But while the others ran drills like their lives depended on it, Julian sat off to the side—legs crossed, spine straight, arms relaxed.
A strange word, a stranger art. Something he’d found in a rabbit hole of YouTube videos the night before.
While Coach Owen roared like a beast possessed—barking orders, veins bulging, whistle shrieking like a warhorn—Julian moved slowly, deliberately. Stretch by stretch. Breath by breath.
If Coach could breathe fire, half the pitch would’ve been scorched by now.
"Breathe in... hold... breathe out..." Julian whispered, mimicking the voice from the tutorial, his body folding into a slow forward bend.
"Doing some soul cleansing?"
The voice came from beside him. Laura.
She stood with her usual clipboard, ponytail bobbing slightly as she tilted her head at him.
Julian didn’t stop his movement. "Something like that," he replied, breathing deeply. "How’s your blood pressure with that fire-breathing dragon out there?"
Laura chuckled. "Oh, he’s in playoff mode. This is mild."
Julian raised an eyebrow. "That’s... mild?"
She nodded, then glanced down at her clipboard. "Anyway, how’s your body holding up?"
"Still sore," Julian admitted, adjusting into a side stretch, "but better. At least I’m not walking like an eighty-year-old today."
"That’s a start," she said, then hesitated. "Wanna see our next opponent’s scouting sheet?"
Julian glanced at the clipboard. "Sure."
She handed it over without fanfare, tapping the top with her pen. "Brighton Catholic High. They play in all white. Clean formation—4-2-3-1. Structured, disciplined, high pressing when needed."
Julian flipped through the pages. Neat handwriting. Highlighted zones. Player profiles. He read each line with care.
"Key players?" he asked.
Laura pointed. "Right there."
#11 – Elias Cross – Striker
Creative engine. Two-footed.
#5 – Rafael Soto – CDM.
The wall. Aggressive ball-winner. Disrupts rhythm. And the best passer on team
#1 – Marcus Hale – Goalkeeper.
Reflex monster. Top 5 in the region for save percentage.
There were even hand-drawn diagrams of Brighton’s transitions. Arrows, circles, shaded areas—someone had done their homework.
Julian whistled softly. "This is good work. Like... really good."
Laura rubbed the back of her neck, sheepish. "Thanks. Just a hobby."
"You want to be a coach or something?" he asked, still scanning the notes.
She shook her head instantly. "Nope. Not for me. I want to be a team analyst. You know—data, trends, breaking down footage, drawing patterns. Kind of like... being the eyes behind the curtain."
Her eyes lit up as she said it. Like it wasn’t just a job—it was a calling.
Julian looked back at the clipboard, then at her.
"You’re already doing it."
"I mean it," Julian said simply. "This is more prepared than half the coaches I’ve seen on YouTube."
She beamed. "Thanks. That... actually means a lot."
Julian gave a faint smile and went back to stretching. "Now just promise me one thing."
"Make sure you tell Coach Owen if Brighton’s midfield is also packing flame breath."
Laura snorted. "Deal."
From the field, a whistle screamed like a banshee again.
"TYRELL, IF YOU STUMBLE ONE MORE TIME, I’M MAKING YOU RUN LAPS UNTIL YOUR GRANDKIDS FEEL IT!"
Julian sighed, leaning into a deeper stretch. "Yep. Definitely breathing fire."
Laura laughed again—light and honest—before returning to her spot near the bench.
He exhaled slowly, stretching deeper into the yoga pose. His muscles tugged, his breath moved in rhythm, and for once, the world wasn’t spinning in chaos.
Rest was still training. Still war. Just a different kind.
And when Friday came...
The rest of the week passed in quiet routine.
School. Clinic. Repeat.
Julian received treatment every morning from Mr. Sean—deep tissue work, electro stim, and tape realignment.
Afternoons brought Tess, who never stopped talking, never stopped fussing, and somehow never made it feel annoying.
By the time the sun rose on Friday, Julian’s legs felt like his again.
No soreness. No limp.
When Sean checked one last time, he gave a satisfied grunt.
"You’re clear. But don’t play hero. Overstrain again and I’ll glue your cleats to the wall."
Julian smirked. "I’ll try not to die."
The moment Julian informed Coach Owen, the man just gave a nod. "Be smart out there."
But something else was different today.
Tonight’s game was away. Their first night match. A friendly—but against Brighton Catholic High, one of the strongest in their division.
The whole team could feel it.
They weren’t in the Regular season yet, but this was the closest thing to a test run.
A battle on foreign ground.
And Leo? He couldn’t have been more excited.
"YEAHHHH! Road trip, baby!" Leo shouted, arms in the air, spinning like a drunk DJ.
"Wooo!" Cael echoed, doing a ridiculous robot dance next to him. "Let’s go see how Catholics kick balls!"
Julian gave them a look. "You two do realize this is still a football match, right?"
Leo flashed a grin. "Exactly. That’s why we’re vibing. Gotta enjoy the journey."
Cael draped his arm around Leo like a drunk uncle. "Besides, Coach said it’s just a friendly. He didn’t say we couldn’t style on them."
Julian raised an eyebrow. "You’re both going to get benched one day for dancing in front of the ref."
Meanwhile, Riku stood at the front of the locker room like a military officer during inspection.
Backpack clipped. Towel folded. Clipboard ready.
"Check your kits," he snapped. "Uniforms, check. Shin guards, check. Water bottles, towels, protein bars—check everything before you step on that bus.
If you forget something, you’re not just screwing yourself—you’re screwing the team."
Cael gave Julian a side glance. "He’s got that ’dad on a camping trip’ energy."
Julian chuckled. "Yeah. But he’s the reason we haven’t forgotten socks once."
Riku glared over. "Say something?"
"Nope," both of them answered instantly.
The rest of the team moved around the locker room in organized chaos—zipping bags, tossing balls into the bin, adjusting ankle tape. The air buzzed—not with fear, but with curiosity.
Their first night match. First away match. And their final friendly before the real season began.
Julian slung his bag over his shoulder. The soreness in his legs was gone—but his focus wasn’t. Not yet.
They weren’t going to war tonight.
But they were definitely heading into enemy territory.