The scoreboard read: 0 – 1.
Lincoln’s lead. Lincoln’s pride.
But with every passing minute, East Valley grew more brutal.
Shoulders slammed. Arms tugged jerseys. Shins cracked against shins. The whistle still shrilled, but no card came. Not a single flash of yellow, as if the referee had swallowed his courage.
Lincoln’s players felt it. Some of them were snapping back, a shove here, an elbow there. The fire that made them dangerous was twisting into something reckless.
Julian’s eyes cut to the side—Dante Cruz.
The devil in red and black wasn’t even chasing the ball. He was chasing words. Running left, drifting right, always orbiting Lincoln’s players. His tongue sharper than his boots.
And now he came for Julian.
"Feels like your team’s not as cool as you, Emperor," Dante drawled, grin stretching too wide.
Julian’s lips twitched upward, just enough to sting. "Yeah, but at least we’ve already put one in your net."
Dante’s grin cracked. His fist clenched.
"What, you angry already?" Julian’s voice was calm, almost bored.
"No," Dante said, though his jaw tightened. "But keep talking. Just a little more, and you’ll see."
Julian felt it—the shift. The atmosphere wasn’t just heated anymore; it was suffocating. The pitch buzzed with agitation. Arguments rose with every foul, fans barking from the stands, benches half-standing with outrage.
Even the winter air seemed thicker now, breaths steaming from mouths like smoke from warhorses. Every shove echoed like a drumbeat, every curse from the stands piled weight on their shoulders.
Lincoln’s bench leaned forward in silence, fists white-knuckled, while East Valley’s substitutes jeered, throwing words like stones.
Even Lincoln’s players were being pulled in. Noah’s shoulders squared harder on challenges. Felix snapped at a shove. Cael’s voice boomed at the referee.
Football wasn’t just passes and goals tonight. It was blood, tempers, and pride colliding.
Julian’s fists curled at his side.
This wasn’t a match anymore.
It was a battlefield—and emotion was the weapon.
The ball rolled to Sergio.
He spun, shielding it, until Aaron slid in clean. Leather on leather. Ball stripped.
But Ramirez went flying, clutching his shin, wailing as if his leg had snapped in half.
The whistle stayed silent. The referee had seen it—clear as day. Clean tackle. Play on.
Aaron didn’t wait. He snapped upright, fired the ball to Leo.
Leo carried it forward, weaving through space. His control was silk.
But East Valley weren’t playing football anymore. Two players barreled at him shoulder-first, aiming to crush him.
Leo twisted, slipping past one, then another. A ghost between bodies. But the last defender reached out, fingers clawing his shirt. A violent yank.
Leo’s body jerked back—then slammed onto the turf. Hard.
Julian surged forward. Riku. Noah. The whole front line of Lincoln converged in an instant.
The referee’s whistle split the air.
The East Valley player, the one with the guilty grip, immediately began retreating, hands raised as if innocent.
But Aaron wouldn’t let him walk.
He stepped in front, chest to chest, eyes burning.
"What?" the East Valley player barked, smirk curling.
Aaron laughed once, low and sharp. "What? You think you’re walking away from that?"
The tension snapped. The East Valley player shoved Aaron with both hands.
Aaron slammed right back into him, a shoulder ram that sent both sets of teammates rushing in, heat exploding.
Shouts. Shoves. Hands pulling, voices spitting.
Felix nearly swung an arm before Noah caught his wrist.
Cael shoved two East Valley players backward, roaring like a bull, while Riku stood like a wall, his calm presence the only thing keeping the melee from spilling over into a brawl.
The referee blew his whistle over and over, but the shrill sound was drowned under the storm.
Julian lunged forward, arms wrapping Aaron, dragging him back.
"Don’t," Julian hissed in his ear, voice low and cutting. "Don’t get baited. That’s what they want."
Aaron’s chest heaved, fury trembling under his skin—but he froze. His body cooled, if only barely.
The medic sprinted onto the pitch.
They knelt over Leo, who was grimacing, clutching at his ribs.
"We need him off," one medic shouted. The stretcher followed.
Julian’s jaw locked as he watched Leo lifted, carried toward the sideline. His captain. His conductor.
Referee give a yellow card this time. He not walk without anything
"Back to your positions!" Riku roared, voice cracking through the tension.
Lincoln players dragged themselves back, smoldering. East Valley smirked, prowling.
Lincoln High and East Valley split to their benches. No laughter. No banter. Just the sting of cold air and the burn of tempers.
Julian jogged straight to the sideline.
Leo sat with a bottle of water in hand, sweat streaking his face, but he forced a crooked grin.
"I’m fine. Just need to breathe. I’ll be back second half," he said, voice steady even if his ribs still ached.
Coach Owen nodded firmly. "Nothing serious. Just water, some rest. He’s good to go."
Relief eased the tension in Julian’s chest, but it didn’t loosen the knot of anger.
One by one, Lincoln’s players dropped onto the bench, grabbing their bottles, shoulders tight, breaths heavy. The fire hadn’t gone out—it was simmering, waiting for the whistle.
Coach Owen stepped into the middle, gaze sweeping across every face.
"Listen up. Be patient. You want to know the best way to make them angry?" His voice dropped low, sharp as a blade. "Don’t get provoked."
Silence. The words sank heavy into the air.
"If you don’t bite, if you don’t lash out, they’ll unravel. They’ll get desperate. And when they’re desperate, we cut them open. Our quality is higher. Our game is better. So play. Focus. Break them."
"Yes, Coach!" the reply came, firm, unified—but Julian could feel the storm beneath it.
Because he knew. On the pitch, it wasn’t that easy. When you bled for every ball, when they clawed at you, mocked you, shoved you—it was human to burn. And Julian burned more than anyone.
Coach Owen’s gaze narrowed. "The ref won’t stay blind forever. Second half, they’ll be more cautious. That’s when we strike." He jabbed a finger at the floor. "So go. Break them."
The players rose, one after another.
Julian clenched his fists. "Let’s get one more."
Riku’s voice rumbled like stone. "Let’s win this game."
Cael slapped his chest, fire in his grin. "Leave the back line to me."
Julian’s gaze slid to Leo again. Their captain was hurt, but his spirit didn’t waver. And in that crooked grin, in that refusal to bow, Julian found his own center. Whatever storm East Valley brought, Lincoln would not fracture. Not tonight
And together, Lincoln High walked back toward the winter pitch.
The second half was waiting.