"Okay, you guys can rest first."
Coach Owens’s voice cut through the frozen air.
Bodies lay scattered across the pitch, players sprawled on their backs like soldiers after battle. Their lungs burned. Their legs twitched with aftershocks of pain.
For thirty minutes, no one spoke. The only sound was heavy breathing—raw, broken gasps scraping against the winter wind.
The turf beneath them was cold and damp, soaking through jerseys.
Steam rose from their bodies in the January chill, each exhale puffing out like smoke from broken engines.
No one dared complain—not when Owens was still watching.
Julian sat up at last. His chest rose and fell like a furnace, heat steaming off his body in the cold. One by one, the others pushed themselves upright too.
Coach Owens walked toward them, boots crunching on frost. His shadow loomed long under the pale afternoon sun.
"Yes, Coach," came the chorus—thin, fragile voices, barely holding together.
"Good. Then get up." His clap cracked like a gunshot.
Their legs shook, wobbling like they might give out at any second. But the sight of Owens’s sharp eyes cut away any thoughts of quitting. So they rose.
Julian knew this kind of training. In his past life, it had been called limit forging.
Push the body past exhaustion, then force it to fight, to move, to learn in weakness. The mind breaks before the body does—that was the truth of it. And the only way to train a warrior... or a footballer.
One-on-one duels that tore into what little energy they had left.
Set-piece rehearsals, legs dragging like lead but movements demanded sharp as blades.
Counterattack simulations where the lungs screamed for air but the brain still had to think faster, sharper, colder.
Passes skidded too short, touches fumbled, but Owens didn’t soften. Every mistake earned a bark, every lapse a glare.
It wasn’t skill he was testing—it was will. Could they still fight when their bodies screamed to shut down?
The hours stretched. The Lincoln players staggered through every rep, faces twisted, voices raw.
The winter air stung against sweat-soaked skin. Their jerseys clung to them like icy armor.
They felt like dying.
But Owens wasn’t forging comfort. He was forging steel.
"That’s it for today’s training. Cool down, then head to the locker room." Coach Owens’s voice cracked across the pitch before he turned and walked off.
"He really is trying to kill us," Cael groaned, collapsing onto the grass.
A ripple of laughter broke out, tired but genuine. Even on the edge of death, Cael always found a way to lighten the weight.
Julian stretched in the cold air, steam rising from his skin. Others sat on the frozen turf, some leaning against each other just to stay upright. After a few minutes, Leo stood, clapping his hands.
They shuffled together, dragging their legs toward the locker room. Leo opened the door, and the Lincoln players filed inside, silence heavy in their bones.
"Sit first," Coach Owens ordered.
They obeyed, each finding their spot, sweat dripping, hearts still pounding.
"Alright. Our season picks up right where it left off. Every Friday—we play." His gaze cut across the room, sharp and unyielding.
Laura stepped forward with her clipboard.
"Our first six: Gardenhill, away. Westbrook, home. East Valley, away. Riverside, home. Crenshaw, away. And San Dimas, home."
A low murmur rippled through the players.
"Three lower teams first," Laura continued, "then back-to-back seeded." Her expression hardened. "And from what I’ve heard... Victory almost ready to return. One more week, maybe two."
The locker room fell silent. Victory. The star San Dimas striker, sidelined with injury. If he was back, their last match would be against San Dimas at full power.
The weight of that name settled over them like frost. Every player knew Victory’s reputation—explosive, lethal, a striker who could turn matches single-handedly.
Facing San Dimas was bad enough. Facing San Dimas with Victory? That was war.
Laura glanced at Owens. He took over, eyes burning beneath the harsh lights.
"You’ve faced these teams before. Don’t think for a second they’ll play the same way again. They’ve studied you, scouted you, prepared for you. They’ll come at you harder."
His voice rose, a hammer against iron.
"But I believe in this squad. With our eleven on the pitch, we can tear down anyone."
Owens raised his fist. "For number one!"
"For number one!" the team roared back, the echo rattling the walls, burning through their exhaustion.
On the way back, Julian caught sight of Tress. As always, she had that quiet, bookish energy about her—like the prototype of a nerdy sports medical student. A clipboard hugged tight against her chest, glasses slipping slightly down her nose.
"Heading back?" Julian asked casually.
"Yes." She nodded, adjusting her strap. Then, with a professional tone, "So—your body ready for the upcoming matches?"
"Yeah," Julian replied simply, rolling his shoulders.
Tress narrowed her eyes a little, scanning him the way doctors did with patients. "Where’s your phone?"
Julian pulled it from his pocket.
Her lips curved faintly at the sight. "An old model? Hm. I thought you’d chase the newest tech." She tapped on the screen quickly. "I’ll save my number. In case you need to consult about recovery or injuries."
Julian slipped the phone back into his pocket. "Thanks."
Her cheeks warmed faintly, though her tone stayed professional. "Don’t overdo it, Julian. Even steel breaks if you grind it too thin."
"Okay, bye!" she said, waving with one arm before jogging off, ponytail bouncing behind her.
The hallway around him hummed with life—teammates still laughing, Cael’s dramatic groans echoing, Riku smacking him again to shut him up.
Leo was already discussing strategy with Noah, voices low, steady, focused. It wasn’t just noise. It was a reminder: this team had grown teeth, and every one of them was sharpening for what came next.
Julian adjusted his bag, eyes narrowing as the cold draft from the exit hit his face. Whatever waited—Gardenhill, Westbrook, San Dimas—he’d be ready.