King of the Pitch: Reborn to Conquer

The morning sun filtered through thin clouds, casting soft light over the Lincoln High football field.

But there would be no intense scrimmage today.

Today's training was light—just enough to get the blood flowing. No physical drills. No combat.

Tomorrow was game day.

And the battlefield would be ours.

Even the grass seemed to know what was coming. No careless shouts. No teasing between players. Just movement. Breath. Quiet resolve. The calm before war.

…

By afternoon, the entire Lincoln High football team had gathered in the locker room.

It was a quiet, focused atmosphere.

Cleats clacked against the floor.

The smell of disinfectant, sweat, and leather lingered in the air.

Bags thudded to the ground. Zippers zipped. No one joked today.

Because today wasn't just about drills.

It was about war plans.

Coach Owens stood at the front, wearing his black tracksuit like armor. Behind him was the blackboard—chalk already outlining the shape of their formation.

4–2–3–1.

That was the spine.

That was the system.

He waited until every pair of eyes was locked onto him before speaking.

"We won't change much from last year's shape," he said, voice low and even. "But this time—we'll do it right."

He jabbed a finger at the blackboard.

Four defenders.

Two center-backs. One right-back. One left-back.

"Simple," he said. "Backline holds. Stay disciplined. Don't chase ghosts."

Two CDMs.

He underlined it.

"You're the wall. You win possession and keep it. We don't need you flying forward—we need you standing guard."

Three attacking midfielders.

He circled the wings and center.

"Felix, Tyrell—you work with Leo. Don't act alone. Flow with him. Let him be the conductor."

His eyes turned sharp.

"And Leo—"

He paused—just a second longer than necessary—then tapped the board once.

"The pitch is your orchestra. Lead it."

Then, finally—

One striker.

He turned toward the room, scanning every face until his eyes settled.

"Our spearhead. You'll be our point of impact. When the break comes, we cut clean."

He stepped back, arms crossed. "This isn't a possession game. We absorb. We strike. Fast. Precise. Calm under fire."

Then, with a short nod, he said, "Laura."

The blonde manager stepped forward. Ponytail bouncing lightly, clipboard in hand, she looked over the roster.

Her voice was steady.

"Starting Lineup," she said, tapping the board.

GK : Cael Morgan

CB : Riku Tanaka, Tariq Okoye

LB : Zion Blake

RB : Miles Carter

CDM : Aaron Bishop, Ethan Rhodes

RW : Felix Moreno

LW : Tyrell Brooks

CAM : Leonardo Luz

ST : Ricky Zhang

Julian sat on the bench, calm as ever.

He didn't flinch when his name was called under the list of substitutes.

No raised brow. No sigh. He just nodded once to himself.

Because even from the bench—he knew he had a role to play.

He didn't need a starter's name to leave a mark. Just minutes—and a blade

Substitutes:

Julian Ashford

Damien Silva

Liam Walker

Coach Owens paced slowly in front of them, gaze hard and voice sharper.

"Don't relax just because you're not starting," he said, each word deliberate, each step a warning. "I want to see everyone ready. If you slack off, I'll pull you—doesn't matter who you are."

He stopped and scanned the room.

"Understood?"

"YES, COACH!" the players shouted in unison, voices echoing off the locker room walls.

Coach Owens gave a single nod. Then, without another word, he turned back to the board.

Tomorrow, the curtain would rise.

And Lincoln High would show the world just how far they'd come.

No raised brow. No sigh. He just nodded once to himself.

Because even from the bench—he knew he had a role to play.

…

After the meeting, the tension dissolved into laughter and chatter. The team clustered together, buzzing with anticipation.

"Our Ricky's the striker tomorrow," Leo said first, flashing a grin. "Think you can handle the heat?"

Ricky didn't even blink—just stood tall and locked eyes with Leo. "Always."

"Wohhhh!" Cael howled from the back, throwing both hands up like a hype man. The guy was chaos wrapped in gloves, wild and confident. New to the team—but already stealing the spotlight.

Across the room, Damien, the former starting keeper, offered a thin, bitter smile.

"I'll win my spot back," he said quietly to Cael, no venom in his voice—just fire.

There was a flicker of respect in Cael's eyes as he met the challenge. No sarcasm. Just a quiet nod.

Riku stood near the lockers, arms crossed. He didn't say a word, but the way his eyes narrowed at Cael said enough. The guy hated chaos. And Cael was chaos.

Then Tyrell, lounging like a comedian waiting for his moment, leaned back and grinned.

"Man, I swear—if Cael talks to the ball one more time, I'm calling an exorcist."

Cael threw his arms up like a preacher. "You don't talk to the ball, my brother—you connect. That's why it listens to me!"

Felix snorted. "Yeah? Then how come it keeps flying into the net when Julian shoots?"

Julian blinked once, completely deadpan. "Maybe it prefers honesty."

Laughter exploded across the locker room—even Riku cracked a smirk.

Even Damien let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. The tension had snapped like a frayed wire, leaving only fire behind.

And just like that, under flickering fluorescent lights and the smell of sweat and rubber cleats, the team felt whole.

Different styles. Different minds. But bound by the same thread—tomorrow.

Ready or not…

Tomorrow was coming.

And when it did—they'd be ready to bleed for each other.