[YELLO. PLS REMEBER THE COMMENTS, AND PLS SOME POWER STONES. ONE WOULDN'T HURT]
"Finally," Kibb thought confidently.
He rushed to intercept the pass.
As he moved, Florence noticed that he had left Vasquez free.
Florence passed to Vasquez, and with the only hauler gone, there was nobody left to stop him.
Goal.
85th minute.
"Hold on... was I wrong, or did he play me?" Kibb wondered.
"I was sure he wanted to pass to Florence, b—"
"Dude, I thought Vasquez was your man?" Dogo asked.
Timidly, Kibb told him he didn't know.
Dogo didn't hear him and asked again, but Kibb was already lost in thought.
"I saw that pass coming. Was my intuition wrong?"
I.Land were down three goals to nil.
Later, Florence put the game beyond doubt with a fourth goal in extra time.
Final score: 4–0.
It was a terrible result for the yellows, and they knew it.
The players made their way to the locker room, with Riley starting the complaints.
"What did we do wrong? I mean..." He paused, trying to think of something less harsh.
"So my interceptions went to waste," Michael added.
Samba tried calming them down.
"Come on, guys. We tried."
"We tried?!" Shroder exploded.
He stood up, marched toward Samba, and began nagging.
"Don't give us that crap. We played horribly."
He grabbed Samba's collar before releasing it.
"You know what? Maybe we did try. It's the defenders who need blaming."
He turned to Leiser first.
"I don't know if you were defending or spectating."
Then to Rico.
"You. You weren't even in the game. Only God knows where your head was."
Finally, he turned to Kibb.
Kibb sat with his head lowered, a towel hanging around his neck.
"And you, our last man. You were womanizing for nothing."
"Shroder..." Samba tried to intervene.
"I'm not done," Shroder snapped.
He turned back to Kibb.
"So tell me, runt. What's the problem? Why weren't you marking that striker, huh?"
Kibb gave no response.
He sat there as silent as a ghost.
The silence only irritated Shroder further.
He grabbed Kibb's collar and hurled him against a locker.
Kibb didn't resist.
"You know, I still don't get you. Some days you play well, and other days you're worse than useless. Where do you belong? Is this some kind of child's play to you?"
His words kept coming.
"We were giving it our all, and all you did was womanize a guy."
"He's probably not wrong," Kibb thought.
Womanizing that striker.
The phrase echoed in his head.
"I was chasing my new system, and it cost me."
He paused.
"No... it cost this team four goals."
The rest of Shroder's words kept firing at him until Samba finally pulled him away.
"Hey! What's that for?" Shroder complained.
"Quit being so hard on the little guy," Samba argued.
"Even if marking Vasquez was all he did, Vasquez's physique was still a factor. Stop acting like it's all Kibb's fault."
"If he's not up for the challenge, then he better get out of here," Shroder replied.
"Cool it, Shroder!" Jolar shouted as he grabbed his jersey.
Shroder turned toward him.
"And you, so much for your sh—"
Jolar cut him off.
"All you've been doing here is throwing a tantrum. Besides, you had your own mistakes in the match, so why complain about everyone else's?"
He stepped closer.
"If the defense was the problem, maybe you should've tracked back and helped them. Or is that too much for you?"
The room went quiet.
"As far as I'm concerned, we were simply outclassed by a club that's above our level. This loss isn't any one person's fault."
Jolar returned to the bench and sat down.
"Oh, and if you check the ratings, Kibb scored higher than you."
He smirked.
"So quit throwing stones."
Shroder looked ready to punch him.
There was an age gap between them—though not a huge one. Something like eighteen and twenty-three.
"That's enough."
Moz stepped in.
The room instantly fell silent.
He looked around before continuing.
"Just look at yourselves."
His voice was calm, but disappointed.
"Fighting over a friendly match. If this is how you behave now, what will you do when the actual league begins?"
Nobody answered.
"As I walked down the corridor, I could hear shouting from outside the locker room."
His gaze swept across the players.
"This is not how a good team operates."
"A professional team analyzes its mistakes and improves. Instead, all of you are in here fighting."
He shook his head.
"I'm highly disappointed in you all."
Kibb's eyes widened.
He misunderstood the statement, thinking Moz meant he was disappointed in their performance.
Moz moved toward the door.
Before leaving, he added:
"Freshen up. We're leaving Spain tomorrow."
The team quickly packed up and left.
Everyone except Kibb.
Samba, who was the last to leave, noticed.
"You alright, man?" he asked.
"I'm fine. I just wanna recharge, you know? All the stress."
Kibb attempted to walk away.
Samba stopped him.
"There's no need to listen to Shroder."
He pulled out his phone.
"You heard Jolar. He wasn't just trying to make you feel better."
Samba showed him the ratings.
"Look. You're the sixth-highest-rated player on the team this game. Okay?"
"Right," Kibb answered quietly.
The team bus drove them back to the hotel, where they stayed for the night.
That night, Kibb couldn't stop thinking about the mistake.
The failed read.
He blamed himself for every goal they conceded.
"I should've been there."
"Why couldn't I stop him?"
The thoughts kept coming.
One after another.
Soon, he found himself questioning whether his premonition was truly a skill...
...or just cheap luck that happened to follow him around sometimes.