Sweat dripped down Sota's forehead as the scoreboard glowed like a constant reminder of the uphill battle they were fighting: 18-6, Midoriyama's favor. They were locked in a struggle, each team trading blows, like gladiators in a pit fighting for the final say. He clenched his fists, knowing that victory wouldn't come from a single play or a miraculous touchdown; it would take a concerted effort, a sequence of calculated risks and relentless pushes forward.
He stepped into the huddle, feeling the weight of his teammates' expectations, their breaths coming in sharp bursts. "We're going to chip away at this," he said, his voice low and steady. "Short passes. Get the ball moving. Every third pass, someone send it my way. I'll look for the opportunity to launch a Barrier Break to the end zone."
