Tsssst!
The whistle cut through the air.
Halftime.
Blue shirts dropped where they stood—some on their knees, others flat on the grass, chests rising hard. No one spoke. There wasn't enough breath left for that.
Across the pitch, the orange team walked off without hurry.
Saki stayed half-kneeling, eyes locked on a retreating back.
JOHA.
The name stretched across the jersey.
A winger. Same side as him.
And the difference between them couldn't be clearer.
Two goals. Both his.
The third—some long-range strike from their midfielder, that blond one with the darker skin—had only made it worse.
Saki clicked his tongue.
"Tch… great."
He pushed himself upright and glanced around.
His teammates looked finished. Shoulders slumped. Hands on hips. Heads down.
The worst part?
They hadn't been outplayed.
They'd had the ball. They'd pushed forward. Again and again.
And still—
Nothing.
Not one chance taken.
"We're finished," a player in jersey number eighteen said out loud. The name Arata was printed across his back. "It's pretty obvious who's ending up on the bench after this."
"They're not even under pressure," another added. Saki recognized him as the one who had been driving their counterattacks all half. "We throw everything at them, and they just—"
"So what are we supposed to do?" Papu cut in, frustration clear in his voice. "Sit here and wait for the second half with no plan? They'll score again. At this rate, the whole team's getting benched."
"He's got a point."
The voice came from the middle of the group. A player stepped forward, number 4 on his back—Ryon.
"We need to change something," Ryon continued. "It's not like we've been terrible, but we keep playing the same way. We rely on one approach because we think we can handle it—and that's just attacking."
"And that's exactly why they're beating us," Saki said, straightening up. The others turned toward him as he spoke. "We push forward, leave space behind, and they punish us every time. The orange team knows exactly what they're doing."
"Even if they didn't," another player said, pushing himself up from where he'd been sprawled, "those guys have played at the professional level."
Don let out a short laugh. "You're telling me none of us have?"
The player hesitated. "Well… I haven't," he admitted. Then he looked around. "Have any of you?"
They exchanged glances, each one silently passing the question along.
Until the looks settled on Saki and Papu.
Neither of them reacted.
"Well, don't look at me," Papu said quickly. "I just came out of the academy."
"I have," Saki said, trying not to meet their eyes. "But only for four months. I barely got any minutes." He clicked his tongue, jaw tightening.
"Hey—you, Fred… Frederico," Lumi called, turning to the player wearing number five. "How do you know those guys have played professionally?"
"Because I've talked to them," Frederico replied. "But I recognized Joha and Nicholas before that. I saw them play for Rakon City once. I remember them clearly—"
"You're saying those two played for Rakon City?"
"No way… that explains a lot. No wonder we've been struggling."
Saki had no idea what Rakon City even was. He didn't follow Japanese football, but judging by their reactions, it clearly mattered.
"Then how did they end up here?" he asked. "Is Rakon City really that big compared to us?"
"Think about it," a calm voice cut in.
All eyes shifted to the speaker—jersey number 24, JIN TAKAHASHI, their center-back.
"How does someone playing for a top club end up in a club like this?" Jin continued. "It doesn't just happen without a reason."
Saki exhaled quietly, a bit embarrassed at how naive he must've sounded.
"I'm just saying," he went on, recovering, "if Rakon City has that much talent, maybe they loan players out or drop the ones who don't fit. Then if they improve, they bring them back."
"We're really about to waste halftime talking?" Saki said, more firmly this time.
"So you've got a plan?" came a voice from behind.
It was their goalkeeper, jersey number forty four—TARO ISHIKAWA, gloves still on.
Saki smirked. "Guess I'll have to be the coach and captain for now."
He clapped his hands once. "Alright. Everyone in. Huddle up."
They got to their feet and formed a tight circle, shoulders pressing together.
Across the pitch, the orange team wasn't doing much at all—but somehow, that only made the moment feel heavier.
On the sideline, Mr. Turner folded his arms, eyes narrowing with interest, while assistant coach Masaru leaned forward slightly. The rest of the instructors exchanged looks—something unusual was happening.
"Now listen up," Saki said, knitting his eyes like he was pulling the answer out of thin air.
He exhaled.
"First… I'll say it myself. I was the worst player on the pitch in that half."
A few heads snapped up.
"I pushed too high, forced plays, lost the ball in dangerous areas… I basically handed them transitions." He clicked his tongue. "So yeah—if anyone wants to blame someone, start with me."
Silence.
Then his gaze sharpened.
"But I wasn't the only problem."
He pointed slightly, not aggressively—precisely.
"Don Carioo—attacking mid—you kept chasing the final pass too early. You skipped the build-up. That's why we kept losing structure."
Don frowned, but didn't argue.
"Akio Saito—center mid—you drifted too far forward trying to support me. You left Elton alone in transitions."
Akio lowered his head slightly.
"Elton Cruster…" Saki paused, then nodded once. "You were perfect. Honestly, better than all of us. You held the line by yourself."
A few murmurs of agreement.
"Backline—Jin Takahashi, right back… you overlapped too much without cover. Arata Nakamura, left back, same thing. You both gave them the wings for free."
Jin clenched his jaw. Arata scratched his head.
"Frederico… Ryon Kanji…" his eyes moved between the two center-backs, "you kept stepping out to chase instead of holding shape. That's exactly what they wanted."
The two defenders exchanged a glance.
"And Taro Ishikawa…" Saki's tone softened slightly, "not your fault. You were exposed too many times. No keeper survives that many transitions."
Then—
He didn't point this time.
"Papu… Lumi…"
Both looked at him.
"You two were fine. More than fine. You did your job."
Papu cracked a small grin. Lumi stayed calm, but his eyes sharpened.
Saki straightened slightly.
A ripple of admiration spread through the circle, subtle but undeniable, despite their serious faces.
"But that's enough."
His voice dropped.
"Because I've already figured them out too."
Now the air changed.
"Their biggest weapons?" He raised two fingers. "Joha Abraham on the wing… and Young Nicholas in attacking midfield."
A few players stiffened at the names.
"They're the ones killing us. Joha's movement off the ball—he's dragging our defense out of shape. And Nicholas…" Saki exhaled sharply, "he's the brain. Every transition goes through him."
He tilted his head slightly.
"But here's the thing—they're not perfect."
A pause.
"Their number nine—Kenta Marito?" He shook his head. "He's not a threat. Not really. He's just there to pull attention. A bait."
The realization hit a few of them instantly.
"They want us to focus on him… so Joha and Nicholas can strike."
Saki's eyes narrowed.
"And their defensive mid—Kenzie Kamay. Yeah, he's good. Genius-level even. But…" a faint smirk appeared, "put him under pressure, and he panics. He holds the ball too long."
Now a few players leaned in.
"And that left winger— I mao, the kid…" he gestured vaguely, "he's got potential. But he's slow. And his accuracy? Not there yet. He's the weak side."
"So here's the catch," he continued. "We stop playing like idiots."
A few smirks broke through the tension.
"When we attack—we finish it. No cheap turnovers. If there's no opening, we reset."
He pointed at the midfield.
"Akio—stay central. Don—stop forcing magic. Let the play breathe. And Elton…" he nodded, "keep doing exactly what you're doing. You're our anchor."
Then the defense.
"Fullbacks—pick your moments. Not both at once. One goes, one stays. Center-backs—no chasing. Hold. Your. Line."
Finally—
His eyes locked forward.
"And when we lose the ball…"
A beat.
"We suffocate Kenzie. Don't let him turn. Force him to make mistakes."
Another beat.
"We isolate Imao on the left. That's our trigger."
And then, quieter—
"Joha and Nicholas… we don't stop them completely."
A few looked confused.
"We limit them. Cut their space. Force them wide. Make them uncomfortable."
"They want transitions? Then we deny them space."
He clenched his fist slightly.
"We control the tempo. We don't rush. We don't panic. We wait for the right moment… and when we strike, we strike like a blade."
"What 'bout you?" asked Taro, the goalkeeper.
Saki smirked slightly.
"Me?" He shrugged. "I'll tear their right side apart."