CHAPTER 34: CHAPTER 34: THE SILENCE AFTER WAR

Julian sat on the sidelines, jaw clenched, fists balled against the bench as the noise of the crowd faded into the background.

His eyes stayed locked on the field—until a firm slap landed on his shoulder.

"Focus. Seriously. You can’t just stare at the game while your leg’s twitching like a short-circuited wire," a voice snapped beside him.

Julian blinked, turning to see a girl kneeling beside him, already rolling up his sock and inspecting his shin.

She had chestnut-brown hair tied in a ponytail, rectangular glasses perched on her nose, and an annoyed scowl that made her look more like a strict librarian than a medic.

"Muscle’s way too tense," she muttered, fingers probing with annoying accuracy.

"Jesus. All you athletes treat your bodies like disposable tools. Ever heard of self-preservation? You push past the limit, tear something, and bam—future gone."

She didn’t wait for a reply. Her hands moved fast, professional. Wrapping. Taping. Checking.

"I’m Theresa Rose," she added, almost offhandedly. "Sports medicine trainee. Don’t worry, we’re supervised by a certified athletic trainer. You’re not gonna die. Probably."

Julian tried to speak, but all he managed was a strangled grunt.

"Yeah, yeah, I know it hurts," she said, still talking a mile a minute. "You strained the flexors and maybe micro-tore some connective tissue. Did you even warm down after the first match? No, of course you didn’t."

He gritted his teeth. Was she treating him or lecturing him to death?

"You think you’re invincible," Tess muttered, her voice dipping into something more personal. "But pain doesn’t care how many goals you score. It catches up eventually."

And yet—

Minute by minute, the pain began to ease.

The sting faded.

His breath leveled.

The burning in his calves dulled to a throbbing ache.

He exhaled. Finally.

"You really need to take care of your body," Theresa muttered, a bit gentler this time. "It’s not about being tough. It’s about lasting."

Julian finally turned to her, nodding slightly.

"Julian Ashford. Thanks, Theresa."

She smiled faintly. "Call me Tess. Everyone does."

Julian let out a dry chuckle. "Thanks, Tess."

She nodded, then returned to work, adjusting the wrap on his ankle with delicate, practiced movements. Her fingers were fast, steady—nothing wasted.

Meanwhile, the match pressed on.

Ricky Zhang took the field, sliding into Julian’s striker role. His energy was different—cleaner lines, less reckless aggression, more composure. Lincoln’s shape responded immediately.

The midfield pulled tighter.

Felix and Tyrell drifted higher.

Leo dropped deeper—closer to the fire.

But Bellmere smelled blood.

They pressed harder.

The pitch tilted in their favor as possession shifted their way, and Lincoln’s backline began to strain under the weight.

Malaka surged forward again and again. Adrian controlled the center like a puppeteer, his presence always looming.

Lincoln was getting choked again.

And Leo knew it.

He could feel it in the tempo, in the spacing, in the panic rippling up the spine of their team.

He had to break the rhythm.

So he called it—with a glance, with a gesture.

Felix cut in.

Tyrell flared wide.

Ricky dropped slightly.

Five attackers surged into Bellmere’s half.

A 5v4 storm.

Adrian stepped up to meet him—again.

Leo didn’t blink.

Left, then right.

A feint pass.

Adrian stayed with him, balanced and locked on.

So Leo passed it. Quick one-two with Ricky.

Then sprinted—trying to lose the leash.

Adrian stuck like a shadow.

Ricky fired it back, but Malaka came flying in from the side to intercept. His timing was sharp—too sharp—

—but his touch wasn’t.

The ball bounced free.

Felix was there, snatching it up in a blink, and swept it back to Leo—

Adrian still with him.

But Leo didn’t panic.

He spun—

A roulette, clean and fast.

Adrian missed the pivot.

A flash of space.

Another defender closed in—

But Leo released it.

A sharp pass.

Tyrell was open. Alone.

One step.

Two.

He swung.

Crack!

PING—!!

It slammed off the crossbar like a gunshot.

So close it rattled the crowd into stunned silence.

The clang still echoed in Julian’s chest like a phantom heartbeat. That was the moment. The chance. The kill shot. And it slipped.

...

The clock kept ticking.

Second by second.

Minute by minute.

And then—

90+ flashed on the board.

Final moments. Final breaths.

Bellmere had the ball.

Adrian Bellamy took possession near midfield. Calm. Composed.

Malaka was already running—an engine that never cooled, burning down the left side like he could smell blood.

Yuan drifted higher up the pitch, slipping between Tariq and Riku like vapor.

Adrian held the ball.

Leo closed in, teeth gritted, body low. He tried to muscle Adrian off it—

But Adrian was built like a tank.

They collided—

Thud.

Leo hit the grass.

He threw up a hand for the foul—

Nothing.

The ref waved it off.

Play on.

Leo growled and forced himself up, chasing.

Adrian scanned.

Left.

Right.

Then saw it—a pocket of space opening like a wound.

A perfect outside-foot pass.

Effortless. Disguised.

Even the crowd got faked.

But Malaka didn’t.

He knew.

He exploded forward, slipping past Zion like vapor.

He didn’t try to trap the ball.

He redirected it—a single, flawless first touch—

Straight to Yuan.

Yuan was already in the box.

Tariq threw his body in the way, muscling him.

They jostled. Fought. Yuan took the hit, spun—

Tariq stumbled.

Yuan cut to the right.

Riku stepped up to block—

But Yuan danced.

Left.

Right.

Gone.

Open lane.

Shot—!

Damien reacted, diving full stretch—

Thwack—!!

His hands caught it—

But not cleanly.

The ball deflected.

Spun.

Bounced—

And rolled in.

GOAL.

Yuan didn’t even pause.

He wheeled away to the corner flag, roaring as his teammates swarmed him.

Malaka was first. They crashed into each other in celebration, followed by the rest of Bellmere’s silver swarm.

Lincoln could only watch.

The final whistle came seconds later.

1 – 1.

A draw on paper. But in the hearts of Lincoln’s players, it tasted like defeat.

Julian leaned forward slightly, head bowed. Not from pain—but from the weight of watching a win slip away from the sidelines.

And in that quiet moment, Tess placed a fresh ice pack against his shin and said nothing. She didn’t need to.

The silence said it all.