The morning before the final match dawned not with the shriek of Arkady's whistle, but with a heavy, expectant quiet.
The war against Seagulls Academy had been won, but the cost was etched into them: Thomas, cleared from the clinic but benched with a doctor's strict order for rest, moved with a stiff caution that was worse than any shout. The collective exhaustion was a physical thing, a deep marrow tiredness.
Instead of the brutal geometry of the training pitch, Arkady herded them onto a bus. No one spoke. They assumed it was a ruse, that they were heading to some secret, grimy facility for a final, hellish session.
The destination was a surprise that left them shuffling on the sidewalk in confused silence.
"Pizza Palace," Max read the flickering neon sign aloud, his voice flat with disbelief. The restaurant was a relic, with checkered vinyl tablecloths visible through dusty windows, and a "CLOSED FOR PRIVATE EVENT" sign hanging crookedly on the door.
Arkady pushed the door open, a bell jangling with forlorn cheer. Inside, it was empty save for a single, massive round table set for a king's feast, or a last supper. Seventeen chairs surrounded it.
The team hovered near the entrance like wary strays. The smell of baked dough and oregano was utterly disorienting.
"Sit," Arkady commanded, already taking the chair that faced the door. His usual tracksuit was gone, replaced by a simple, dark polo shirt. It made him look strange and somewhat comfortable.
They obeyed, the scrape of chairs loud in the quiet. Fourteen of them, including a subdued Thomas, settled around the vast table. Steve leaned over to Frank, whispering, "This is it. The last meal. He's fattening us up for the slaughter."
Before the murmurs could grow, the kitchen doors swung open. Waiters emerged, not with clipboards and stopwatches, but with plates. Each was set down with a soft clink: two generous slices of pizza glistening with chicken and melted cheese, a neat mound of potato salad, a cup of yogurt.
They stared at the food as if it were a complex tactical diagram. No one moved.
The front door opened again, and Mr. Spencer walked in, offering the room a small, apologetic smile. "Sorry I'm late. Had to check in with the badminton team. They send their regards."
He took the empty seat between Diaz and Arkady, nodding to the stunned players as if joining them for pizza was a perfectly normal Tuesday.
Arkady let the silence stretch, then cleared his throat. The sound was familiar, but the context was not.
"I remember the first time I walked onto your training field," he began, his voice lacking its usual blade's edge. It was lower, almost reflective. "I saw a collection of individuals. Some with arrogance, some with fear, all with a idea of football that was… incomplete. I drilled you. I cut you. I forged fourteen who understood that the game is not played in the feet first, but in the will."
He paused, his pale eyes scanning their faces—Frank's stubborn pride, Perez's quiet strength, Max's resilient grin, Leo's watchful intelligence, King's icy focus.
"You have tackled every challenge placed before you. Whether brute force or orchestrated chaos. For that, regardless of what happens on that pitch tomorrow, you are winners. In my book."
A slow, swelling wave of emotion hit the table. Tyler let out a low "hell yeah." Frank clapped Perez on the shoulder. Max grinned. For a moment, the weight lifted. They were being seen, not as components, but as a unit that had earned something.
Mr. Spencer nodded, his smile genuine. "He's right. What you've built is special."
Arkady raised a hand, and the room quieted again. "Tomorrow's match is for tomorrow. Today, we mark the distance you have come. But we are missing a guest."
As if on cue, the door chimed. Hal stepped in, his large frame filling the doorway, his apron replaced by a worn leather jacket. Arkady stood and the two men shook hands, a firm, respectful grip that spoke of old history.
"Boys," Arkady said, resuming his seat. "This is Hal Silver. A friend. And the man who provided the armor you wear."
Hal sat, his gaze sweeping the table. A slow smile spread under his bushy mustache. "Well, I'll be. I know a few of you."
Arkady raised an eyebrow. "Do you?"
"Sure do. King. Frank. Leo. Thomas. Max. Diaz." His eyes moved down the table, pausing. "And you… Steve, right?"
Steve looked shocked, then pleased. "Yes, sir."
Before the conversation could continue, Tyler Walter, who had been staring at his steaming pizza with the intensity of a sniper, spoke loudly to no one in particular. "Are we gonna eat this thing or just admire it until it gets cold?"
The tension shattered. Laughter erupted, real and loud, bouncing off the vinyl and glass. The staff couldn't contain their laughter and joined in.
Even Arkady's mouth twitched in what could almost be called a smile. "Dig in."
What followed was two hours of stolen peace. Forks clinked. Stories flowed—Frank's impression of Miller roaring at a deflected shot, Max recounting the terror and thrill of his first Griffin Cup goal, Steve sheepishly admitting he'd studied Emerald's playbook so hard he dreamed in formations. Leo relating how his last goal kept him awake, replaying it over and over.
For the first time, Arkady was in the room and they felt like themselves, not just his instruments. He listened, occasionally offering a dry comment that would send them into fresh gales of laughter.
As the meal wound down, boxes of leftover pizza packed for homes, Arkady gave his final instruction. It was the simplest one yet.
"Training today is yours. Do what you need. Run, rest, visualize. I have taught you what I can. To beat Northgate, you must now play not from my blueprint, but from your own guts. Dismissed."
The group spilled out into the late afternoon light, bellies full, spirits oddly lifted. Leo walked with Frank and Tyler, the usual competitive edge softened into camaraderie. They were debating the merits of deep-dish versus thin crust when a sleek, modern coach bus parked outside the "The Grand Express Inn" caught Leo's eye.
The hotel doors slid open, and three young men emerged, laughing, duffel bags slung over shoulders. They moved with the relaxed, powerful grace of professional athletes. Leo's breath hitched.
The one in the center, pulling on a pair of sleek sunglasses, was Julius O'Connor.
The trio boarded the bus, its engine rumbling to life.
An impulse, sharp and clear, overrode everything. Leo took off, sprinting down the sidewalk.
"Leo? Hey!" Tyler called out, but Leo was already at the bus, slapping his palm against its metal side.
The vehicle hissed to a stop. The door folded open, and a woman with a clipboard glared down. "What's your problem, kid?"
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Leo panted, doubling over. "Can I… can I speak to Julius O'Connor? Just for a second?"
A familiar face appeared over the woman's shoulder. Julius peered out, his sharp hazel eyes scanning Leo. "Who's asking?"
"It's Leo. From the park. We played monkey in the middle." The words tumbled out.
Recognition dawned. Julius's cool expression melted into a grin. He shoved the door wider and hopped down, his movement effortless. He threw a heavy, muscular arm around Leo's shoulders. Leo was enveloped in the scent of expensive sandalwood cologne and clean sweat.
"The park kid! Leo. Right." Julius chuckled, his voice a low rumble. "So you're the one Harry's been muttering about. You took down Eli's crew. Nice work."
"Eli?" Leo asked.
"Yeah. The coach's boy. #7 for Emerald. Eli Macready." Julius said it with a mix of pride and sibling rivalry. Another young man, lean and sharp-faced, leaned out of the bus.
"Julius, we're on a clock."
"Rider, check this out. Leo Reed. Harry's tick. The son of… Daniel, right? Daniel Reed."
Leo's heart skipped a beat at the mangled name—Daniel instead of David—but he didn't correct it. The moment was too fragile.
Rider's eyes widened with interest. "The legacy kid? No joke?" He stepped off the bus too, and suddenly Leo was standing between two U21 pros, with Frank and Tyler gawking from a distance.
"We play Northgate tomorrow," Leo said, the words rushing out. "The final. I was hoping… for any advice."
Julius's smile faded into something more contemplative. He glanced at Rider, then back at Leo. "I watched your semi. Your team's got heart. Three-star heart. But Northgate…"
He whistled low. "That's a four-star machine. And word is they're not playing by the spirit of the rules. Bringing in more than just keeper ringers. A whole new defensive line and a striker from some private academy up north. The affluent bend what they want."
The confirmation was a cold stone in Leo's gut. Five ringers. Apex only brought in two and Diaz hadn't even done anything.
Rider nodded. "It's dirty, but it's the game."
"Here's the real advice, kid," Julius said, his voice dropping, earnest. "Forget the Cup. Forget the money your school will probably just pocket. Tomorrow, you're not playing for them. You're playing for the scouts in the stands. This tournament? It's a showcase. I lost in the semis four years back. Scored a hat-trick in a losing effort. Got recruited the next week. Play for the eyes that matter. Make them remember your name, not the score."
A voice from inside the bus called again, urgent.
Julius squeezed Leo's shoulder once, a grip that felt like a brand. "If you make it pro," he winked, "tell them O'Connor saw your potential first."
He and Rider bounded back onto the bus. The door hissed shut. With a growl of diesel, the coach pulled away, merging into the flow of traffic and disappearing around a corner.
Leo stood rooted to the spot, the weight of Julius's words settling on him heavier than the man's arm had been. The camaraderie of the pizza parlor, the warmth of recognition, evaporated.
The final wasn't just a game. It was an audition. And the other side had just rewritten the script with a stacked deck.
Frank and Tyler finally reached him. "What did he say?" Frank asked, eyes wide.
Leo watched the empty space where the bus had been. The setting sun painted the street in deep oranges and long shadows.
"He said to put on a show," Leo replied, his voice quiet. He turned and started walking home, the friendly afternoon now feeling like the last quiet hour before a battle that was bigger, and far more personal, than he had ever imagined.