CHAPTER 97: CHAPTER 97: TO RULE THE PITCH

The days blurred, and before Julian realized it—Monday arrived.

The black sedan rolled to a stop in front of Lincoln High. The morning air was sharp, carrying that faint winter chill that always lingered over the campus.

Students were spilling in, some yawning, some laughing, bags slung carelessly on their shoulders.

Julian reached for the door handle, but Crest’s voice stopped him.

"Wait."

He turned. Her hand extended, holding out a sleek, matte tumbler.

"Take this."

Julian blinked, caught off guard. "What is it?"

"Tea," Crest said simply. "Drink it before training. It’ll help." Her tone was flat as ever, but the smallest flicker of care hid behind her eyes.

Julian accepted it, feeling the faint warmth seep into his palm. He gave her a short nod. "...Thanks."

He stepped out, the car door clicking shut behind him, and the sedan’s black frame melted into traffic as Crest pulled away.

For a moment, he just stood there, clutching the tumbler, watching the ordinary chaos of school life.

The chatter, the slamming of lockers, the shuffle of sneakers. Normal. Completely normal. And yet for him, every step forward felt like he was walking toward another battlefield.

The tea’s warmth seeped through his hand, grounding him. He raised it to his lips, the faint bitterness cutting against the chill in the air

Julian exhaled, tightened his grip, and walked through the gates.

Another school day had begun.

Classes blurred by in the rhythm of chalk on board, the buzz of voices, and the dull hum of fluorescent lights.

But every tick of the clock only pulled Julian’s thoughts back to the pitch, to the war still waiting.

Every lesson sounded muted, like he was hearing it through water.

Equations written on the board looked more like passing lines. Paragraphs in a textbook turned into formations.

...

When the final bell rang, he was already moving.

The locker room door creaked open. For once, he was the first inside.

The smell of liniment and sweat clung to the air, familiar, grounding. He sat down, lacing his shoes slowly, the silence oddly heavy.

The door banged.

"Why you guys so lateee?"

Cael’s voice.

Julian looked up. Bandages wrapped tight across his head, but his grin burned just as bright.

"You okay?" Julian asked quietly.

"Yeah," Cael dropped onto the bench, shoulders loose, "just need recovery. But I’ll let Coach explain."

One by one the others filed in, voices rising, concern spilling the moment they saw him.

"You good, man?"

"That was scary, bro."

"You sure you should even be here?"

Cael waved them off with that keeper’s swagger, answering like a champ, every word steady.

By the time the noise settled, the door swung open again. Coach Owen entered, Laura right behind him, clipboard in hand.

Coach’s gaze swept the room, heavy, unreadable. Then he nodded to Laura.

She stepped forward, her voice crisp.

"We’ve got three matches left. Back-to-back. All top-seeded."

The words dropped like weights. The room went quiet.

"And we’re down two players." Laura’s eyes moved. "Leo—out one match because of the red card."

All eyes shifted to Leo.

Leo leaned back against the bench, his grin sharp, careless.

"Sorry."

Laura didn’t waste a second. She stepped forward, clipboard in hand, her tone steady.

"For the second case—Cael. Coach already filled me in on his condition. The injury isn’t as bad as it looked, but the stitches mean no intense movement. Minimum recovery: two weeks. Worst case? Four. The doctors will keep monitoring him closely."

Her eyes flicked toward Cael. He just gave a small shrug, bandages stark against his skin.

"And one more thing." Laura’s gaze swept the room. "Because of last match, several of you are sitting on yellows. One more and you’re suspended. So in the next two games—no reckless cards. Control yourselves."

The silence was tight. Everyone understood.

Coach Owen stepped forward then, dragging the blackboard to the center with a scrape. He uncapped a marker and sketched quick, bold lines.

"That means we adjust. Julian, you’ll wear the armband. You’ll slide into Leo’s role—but play slightly more advanced."

Julian’s chest tightened. Captain. The word carried weight.

The armband wasn’t cloth. It was iron. It was responsibility. It was Leo’s silent trust and the team’s unspoken demand.

"Noah," Coach pointed, "you’ll be our sole striker. Ricky steps in to cover your spot."

He tapped the board again, circling the front line.

"I expect freedom between Julian and Noah. You two will read the field and decide in real time—who’s the striker, who drops into midfield. Just don’t clump. Keep it fluid. Keep it sharp."

Coach’s eyes pinned them both.

"Understood?"

"Yes, Coach," Julian and Noah answered together.

"Good. Now move your asses." His voice cracked like a whip. "Training starts now. Cael—bench duty. No heroics. If you feel cold, you stay in the locker room."

"I’ll sit on the bench, Coach," Cael said with a grin.

"Fine," Owen grunted, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

The room moved in unison then—shoes thudding, lockers slamming, the sound of a team bracing for war.

...

Training began. Monday meant foundation. The core of the core.

The kind of work that carved bodies fit to survive ninety brutal minutes.

Laps around the pitch—breath burning, lungs scraping raw.

Squats. Push-ups. Plyometric jumps that hammered every joint.

Cone drills, feet slicing the turf, legs screaming as speed met control.

Only after the grind came the drills.

Passing lanes, vision tests, rhythm work.

Julian felt the shift—today he wasn’t being drilled as a striker. He was drilled as a midfielder.

The heart of the flow. Reading space. Breaking presses. Carrying tempo in his feet like a war drum.

Time blurred. Sweat soaked. By the end, the sun was already low and the air had cooled.

The whistle blew to close training, players staggering toward the locker room like spent soldiers.

Julian followed—until a voice stopped him.

"Julian."

He turned. Coach Owen. Arms crossed, eyes steady.

"Yes, Coach." Julian walked over.

"Let’s take a walk."

No more words until they reached the quiet edge of the pitch, where the grass met the gravel path. The smell of wet earth lingered from the sprinklers.

"You’re not disappointed I placed you in the middle, are you?" Coach Owen asked at last. His voice was calm, but it carried weight.

Julian hesitated. Just for a breath. "...No, Coach." The answer was steady, though the discomfort curled tight inside him.

Coach chuckled, low and rough. "I didn’t put you there to punish you, kid. I put you there because you have the potential to become something bigger." His eyes narrowed. "The emperor of the field."

Julian blinked, the words lodging deep.

"Scoring’s not everything. Control is power. Dictating tempo, deciding when the game breathes and when it suffocates—that’s what a true captain does."

Coach’s voice sharpened. "And from your play? I can see you crave freedom. You help defense. You push forward. You cover ground no one else dares. So I’m giving you that freedom. Take it."

Julian’s chest rose and fell. Slowly, he nodded. "Yes, Coach."

For the first time, the thought didn’t feel heavy. It felt right.

Not a cage.

But a crown.

To be free.

To be emperor.

To rule the pitch.