The four guys on the other side of the field froze mid-conversation when Cinister's voice reached them. His tone wasn't aggressive, just confident — the kind of confidence that made people turn around. Tomov, Choi, and Lite stood behind him, sweat still running down their faces from the Spanish-style free-for-all they'd been doing. The sun had begun dipping behind the school buildings, painting the entire field in shades of orange and soft purple. It was that moment of the day when everything felt calmer, but for some reason, the tension in the air rose instantly.
The four strangers looked at each other. One of them, wearing a white shirt, shrugged and smirked a little. "Sure. Why not?" he said, spinning the ball once on his finger before dropping it into his palms. "We were just finishing anyway."
That was all the confirmation Cinister needed. He turned back to his friends, a small satisfied grin appearing on his face. "Positions?" he asked simply.
Tomov exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as if preparing for a boss battle. "Striker," he said, voice steady even though his legs were still shaking from earlier.
"Mid," Lite added, tapping his own chest.
"I'll move between defense and left wing depending on what they do," Choi said, eyes narrowing already as he studied the opposing players' posture like they were targets in a martial arts class.
Cinister nodded, walking back toward the goal on their half. "Goalkeeper for now. Stick to what I taught you. Don't panic. Don't force it. Just try."
Their field was half the full 11v11 pitch, but still wide enough that every sound echoed a little. The air felt cooler, and the grass was slightly damp under their shoes. The opposite team spread out too — their goalkeeper stepped between the posts, tall and broad-shouldered, the midfielder stood in the center with a confident bounce in his stance, and the two strikers looked like they could body-check Tomov into a different dimension without even trying. All four looked physically stronger, heavier, and more experienced.
Tomov swallowed hard. Lite rubbed his hands together nervously. Choi cracked his neck, expression serious. Cinister, though, didn't look worried at all — in fact, he looked calmer than during their free-for-all earlier.
The enemy midfielder placed the ball in the center and glanced back at his team. "Let's make it quick," he said.
The whistle wasn't real — it was more like some unspoken agreement — but as soon as the midfielder tapped the ball backward, the match began.
Immediately, the enemy strikers surged forward like wolves. Choi stepped ahead to intercept, remembering what Cinister taught earlier: "Don't run at them. Make them commit first." But instincts took over, and instead of delaying, he lunged. One of the opposing strikers performed a simple body feint to the right, then cut left with a clean "La Croqueta," sliding the ball from one foot to the other in one smooth motion. Choi lost balance, feet slipping slightly in the grass, and the striker charged past him.
"Choi, don't lunge!" Cinister shouted from the goal.
But before Choi could recover, the striker fired a low driven shot toward the far post. Cinister dropped instantly, reacting with stunning precision, and blocked it with his forearm. The ball ricocheted to the side, spinning wildly.
Tomov rushed in to clear it — but the enemy midfielder reached it first, bodying him aside with what felt to Tomov like a mini freight train. Tomov stumbled two steps backward, blinking in disbelief. The midfielder fired the ball back into the crowd in front of goal, where the second striker flicked it into the net with a quick backheel.
1-0.
The strangers cheered lightly, acting like it was routine. The striker even apologized half-heartedly: "My bad, didn't mean to hit it that hard."
Tomov clenched his fists. Lite put a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay, bro. We're just warming up."
But warming up didn't change physics. The restart didn't go any better. Tomov received the ball first, tried doing a quick step-over, but the defender read it instantly, bumping him off the ball with ease. Tomov nearly fell but caught himself, embarrassment burning on his cheeks.
"You're forcing it, Tomov!" Cinister called, squinting slightly.
"I'm TRYING, okay?!" Tomov snapped back without meaning to.
The enemy team countered again. This time, Choi held his ground better, but the opponent used a Marseille Turn — a smooth 360° spin with the ball shielded — and left Choi behind once more. The striker unleashed a powerful shot from mid-range. Cinister blocked it again, but the rebound fell right in front of the second striker, who volleyed it cleanly into the net.
2-0.
Tomov groaned. "Bro, they're too strong…"
"They're not," Cinister replied calmly. "We're just not doing what we practiced."
Lite nodded. "We're panicking."
And they were. Their moves were rushed, their touches sloppy, their spacing awkward. It didn't matter how hard they tried — everything felt like a mess. The third goal came shortly after. The enemy midfielder pulled off a "heel-to-heel flick," slipping through Lite and Tomov, then delivered a quick through ball. The striker finished with a tidy finesse shot past Cinister's left shoulder.
3-0.
Tomov bent over, hands on knees, gasping. "This is impossible…"
Lite looked discouraged but tried to hide it. Choi sighed, frustrated with himself. Cinister simply picked up the ball from the net, walked over, and placed it in Tomov's hands.
"Do it again," he said.
"What's the point?" Tomov muttered.
"You won't learn anything if you quit now," Cinister replied. "Do it. One more try. Together."
Something in his tone — firm but reassuring — gave all three of them a tiny spark of determination back. They got into position again, breathing deep, sweat sticking their shirts to their backs.
Cinister clapped once. "Tomov, don't force dribbles. Just use the basics I showed you. Choi, wait for mistakes. Lite, find the passing lanes. And relax."
The match restarted.
This time, Tomov didn't rush. He received the ball calmly, letting it roll slightly ahead. The defender stepped toward him — too aggressively. Tomov remembered Cinister demonstrating this exact moment earlier. He dropped his shoulder slightly, selling a fake movement to the left. The defender shifted his weight just enough. Tomov then pushed the ball to the right with a clean "inside cut," slipping through the narrow gap the defender gave him.
"Oh??" Lite shouted in surprise.
Tomov kept running, heart hammering in his chest. Another defender approached. Tomov hesitated — step-over or not? No… too risky. He tried something simpler — a "touch-and-go." He tapped the ball softly past the defender's leg and sprinted around him, barely brushing shoulders. His light frame helped this time; the defender's attempt at body contact ended up pushing mostly air.
Now it was a 2v1 — Tomov and Choi versus the goalkeeper.
Choi sprinted beside him, shouting, "Cross! CROSS!"
Tomov wanted to shoot. He felt the urge burning inside him — to score, to prove he wasn't useless, to shut everyone up. But Cinister's words echoed in his head: "Play smart, not selfish."
Tomov inhaled sharply and tapped the ball sideways.
Choi didn't even need to stop it. He launched a long-range shot on the first touch — a clean "knuckle shot," the ball wobbling through the air unpredictably. The goalkeeper dove, but it slipped right under his arm into the bottom right corner.
3-1.
Tomov fell to his knees, laughing from pure adrenaline. Lite threw his arms up, shouting, "LET'S GO!!" Choi grinned, breathing hard but satisfied. For the first time, their hard work actually worked. Not perfectly, but enough to matter.
Cinister watched from the goal, a small smile forming before he stepped out of the box.
The enemy team reset the ball, slightly annoyed now. They weren't expecting resistance.
Cinister walked across the field slowly, his expression firm but proud. He placed a hand on Tomov's shoulder as Tomov stood back up.
"You've done well," he said quietly, but the confidence in his voice shook through Tomov's entire body. "All of you. Now…"
He took a few steps forward, rolling his shoulders, a grin spreading across his face — not arrogant, but excited.
"…it's my turn."
The other team blinked, confused.
Tomov looked at Lite, who looked at Choi, and both burst into wide grins.
Cinister cracked his knuckles and stepped toward the center of the field, the last rays of sunlight catching in his hair as he spoke one final line:
"Let's show them what real football looks like."
And before anyone could react —