, hyper and twitchy.
"Caffeine Addict. Stop buzzing. You're making the grass nervous."
Leon gave her a double thumbs-up.
"Respect the energy."
"Contain the energy," Jules muttered.
Mason accidentally passed the ball too hard and scrambled after it.
"Shaky. You're not defusing a bomb, just pass."
Isaac, chest out and barking instructions.
"Boss Boy. Less volume, more accuracy."
"I'm literally trying to organize this—"
"Yeah? Then organize your own mess first."
She turned to Chris, who hadn't said a word, just observing.
"Notebook. You writing a novel or gonna join in?"
"I'm just keeping track of patterns so I won't mess up," he replied smoothly.
"Cool. Pattern this—I'm not here to babysit."
She finally spotted Malik, looming silently at center back.
"Stonewall. I like you. You don't talk."
He nodded once, expression unchanged.
Kanda stood off to the side, notebook in hand, trying to follow the rotations. Jules gave her a once-over.
"Bookworm. You managing, or just doodling in the margins?"
Kanda didn't look up. "You're not that interesting to draw."
Devon cackled. "Ooh, burned."
"Watch it, Pretty Boy. You're next."
Chris paired off with Mason during the drill. Mason hesitated after a sloppy trap.
"Sorry!"
"No sweat," Chris replied. "Adjust your step. Let the ball roll to you, don't chase it."
Leon, on the far side, tried a heel pass to Isaac, which went nowhere.
"You're not actually a ninja," Isaac muttered.
"Then why do I feel so powerful?" Leon whispered dramatically.
"Because you had three sodas at lunch," Tracy called from across the field.
Devon, trying to impress Jules, attempted a rainbow flick mid-drill.
"Really?" Tracy barked. "This is basic shit."
"Come on," Devon grinned. "Gotta spice things up!"
"You want spice? Score a goal in a real match first."
"Harsh," Devon winced.
"True," Ronan added.
The ball Jules fired at Ronan during a quick drill came harder this time—she didn't warn him.
He caught it anyway.
She gave a toothy grin.
"Still scary."
He just rolled the ball back in silence.
Tracy blew the whistle.
"Scrimmage teams. Let's see how you all play when it matters."
Jules cracked her knuckles.
"Finally. Something fun."
—
The field had settled. Drills were done. Players were sweaty, stretching, eyeing each other over water bottles and banter.
But Tracy Lin was still moving, setting down cones in formation with crisp precision.
"Alright," she called. "We're splitting into offense and defense. Three pushes. One goal wins. Rotate sides afterward."
Jules perked up instantly.
"About time we stop pretending and actually play."
"You'll be leading the forwards," Tracy said. "With Devon and Leon. Mason's midfield. I'll anchor." She looked up. "That okay, Ronan?"
Ronan gave a slight nod from the goal line.
"Defense," Tracy continued, pointing. "Malik, Isaac, Chris. You're shielding Ronan. Let's see if we can score."
Jordan clapped. "So we're the dream team, huh?" He turned to Jules.
"Back in my old academy days, they called me the Phantom Midfielder. I had three assists in a single game once."
Jules narrowed her eyes.
"Try not to trip over your own stories."
Leon was bouncing on his toes, clearly too excited.
"Caffeine Addict, stop bouncing before I tie your laces together."
Tracy gave Jules a sideways glance.
"You done handing out nicknames?"
"Not even close, Glare Girl."
—
Tracy passed sharp and fast. Mason received and tapped it to Jules. Devon peeled off toward the left flank.
"I'm open!" Devon shouted, already grinning. "Come on, hit me with something sweet!"
"It'll be sweet when I'm the one scoring," Jules muttered, charging forward herself.
She stepped into the box and cut through Isaac and Chris with a sudden burst of pace. Devon caught up beside her, calling again.
She didn't pass.
She blasted it.
The shot curved hard, low, and vicious.
Ronan dropped.
One hand.
Caught it.
"Still nothing," he said, tossing it back lazily.
Jules scowled.
"Is your hand made of steel, or do you just hate fun?"
Tracy adjusted her spacing.
"Quick pass. Mason, reset to me first."
"Got it," Mason said, a bit breathless but focused.
They played it tighter this time. Devon cut in again and tried a feint—Isaac bit—but when the pass came, Chris intercepted.
"How did you do that?"
Chris gave a somehow nervous shrug and said nothing.
Jules looked like she hated that answer even more.
This time, Jules slowed down. Waited.
She took a look—not at the ball, but at Tracy.
"Glare Girl," she muttered, "send it sharp. I want it bouncing."
"Understood."
The pass came. Jules charged in, Devon trailing beside.
Malik stepped up.
A wall.
Jules snapped her leg—full shot. It ricocheted off Malik's thigh like it hit a post.
The ball bounced, rising in the air—
Devon tried a bicycle kick.
Ronan caught it midair. One hand. Effortless.
The field went quiet.
Jules just stared.
"...What are you?"
"Goalkeeper," he replied, tossing the ball aside.
Kanda scribbled something.
"Ronan – terrifying. Devon – theatrical. Jules – violent."
Jordan raised a hand. "What about me?"
"Annoying."
—
The sun dipped lower behind the bleachers, casting long shadows across the half-worn field. Most of the team had scattered—some toward the showers, others still joking and passing the ball around.
Jules Yang stood alone, her foot on the ball, arms crossed.
Sweat matted her bangs to her forehead, and her jaw was clenched.
She wasn't tired. She wasn't winded.
She was annoyed.
"Three pushes. Three failures," she muttered. "What a joke."
She stared at the goal across the field. Ronan had already packed up his gloves and was walking back with Malik, silent as ever.
She kicked the ball—hard—and it ricocheted off one of the cones and spun out toward the fence.
"Tch."
Not a single goal. Not even a clean shot that got past him.
The passes weren't sharp enough. The spacing was off. Devon kept showing off. Tracy barked orders while doing half the lifting herself. And everyone else? Nervous. Scrappy. Lost.
"No one's synced. They can't even keep up with their own shadows," she muttered.
But…
Her grip on the back of her neck tightened.
"He caught all of them."
That goalkeeper. Red Eyes.
He didn't say much. Barely moved unless it mattered.
But every time she tried something—pace, curve, raw power—he read it.
He shut it down. Like it was routine.
She hated that.
She respected it too.
"Stupid robot," she hissed.
"You talking to yourself or just narrating for dramatic effect?"
Tracy's voice. Calm. A little smug.
Jules didn't turn.
"Depends. You here to give another team speech?"
"Nah," Tracy said, walking up beside her. "Just wondering if you were going to kick the fence next."
"Tempting."
They stood in silence for a few seconds. Tracy folded her arms, watching the last of the team trickle off.
"You looked good out there," she said. "Rough edges. But fast. Strong."
"Not good enough," Jules snapped. "He made me look like a clown."
"No," Tracy corrected. "He showed you how much better you can become."
Jules didn't answer. Her jaw twitched.
Tracy watched her for another moment, then turned to leave.
"You coming back tomorrow?"
"You gonna get better passes?"
"Working on it."
"Then maybe."
Tracy smirked over her shoulder.
"See you at four, Wild Card."
Jules kicked the ball up into her hands, stared after Tracy for a long moment, and then turned back toward the goal.
Still scowling.
Still thinking.
—
The street was quiet, lined with uneven sidewalks and the soft hum of evening sprinklers. The smell of cut grass still clung to their clothes as Ronan and Tracy walked side by side, their bags slung over their shoulders.
Neither spoke for the first few blocks. It wasn't unusual. Silence was their shared language when they didn't need to fill the space.
Eventually, Tracy broke it.
"She's not going to quit," she said.
Ronan didn't look over. "No."
"But she's not exactly… fitting in."
"That's not what she's for."
Tracy narrowed her eyes at the pavement.
"You're talking like she's a tool, not a teammate."
"Same thing sometimes."
They crossed an intersection. A group of younger kids was kicking a ball against a wall nearby. Ronan's gaze lingered for a second, reflexively, but he didn't say anything.
"The others are still scared of her," Tracy said. "Even Devon didn't flirt past the warm-ups."
"She'll stop scaring them when she respects them or they get used to it. Whatever comes first."
"So never?"
"Depends if they get better."
Tracy kicked a loose pebble onto the curb.
"She hates losing."
"Good."
"She hates being ignored more."
Ronan didn't respond to that.
"You know," Tracy continued, "she only listens to me when I talk like you."
Ronan glanced at her now.
"Cold. Direct. No fluff. She tunes out the rest."
"Then keep doing it."
"You're really not worried?"
"She's fire. Unstable, but useful. Once she finds her match, she'll start burning the right things."
"And if she burns the whole team down first?"
"Then they weren't strong enough to be worth saving."
Tracy stopped walking for a moment, then started again.
"You don't make it easy for anyone to get close, do you?"
"I'm not here to make it easy. I'm here to make it work."
"And what exactly do you think is working right now?"
Ronan was quiet. Then:
"We haven't played a match yet. If the team doesn't show results, I will."
Tracy nodded slowly. "You're not wrong."
"But that's not a team. That's a patchwork of moving parts that haven't figured out how to tick."
"You think Jules is the spark?"
"She's a live wire. The others don't know what to do with her yet. That's good."
"Good?"
"Pressure makes people move."
Tracy looked at him sideways. "That almost sounded optimistic."
Ronan didn't react.
"So what do you really think of her?" she asked.
He didn't answer right away.
Then:
"She's not afraid of me."
Tracy blinked. "...That's your answer?"
"Yeah."
"Why does that matter?"
"Because most people play safer when I'm around. She didn't. Often, when people shoot at me, unless it's a real match, they don't give it their all. 'What's the point if he'll catch it either way?' 'Better use energy somewhere where I have a chance.' People tend to think like that when they play against me. You should know it best. You were there with me."
He looked ahead, the corner of his mouth tilting ever so slightly.
"I don't need her to win. But if she keeps pushing like that—maybe they'll realize I'm not the only one worth following."
Tracy raised an eyebrow. "That almost sounded like faith in someone else."
"It's not faith," he said. "It's a bet."
She smirked. "And what if you lose the bet?"
"Then I'll score the goal myself."
They kept walking.
"You really are insufferable sometimes."
"You say that every day."
"Because you earn it every day."
And for the first time, as they walked, she caught the smallest hint of a smirk on his face.
—
END