The locker room was quiet, but for the strange shuffle of cleats on the floor and the constant drop of water bottles being empty. Players fell onto benches, their sweat-soaked jerseys sticking to their backs and breathing tirelessly from the on-field combat. The rush of excitement was wearing out, leaving just tiredness and thought.
Marco sat with his hands running through his wet hair and his elbows resting against his knees. His shin guards were on the floor behind him, and his socks had rolled down to the bottom. Across from him, David leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, shaking his head slightly.
"One more touch," David muttered, mostly to himself. "If I took one more touch before that shot at the end, I could've put it top corner."
Finn, sitting beside him, snorted. "Or the defender could've taken your legs out."
David exhaled sharply, but there was no bite to his frustration. Just the quiet gnawing of a competitor who wanted more.
Miguel, still wearing his keeper gloves, stretched out his arms with a groan. "We held our own," he said, his voice even. "Could've been worse."
Kai, sitting with his back against his locker, nodded. "Westfield plays fast. We panicked too much at the start."
Marco glanced up at that. He had felt it too—how the team struggled under the press, how it took them nearly an entire half to calm down and start playing their game.
Before anyone could respond, the door swung open.
Coach Thompson stepped in, clipboard in hand, his gaze sweeping across the room. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't scowling either. Just observing. Calculating.
"Alright," he said simply, leaning against the whiteboard. "Talk to me. What worked?"
A brief pause.
Then Alex spoke first. "Once we settled down, we started controlling possession. First half was rough, but in the second, we moved the ball better. Fewer bad giveaways."
Coach nodded. "And what didn't work?"
Silence.
Marco looked around. He knew the answer, but he didn't want to be the only one saying it.
Kai sighed. "We let them dictate the tempo early. We played scared."
Coach's lips pressed together, but his expression didn't change. "Why?"
No one answered right away. Then Zain leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "They pressed hard. We weren't used to that kind of intensity."
"Exactly." Coach pointed at him with the end of his pen. "They forced us into bad decisions because they didn't give us time. We rushed passes, we lost shape, and we gave them momentum. We only started playing on our terms after they scored. And that's too late."
A few players nodded.
Coach continued. "Now, let's talk about the positives." He looked at Miguel. "You played like a leader back there."
Miguel blinked. "I let in a goal."
"And then you locked in," Coach said. "You were commanding your box, calling out positioning, staying aggressive on crosses. That's what we need from you every game."
Miguel didn't say anything, but a small nod of acknowledgment passed through him.
Coach turned to Marco. "You controlled the second half. Once you started slowing the game down, things opened up. That's what I need from you—not just when we're behind, but from the first whistle."
Marco swallowed. He had felt the shift too. The moment he started playing smarter, the team followed.
Coach's gaze swept the room again. "Look, this was a test. Westfield is tough, but we went toe-to-toe with them. And now we know where we stand. We have one point. Next match, we need three."
There was no dramatic speech. No drawn-out lecture. Just simple facts.
As Coach stepped back, Carlos stood up, stretching his arms above his head. "So, are we gonna talk about David's goal or what?"
A few smirks broke the tension.
David, who had been quiet, finally cracked a grin. "Wasn't bad, huh?"
Noah chuckled. "Lucky, but yeah, not bad."
David tossed an empty water bottle at him. "Shut up, bro."
The mood started shifting. Slowly, exhaustion turned into something else. Confidence. Determination.
Coach clapped his hands once. "Rest up. Ice baths if you need 'em. We start preparing for the next match tomorrow."
As he walked out, Marco exhaled, finally peeling off his jersey. His muscles ached, his legs felt heavy, but something inside him was lighter.
They had survived their first real test.
Now, it was time to win.