The sun beat down on the pitch, making the air shimmer with heat. Saki wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and glanced around.
The players had already been split into two teams by the two coaches.
Saki had been placed on the right wing. To his surprise, his two unlikely companions were on the same side—Papu as their striker and Lumi on the left wing. Don Carioo, his old friend from Ireland, stood behind them as the attacking midfielder.
The two had trained at the same academy for years.
The rest of the squad were strangers—unfamiliar faces, unknown names—but every one of them carried the same quiet tension.
Outside the pitch, a small crowd had begun to gather. Kids clung to the wire fence, eager to watch the trial unfold.
Across the field, Saki studied their opponents. Players jogged into position, calling out instructions and forming small clusters as they prepared.
One lanky forward sprinted toward the center spot.
It was the same guy wearing the number nineteen jersey—the one who had boldly vouched for himself in front of the coach.
And judging by the way he moved, he looked every bit like a natural center forward.
"So what do you think, Saki?" Don said. "Can we take them?"
Saki didn't answer immediately. He glanced toward the opposing side, but it was hard to judge them. It was the first time they were facing each other.
"I don't know if we're that good," he said after a pause. "But you and me… we know what we can do." A confident smile spread across his
face.
"Now that's my man!" Don chimed.
"As long as you pass the ball to me," Papu added, bouncing on his toes with his eyes
locked on the center circle.
Saki smirked. "Make the run, and I'll find you."
Papu looked up and smirked back. "Drop the ball from any angle, and I'll show you the art of a true finisher!"
"Just be ready in the box," Lumi said calmly on the other side while stretching. "The crosses are coming."
"You can count them on me."
Assistant Coach Masaru's whistle pierced the air.
Both teams turned toward him. Saki's side wore the usual blue kit with white shorts.
Their opponents wore the same colors, but bright orange transparent training bibs draped over their jerseys, making the two sides easy to distinguish across the pitch.
Unlike them, however, the orange team stood strangely calm—almost too quiet.
"Okay," Mr. Turner began, stepping forward. "Now that you're all lined up, let me remind you—there will be no substitutions."
The players glanced toward the sideline, where a much younger boy stood waiting.
"That's young Naziko," Masaru explained. "He'll be substituted for his fellow junior, Imao, from the orange team."
He paused before adding with a faint smile,
"So technically, only the orange side gets one substitute. As for the blue team… well, I suppose I could volunteer if you really need one."
A few players chuckled.
"That being said," Turner continued, "Miss Amber here will be our referee."
A young girl with short dark hair stepped forward in a referee's uniform.
"Seriously?" Saki murmured under his breath. "A girl?"
"She's one of the youngest certified referees," Masaru said calmly. "And stricter than most professionals I know."
Amber's sharp eyes swept across the pitch.
"Any complaints," she said coolly, "can be settled after the match."
A few scattered chuckles rose from the players, but Amber ignored them.
She stepped forward and blew the whistle.
For a brief second, both teams just stood there.
They had been so focused on lining up that no one had even decided who would take the first kick.
"What are you waiting for?" Amber snapped. "This is the start. Don't tell me you forgot to toss a coin."
She pointed sharply.
"Fine. Blue team—you're kicking off."
Saki felt his heart thud.
The ball rolled into play between the two teams.
Papu immediately passed it back to avoid a darting orange-shirted player. Saki took a deep breath and sprinted forward as the orange team hurried to reorganize their defense.
Almost instantly he heard Don shout.
"Hey, Saki! Watch out—here it comes!"
"Uh—!"
The ball flew toward him. He cushioned it against his chest as it bounced up. In that brief moment, his eyes scanned the field.
The orange defense had already broken their shape.
Only two defenders remained.
There was no time to think.
Saki burst forward down the wing, racing toward the byline. One defender—number 30, a tall player with dark yellowish dreadlocks—charged to stop him.
The guy looked physically stronger.
But he was too late.
Saki kept sprinting without cutting inside.
Just before the defender could close him down, he swung his leg and whipped the ball into the box.
Then he realized something.
No one was there.
Only the goalkeeper stood ready, arms rising to claim the cross—
But suddenly a figure exploded into view.
Papu.
Like a shockwave, he leapt higher than the keeper and smashed the ball into the net with a powerful header.
"Yes!" Saki shouted, her fist shooting up in triumph as the ball nestled into the net, the mesh practically vibrating.
The shrill blast of the referee's whistle sliced through the atmosphere.
Papu, with a theatrical flourish, skidded on his knees across the vibrant green field, jabbing a finger toward Saki.
"See? I knew it! Hand over the ball, you wizard!"
A tidal wave of jubilant teammates rushed forward, pulling both players into a chaotic embrace of congratulations.
"A truly remarkable play," the referee commented with a quick, approving nod. "But the match is far from over. Get back to your positions."
They jogged back to their spots on the pitch, a fresh surge of energy propelling them. Saki felt a powerful sense of confidence bloom within him. But he knew teams can get lucky.
The piercing shrill of the whistle announced the game was back on.
The player in the orange kit pulled off a slick heel-flick, sending the ball backward before sprinting ahead, his wingers perfectly timed alongside him.
Saki and Papu moved to intercept the ball carrier, but the midfielder in orange stayed cool despite their closing in.
He smoothly passed to a teammate wearing number twenty, slipping away from their advances.
Saki thought he had the player cornered, but as the ball was nudged, it just slid past Saki's outstretched leg, almost like a trick. One quick touch, a sudden feint, and Saki was left staring at the name on the back of the jersey – Young Nicholas.
He'd gone in too hard, falling for a clever deception.
"You okay, Saki?" Papu's voice broke the tension.
"Forget me – get the ball!" Saki yelled back. Number twenty was already streaking down the wing, a fast river flowing along the sideline, eyes peeled for an opportunity.
But before he could even attempt a pass, Don Carioo came sliding in, a powerful tackle winning the ball and sending it out for a corner.
"Huh," the orange player sighed as he jogged toward the corner flag.
"These guys aren't that bad, huh, Young Saki?" said Don casually.
Saki had just made it to the penalty box.
"Yeah, they're decent," he admitted. "But that number twenty is tough to handle."
A laugh sounded from nearby, one of the orange players.
"What's amusing?" Saki asked, turning to the voice. It was number nineteen, Kenta.
"If anyone deserves your worry, it's me," Kenta quipped, a mischievous grin playing on his lips, "not that it matters—
The ball was already moving, its path determined.
With unnerving accuracy, the corner kick soared toward the most critical area.
Saki's attention immediately pinpointed the target.
The number seven.
Joha.
He was already poised, leaping for the pivotal header.
Saki moved to intercept, his own jump perfectly synchronized.
But Saki got to the ball first.
A solid *thwack*.
His powerful header sent it rocketing out of the penalty box.
The ball bounced once just outside the area landing perfectly for Lumi.
"Run for it!" Saki shouted as he saw Lumi and Papu already gaining an advantage on the counterattack.
For a moment Saki thought they had lost the ball when Lumi seemed surrounded. But Lumi suddenly flicked the ball over the pressing opponent and darted past him, reclaiming it on the other side before pushing forward.
He sprinted down the right flank.
Ahead of him on the far side, another blue-shirted teammate was already moving into space—number seventeen.
Akio Saito, their central midfielder.
Papu stayed in the middle, slightly behind the play, ready in case a late finish was needed.
But the attack ended abruptly.
One of the orange defenders slid in and cleanly tackled Lumi, killing the counterattack.
Most of the blue team had already pushed high up the pitch.
And in that instant, the orange side launched a counter of their own.
"Fall back!" someone shouted.
It was the left back—number eighteen, Arata—his name clearly printed across his jersey.
Saki clenched his teeth.
Another counter…
The defender who had tackled Lumi wasted no time. In less than a second he scanned the field, spotted his teammates breaking forward
—and lofted the ball high into the air.
As the blue team rushed back to rebuild their defensive line, several players shouted at once.
"Watch number seven!"
Saki looked up and saw the ball soaring overhead.
Number seven from the orange team was already sprinting toward the landing spot. If no one reached it first, he would have a clear chance.
Saki burst forward at full speed.
He was gaining on him.
The brown-skinned player in the number seven jersey sensed him closing in from behind.
The ball started its descent, and Saki got ready for the interception, poised to make his move.
But then, in a flash of sheer brilliance, the player wearing number seven gave the ball a tiny, almost imperceptible nudge forward.
Saki lunged, a desperate, last-ditch effort that fell completely short. He scrambled to recover his balance, immediately trying to stop the advancing player again. However, number seven, moving like a phantom, first feinted to the left with a deceptive sidestep, then shifted to the right in a blur of motion.
Before Saki could even fully process what was happening, the ball, as if by magic, slipped stealthily between his outstretched legs.
A nutmeg – a truly cruel twist of fate.
Saki spun around in a frantic pirouette, just in time to see the striker's practiced motion as his leg was already coiled, ready to unleash the shot.
A soft *swish*, and the ball found its mark, a triumphant tremor against the net.
Goal.