The school gates closed behind them, the echo of the final bell still hanging faintly in the air. The four friends stepped onto the cracked pavement, bags bouncing lightly on their shoulders, and the familiar hum of the city filling their ears. Despite the chill creeping into the evening, the mood among them was light, buoyed by the thrill of their last match. Tomov felt it in his chest—a warm, fuzzy mix of pride and embarrassment—thinking about how the ball had found the top corner by pure luck. Even now, he replayed the shot in his mind, shaking his head at the absurdity of it. Somehow, against all odds, he had scored, and that single moment had carried them to victory.
Cinister walked slightly ahead, hands in his pockets, his long brown hair swaying in the breeze. He glanced back over his shoulder, half-smile in place, eyes cool and calculating as always. "Alright," he began, voice calm but commanding, "let's talk about what each of you needs to improve. If we want to actually compete, you can't rely on luck or raw effort. There are things you can fix before the next game."
Tomov perked up, the words immediately catching his attention. He tugged at the straps of his bag nervously. Cinister's advice had weight—it wasn't just casual talk. The kind of precision and calm he had shown during the match made Tomov listen like a sponge.
"Tomov," Cinister said first, pointing at him with one hand, "your dribbling is your main strength, but right now it's messy. You can barely keep the ball close, and half the time you trip over it. I don't care how fast your legs are. You need to control it, make it predictable for yourself, not the other players. Work on basic touches, keeping the ball on your dominant foot while moving forward, then gradually try changing directions. Speed comes after control. And don't just practice fancy moves—you need practical ones, the ones you can actually use in a match."
Tomov nodded eagerly, biting the inside of his cheek. "Got it… basic touches first, then more complicated stuff. I can do that."
Cinister's gaze shifted to Choi. "You're fine with long shots, but your defensive game is weak. You're tall and fast enough, but you get pushed around too easily. You need strength, endurance, and better positioning. For now, you can't magically bulk up in four days, so focus on anticipation. Watch the attacker's body, read their intentions, and adjust. Use your feet wisely, don't overcommit, and work on sliding tackles that won't leave you off balance. You need to combine what you already do well with smarter positioning."
Choi frowned slightly but nodded, thinking through what he could realistically do. He had already felt the physical limitations during the match, the times when his lack of muscle had caused him to lose possession or fail a tackle. He knew he wouldn't transform into a defensive powerhouse overnight, but even subtle improvements could help.
Lite received his instructions next. Cinister's voice softened slightly as he explained, "Passing. That's your main contribution. You need to read the field better, anticipate where your teammates will be, and understand the rhythm of the game. Don't just shove the ball forward blindly; make intelligent passes, work on the timing, and force defenders into mistakes. Watch professional matches if you have to—study their positioning, the way they open angles, the way they control the tempo. You're slow physically, so your advantage is the brain, not the legs."
Lite's eyes brightened. He had always loved thinking about strategy, reading situations, calculating the best play. Finally, Cinister was telling him to lean into that.
Finally, Cinister turned back to Tomov, a subtle smirk appearing. "If you're serious, we train four days straight until the next game. You, me, Choi, Lite—we all put in work. You can start small, but focus. Can you handle that?"
Tomov straightened his shoulders, fists clenched lightly. "Yeah. I'll do it."
Lite chuckled. "You actually sound motivated. This is new."
Choi shrugged. "Better than nothing. I'm in."
Cinister nodded once. "Good. Then it's settled. Four days. Work on your spots. We meet at the field after school. No excuses."
The walk home continued in a mix of conversation and laughter. The city seemed calmer now, the streets sparsely populated as people settled in for the evening. Tomov felt energized despite the chill, his mind already buzzing with the drills he was going to do. As they reached his small apartment building, he paused at the door, glancing back at the group. "I'm going to go first," he said. "See you guys tomorrow?"
"Yeah," Lite said, waving. "Don't trip over your own feet before the game."
Choi smirked. "Try not to kick the wall instead of the ball."
"Shut up," Tomov muttered, disappearing into the building.
Once inside, Tomov dug out his old football, dusty from sitting unused since primary school. The leather smelled faintly of mildew, but he barely noticed. He kicked it gently against the floor, testing the weight and bounce. Then, he began practicing the simplest touches: rolling the ball with the inside of his foot, keeping it close, guiding it in straight lines across the small patch of room he had cleared. Step by step, he repeated the motions, occasionally losing control and swearing under his breath.
He moved on to basic dribbles: the push-and-pull, slight changes of direction, simple feints. It was awkward at first, and his legs weren't coordinating perfectly, but he noticed small improvements even in the first hour. The ball responded a little better to his touch, and his confidence grew with each controlled step. Tomov smiled faintly. "Okay… okay… I'm getting it."
In the meantime, Lite had set up his laptop at the dining table, diagrams and tutorial videos filling the screen. He studied angles, timing, and passing techniques with precision. He paused clips to make notes, rewound them repeatedly, and even attempted to simulate passes in his small apartment using a notebook and markers to plan trajectories. Lite's mind raced, imagining plays, how defenders would react, how to manipulate them into opening spaces for teammates. By the end of the first evening, he had a small mental map of several strategies, ready to test during their next game.
Choi, on the other hand, had begun with bodyweight exercises: squats, push-ups, lunges, anything to feel his muscles tighten. He followed routines he found online, knowing he wouldn't bulk up in four days, but focusing instead on correct movement patterns, endurance, and functional strength. Then, he moved to defending techniques, watching professional defenders, analyzing positioning, footwork, timing of tackles, and how to anticipate attackers' movements. He repeated these motions slowly but deliberately, feeling each muscle engage, understanding that the small steps mattered more than instant results.
Throughout all this, Tomov kept returning to his ball, sometimes tiring, sometimes frustrated, but always determined. He tried different foot placements, experimenting with slight feints, attempting controlled directional changes while jogging around the room. Each time he lost the ball, he reset immediately, focusing on his touch, not the outcome. By the second day, the ball moved more predictably, and his confidence in controlling it began to grow.
Lite continued refining passes, building timing sequences in his mind, imagining the other players on the field reacting to each fake or real movement. He began thinking like a strategist rather than just a player, considering spacing, angles, and pacing. Choi ran through defensive drills, combining strength training with mental exercises—anticipating angles, imagining threats, visualizing being in a game scenario even when alone.
By the fourth day, all of them felt different. Not drastically better, but improved. Tomov could now maintain control while moving across a larger portion of his room, chaining two basic dribbles together without losing the ball. He felt the rhythm beginning to click in his legs, the ball becoming a natural extension of his movements, even if only slightly. Lite had developed a clearer sense of timing, able to plan passes with more foresight. Choi had improved footwork, anticipation, and awareness, even if raw strength remained unchanged. And Cinister… well, he didn't need training, but he had coached them patiently, correcting mistakes, offering small but impactful tips, and watching the team grow little by little.
Finally, the fourth day arrived. School ended, and they headed to the field, bags slung over shoulders, sneakers crunching over the grass and dirt as they approached the familiar grounds. The field seemed slightly different under the afternoon sun, shadows stretching longer, the smell of fresh-cut grass sharp in the air.
Tomov held his old ball tightly under one arm, feeling it lighter than before, almost like it had absorbed a little of his effort, his practice. Lite carried his laptop bag, filled with notebooks and diagrams for strategy. Choi adjusted his hoodie, rolling his shoulders, feeling the muscles he had worked in the past days. Cinister walked beside them, hands in pockets, expression calm as always, but there was a small glint in his eyes that betrayed anticipation.
"This is it," Cinister said softly, breaking the silence, "let's see if all that effort pays off."
The four of them reached the field's edge, looked across the grass, and began to stretch and warm up. They weren't yet the unstoppable force Cinister had been during their last match, but they were better than they had been. Not in raw skill, not in speed, not in strength—but in control, understanding, and preparation.
Tomov bounced the ball lightly, testing his touch one last time. The ball stayed obediently with him, rolling smoothly under his foot. He smiled faintly.
"We're ready," he said, more to himself than anyone else.
Cinister nodded. "Good. Let's play."
The wind rustled through the trees lining the field. The sun dipped closer to the horizon, casting long golden streaks across the grass. For the first time in a long while, the four friends felt truly prepared—not invincible, not flawless, but ready.
And with that, they stepped fully onto the field, together, hearts pounding, minds focused, and the promise of the next match waiting just ahead.