The referee raised the whistle to his lips—
A sharp note sliced through the air.
The second half had begun.
From the first step, it was clear: El Monte wasn’t done yet.
Across the field, their brown jerseys reformed, shifting like a machine in motion. A few new players had been swapped in, but their spine remained untouched.
Still on the pitch. Still dangerous.
On the Lincoln High side, one change.
Liam Walker in. Zion Blake out.
The switch was subtle, but strategic. Liam offered more offensive pressure from the back—just as Coach Owens had planned.
Julian stood just off the halfway line, adjusting the collar of his blue jersey. Sweat already lined his brow. His calves ached from the sprint-heavy first half. But his eyes? Still locked in.
This was the moment where games were won. Or lost.
The kickoff belonged to El Monte.
Lucas tapped it sideways, and their midfield surged forward like a tide.
Compact shape. Twin pivots holding the center. Wingers flaring wide, forcing Lincoln’s backline to stretch and bend. It was clean. Calculated. Dangerous.
Julian started pressing—light at first.
Coach Owens’ voice echoed in his mind:
"Absorb pressure. Don’t over-commit. Punish them on the break."
So he didn’t over-commit.
His legs moved on autopilot, short shuffles and feints, scanning the field like a predator waiting for a misstep. But this time—he didn’t leap ahead.
This time, he chose to trust.
[Activating Rule The Pitch – Lv.1: +3 To All Attributes]
But manageable. His total attributes sat at 121—enough to be sharp. Sharp enough to play his role.
He had a new marker now—a fresh defender, glued to him like an insect on skin. No name. No introductions. Julian didn’t need one.
He could feel it instead:
The defender’s total attribute: 123. A tick higher than Julian’s current level. Enough to cause problems. Fast feet, sharp elbows. Shadowing Julian with every breath.
Because that’s exactly what Julian wanted.
In the first half, he came in as the unknown. A ghost.
They underestimated him—and he made them pay.
Now El Monte had fixed their gaze on him. Laser-focused. Obsessive.
Let them smother the decoy.
That meant Leo would have time.
That meant Tyrell could ghost in.
That meant Felix could fly down the line.
Julian shifted his posture slightly—shoulders tense, steps purposeful.
He exaggerated his movement toward the ball.
Raised a hand like he wanted it.
From the sideline, Coach Owens narrowed his eyes.
His arms stayed crossed, but his lips moved.
The ball was still at El Monte’s feet, deep in midfield.
Felix broke from the wing, sprinting back with urgency to press.
He lunged—but the pass was quick, slipped sideways with sharp tempo. El Monte’s midfield didn’t panic. Another support player slid in, tapping it forward without hesitation.
The ball kept moving.
Kept rising in tempo.
Kept flowing toward danger.
Now El Monte’s players surged ahead—two shadows slipping through the middle. Lucas flared wide to the right, dragging Riku with him. Off-ball movement. Calculated misdirection. Classic striker play.
Julian’s eyes tracked it all.
That wasn’t the threat.
It was the other forward—ghosting in from the blindside, his timing perfect.
A long pass launched.
A diagonal missile screaming through the sky.
He hesitated for a heartbeat—then shifted his body, trying to cover both Lucas and the second striker.
But even for him, that was asking too much.
"Track the runner!" someone shouted from the Lincoln bench.
Liam was already sprinting back, cleats thudding against turf like a drumbeat.
But the pass had arrived.
The striker took it. First touch—a bit wobbly. The ball bounced up awkwardly.
Liam caught up—shoulder to shoulder now. He slammed into the striker’s side, throwing his body into it.
Julian stood frozen for half a second, watching it unfold from across the pitch.
And then Liam went in harder—a body slam, not a shoulder check.
And the whistle sounded
A free kick for el monte right before the box
Liam know that he bit harsh
But something he need to do
But it was dangerous.
The foul had given El Monte a free kick just outside the penalty box—prime territory.
One step too far, and it would’ve been a penalty.
Coach Owens’ expression darkened.
His jaw clenched. His arms folded tighter.
That was not where he wanted them to be.
"Hold the line," he barked. "Watch Lucas. And Dominic—he’s in the box!"
The players scrambled into position.
Riku took the lead, barking orders with the calm fury of a general under siege.
Liam and Tariq filled the gaps. Felix dropped back.
Tyrell hovered near the post.
The wall formed. Four men. Shoulders brushing.
The grass felt too short. The air too thick.
Every heartbeat was a countdown.
One of El Monte’s midfielders stepped up to the ball.
Right footed. Eyes sharp. Breathing steady.
He wasn’t aiming to be flashy.
He was aiming to kill.
Inside the box, Lucas drifted toward the far post, nudging Tariq subtly with his elbow.
And next to him—Dominic Reyes, their center back and tallest player, crept into the mix.
The man looked like a tank in a brown jersey, ready to bulldoze anyone in his way.
Julian stood outside the box.
He wasn’t there to defend.
He was the counterblade.
The moment that ball was cleared—he would strike.
Julian narrowed his eyes, keeping his posture low.
His legs bounced softly, primed like a loaded spring.
Let them flood the box.
If Lincoln cleared it clean, if he got a touch—
then that chaos would be his to weaponize.
He clenched his fists.
The referee stepped back.
The El Monte midfielder adjusted his stance.
His run-up was sharp. But the strike wasn’t aimed at the goal.
It was a service, not a shot.
A deadly cross into the chaos of the box.
The ball sliced the air, spinning like a blade.
It arced toward the far post.
Like a warhammer rising.
Riku was right there.
They jumped, tried to body him, to crash him mid-air—
But Dominic’s timing was perfect.
His vertical? Monstrous.
The ball rocketed through the air—
It smacked Miles Carter square in the chest.
The impact threw him backward.
Cael had already dived toward the left post—he read the initial trajectory.
But the deflection fooled him.
Mid-air, he twisted his body—
His glove punched the ball clear, sending it skimming out of the six-yard box.
Like a shadow reading the sun, he stepped into the ball’s path and controlled it with a velvet touch.
A first touch like magic.
His instincts screamed.
He broke into a full sprint.
The defenders were still recovering from the scramble. The box was disorganized.
He flicked his gaze up—saw Julian’s explosive burst—
And launched a high pass. A curling lob into space.
I believe in you. Reach it.