San Dimas looked reborn.
Kai stood over the kickoff, eyes glinting with the kind of intent that said we’re done playing safe. The whistle blew—he nudged it to their new arrival.
Miles Becker.
The boy’s touch was pure silk. He didn’t rush, didn’t force. Just pivoted and slid the ball backward, the way old-school teams baited the press.
The ho stands responded instantly, clapping in unison, their voices rising into a pulsing chant.
The gold-and-silver banners shook as the San Dimas supporters leaned over the rails, screaming for their team to "push, push, push!"
Normally, Lincoln would’ve stayed patient. They had the lead. No need to chase shadows.
Except Coach Owen’s voice still rang in their heads—The best defense is offense.
The fire caught.
Blue jerseys surged forward, breath fogging the frosty air, boots pounding the turf like war drums.
San Dimas were pushed into their own half, their passing squeezed into tighter and tighter lanes.
Julian’s instincts whispered that sothing was off.
A glance at Leo confird it—his captain’s eyes narrowed, a subtle warning flashing across his face.
But they kept pressing.
The ball reached Elijah Kwon just outside his own box. Aaron lunged in, grass spraying from his sliding tackle, but Elijah ghosted the ball to the right wing at the last instant.
Noah was already there, stepping in, boot grazing the ball—enough to make it roll loose, but not enough to claim it.
That roll found Miles Becker.
And in that heartbeat, the trap was sprung.
Every San Dimas midfielder broke forward. Kai tore through the middle like a knife through paper, wingers blasting up the flanks.
The ho crowd sensed it and roared, their noise swelling so hard it almost shook the aluminum bleachers.
Lincoln’s small away section tried to shout over them, but their voices were swallowed whole.
Miles didn’t even look surprised. His body shifted ever so slightly, like a chess master sliding the queen into position.
Julian swore he could see it—Miles didn’t wear glasses, but his gaze sharpened like a detective in a cri drama pushing them up before revealing the final clue.
Then ca the pass.
It didn’t just travel. It split reality.
A curved, weight-perfect ball, bending through a seam that shouldn’t have existed.
The spin kissed the cold air, warping its path until it threaded between three Lincoln players who hadn’t even realized the lane was open.
It was the Algorithm Pass.
And nobody on the pitch—not even Julian—could read it in ti.
The ball bent into a pocket of space that only one man could claim.
Kai ndoza.
And Kai was already gone.
Julian launched into a sprint, muscles coiling and snapping, but every stride felt half a beat too slow.
The air bit cold against his teeth. From the corner of his eye, he caught flashes of gold flags waving furiously in the stands—fuel for the ho side’s surge.
Kai’s first touch was poison and silk in the sa instant—killing the ball’s pace without killing its threat.
It sat up obediently in front of him, a trained predator waiting for the order to strike.
Riku stord in, cleats scraping turf, eyes locked. He dove for the block—
Kai didn’t even blink.
He let Riku’s montum commit, then with a subtle twist, flicked the ball sideways...
Straight into the path of Miles, ghosting in unseen from behind.
The field split wide open.
Miles stepped into the strike, his boots hamring through the ball. Low. Skimming. A missile screaming just above the grass, hugging the ground on its way to the far corner.
Cael reacted instantly—throwing his body in full stretch. His fingertips nicked it, just enough to deflect.
The ball spun upward, climbing like a flare.
And that’s when Elijah arrived.
Charging from deep, timing perfect, he t it with a thunderous volley.
Bang.
The shot tore toward the net while Cael was still grounded from his dive—
—but Noah appeared out of nowhere.
He flung himself across the goal line, leading with his body, and the ball smashed flush into his face.
Pakk!
The impact cracked through the cold air, sending the ball ricocheting away for a corner kick.
A groan of disappointnt rippled through the San Dimas crowd, followed by a low, unified clap, as if to say we’ll get them next ti.
Noah staggered, one hand instinctively to his cheek, before dropping to a knee.
Leo and Julian sprinted over, boots thundering.
Noah waved them off as he rose, face flushed and eyes watering.
"I’m fine," he rasped, giving a sharp gesture—stay focused.
...
Miles Becker walked to the corner flag with the calm of a man setting up a chess move, not a set piece.
Julian’s pulse quickened. Miles’s passes were dangerous—surgical. One mistake in reading them, and the ga would tilt.
From the nearby stands, a cluster of San Dimas students started chanting his na in rhythm—"MILES, MILES, MILES"—turning the corner kick into a mont of theater.
Miles rolled the ball under his sole—once, twice—then set it still. He drew in a slow breath.
One.
Two.
The referee’s whistle sliced the air.
In the box, bodies crashed together—shoulders slamd, arms tugged, every man fighting for a scrap of position.
Miles’s boot struck.
The ball lifted cleanly, climbing on a curve so unnatural it made Julian’s instincts rebel.
He tried to read it—Leo tried—Kai, Elijah, everyone tracked it. But it kept bending, bending, bending.
Cael saw it first.
His eyes widened. His body coiled. He launched.
The ball’s arc was turning in on the goal itself—direct from the corner.
Fingers grazed leather.
Clang!
The ball smacked the near post and ricocheted outward.
Riku didn’t hesitate. He lunged, swung through it, and sent it screaming upfield—just to get it clear.
The throw-in flag went up, but the danger had passed.
Julian’s heart thudded like a war drum in his chest. He’d felt it—how close they’d co.
"The fuck... you can do that?!" Leo shouted, still catching his breath.
"YEAH!" Cael bellowed back, the adrenaline making his voice crack.
From the San Dimas side, the crowd’s noise dropped to a simr—quiet for only a second—before building again, louder, more hostile, determined to push their team back into the kill zone.
For now, they were still alive.
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