Hey everyone, it's gotten seriously chilly out here! I think I'm one of the flu's first victims of the season 😷🥶 Hope you're all staying warm and well wherever you are. Take care of yourselves!
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The fierce grip of the afternoon sun finally began to loosen, the light melting into a deep, golden hue.
By five o'clock, the neighborhood woke up, relieved by the fading heat.
The air became a symphony of life—
the triumphant shouts of kids playing frantic hide-and-seek between parked cars,
the rhythmic clatter of a lone pair of roller skates as a girl glided in endless loops,
the steady hum of men gathered under the large tree, nursing small paper cups of dark coffee.
Nearby, a group of boys argued good-naturedly over whose turn it was on the single, battered bicycle. The whole scene was wrapped in the warm, comforting smell of fresh bread and croissants drifting from the bakery down the street.
Samir was already stretching near one of the rock-pile goals, scanning the crowd. His eyes lit up when he spotted a familiar figure cutting through the chaos.
"Hey! Look who finally decided to grace us with his presence," he called, voice dripping with mock ceremony. "Did you get lost on the way to a yoga class?"
Ryan walked over, his football boots scuffing the hard earth. He wore a simple black t-shirt and shorts. He casually waved a hand, shooing away the still-bouncing Samir.
"You're buzzing too much," Ryan said flatly. He glanced around the dusty, barren pitch. "And there are no flowers here. Did you get lost?"
I'm a wasp," Samir shot back, pinching Ryan's arm. "I don't need flowers."
He pointed at Ryan's all-black outfit. "And why all black? Weren't you always playing in that old, faded national team jersey? You look like you're going to a funeral."
"Karim's giving me a bib," Ryan said, bored. "One of those neon green ones. No point wearing my jersey under it."
"Ooh, official uniform now!" Samir grinned. "Look at you, all special."
"Nah," Ryan deadpanned. "What I deserve is a suitcase full of golden boots."
He struck a ridiculous pose, miming opening an imaginary case.
Samir stared at him, his face a perfect picture of pure, unadulterated contempt.
Ryan looked back, his expression turning dead serious.
He straightened the lapels of his imaginary suit jacket and declared: "Please do not call me arrogant. I am European champion. I think I am a special one."
"Fuck off," Samir said, shaking his head but unable to hide a grin.
Just then, Karim waved from the center of the pitch, a bundle of neon green vests in his hand. Ryan gave Samir a final, smug look.
"Look," he said, starting to walk away. "My new, upgraded teammates are calling me."
"Those are just bibs, man!" Samir called after him. "The kind you buy one, get two for free!"
Ryan glanced back over his shoulder and stuck his tongue out at him.
Samir watched him go, shaking his head. " Hope those idiots humble him a bit"
"A dose for that ego." He said it with a sigh, but the grin was still there.
Ryan walked over to Karim, and the two bumped fists.
"Yo, man. Everything good?" Ryan asked.
Karim's eyes scanned their own teammates, checking who had shown up. A slow, easy grin spread across his face as he looked back at Ryan.
"Yeah, we're looking solid. How about you?" he asked, his tone turning into a playful, knowing jab. "You ready for this? Or you wanna chicken out?"
Ryan put a hand on his own shoulder, pretending to feel the weight of an immense burden. "Hmmm, should I?" he mused, his voice dripping with false gravity. "Everyone's future is on my shoulders, after all. It's a big decision."
Karim just shook his head, a slow smile spreading on his face. "Yeah. That tongue," he said, pointing a finger at Ryan. "You're gonna be trouble."
"Oooh, experience," Ryan fired back, raising an eyebrow. "Are you the captain?"
"Nah," Karim said, his eyes glinting with challenge. "But should I be?"
Ryan looked him up and down with a slow, appraising glance, a smirk playing on his lips. "Yeah," he said casually. "We can throw a coup d'état if you want."
Karim shook his head, a low chuckle escaping him. "Tsk, tsk. Trouble." He tossed the neon green bib to Ryan. "Here. Try not to start a revolution before the whistle."
A tall, broad-shouldered guy who looked like he'd been shaving since he was twelve walked up, his eyes fixed on the bib in Ryan's hand. "What revolution?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
Karim grinned. "Relax. We just have Napoleon with us today." He gestured between the two. "Amir, this is Ryan, our new teammate. Ryan, this is Amir. Our central defender. And our captain."
Ryan looked from the hulking Amir down to himself, then back up. He gave a small, defeated shrug. "Yeah, my revolutionary spirit just died a quick death."
He nodded at Amir. "Hey, Captain. Amir... well, more 'king' if you ask me. But it still works, I guess."
(Note: The name "Amir" is an Arabic name that translates to "prince")
Amir looked at Ryan for a long moment, then turned his head to Karim. "He's trouble," he grunted.
"Called it," Karim said with a smirk. Then he got down to business. "So where are we putting him?"
Amir gave Ryan another quick, appraising look. "With that weight and height, the back line is out of the question."
"Yeah, wasn't looking to take your job, don't worry," Ryan said, his tone dry as dust. "I'm flattered by the concern for my safety, though."
"How about midfield?" Karim suggested.
Amir shook his head. "Nah. He can't jump for the headers in the center. They'll dominate us in the air."
"Hey," Ryan interjected, a hint of mock offense in his voice. "Just so you know, I'm perfectly average for my height."
Amir squinted at him. "How old are you?"
"Fourteen," Ryan said.
"When I was your age, I was much taller," Amir stated, as if it were an undeniable fact.
"And now you are... what, sixteen?" Ryan asked, tilting his head.
Amir puffed out his chest, running a hand over his stubble. " Nineteen . Do I look that young?"
"Nah," Ryan deadpanned. "I thought you were a mongrel prince or something. "
Amir almost smiled. He turned to Karim. "Let's put him on the wing. Just with that mouth, he's gonna get us some free kicks."
Ryan looked out at the dusty, hard pitch, already imagining the gravelly burns. "No," he said, shaking his head. "Getting scratched up, all that sand in the blood... hard pass."
A genuine grin broke through Amir's stern expression. "I like how you think."
"Duh," Ryan said, bumping fists with him. "We aren't getting paid for this."
The rest of their teammates finished arriving, pulling on their colored bibs. A few minutes later, the opposing team from Les Sources showed up—older, bigger, and moving with a confident swagger that promised a physical game.
With a final nod from Karim, Ryan took his position on the right wing. The initial whistle blew, sharp and clear, cutting through the evening air.
From the first whistle, Les Sources made their plan clear—simple, direct, effective.
In possession, they bypassed the midfield entirely, launching long, hopeful balls toward their big, physical striker. They relied on pure muscle and aerial duels to win territory.
When they lost the ball, they didn't press high. Instead, they dropped into a compact, deep-lying defense, forming two solid banks of four that were difficult to break down.
They were happy to let Ryan's team have the ball in non-threatening areas, waiting patiently to win it back and launch another long-ball counterattack.
From his wide position, Ryan watched the pattern repeat. His team's attack was funneled down the left wing, going nowhere against the packed defense. He held his width, a potential outlet, but the ball never came. He could see the attack stalling, the danger fading.
Instinctively, he adjusted. Instead of pushing high and becoming a spectator, he dropped ten yards deeper, putting himself on the same line as his central midfielders. If we're going to lose it, it'll be here, he thought. And their outlet will be long.
He was right. The left-winger held onto the ball too long, was tackled, and Les Sources won possession. As predicted, their first thought was a direct, early ball to their target striker.
But Ryan was already there. He had read the passer's intention. As the ball sailed towards the striker, Ryan closed the space from the side, while Karim pushed up from his defensive line. They sandwiched the striker perfectly. Under pressure, the striker's control was poor, the ball bouncing awkwardly off his shin.
Amir, reading the situation perfectly, didn't hesitate. He stepped forward with a guttural roar and launched a powerful, clearing header back into the opponent's half, extinguishing the danger.
Ryan immediately drifted back to his wide position. The pattern repeated until a harried midfielder could only launch a hopeful, looping pass towards the right touchline. It was a terrible pass, sailing high and forcing Ryan almost into the spectator's feet.
He watched the ball drop from the sky, his body already angled. Thump. He cushioned it perfectly, the ball dying a foot from the sideline. The opposing left-back closed the distance, a shark smelling blood, his cleats crunching on the hard ground.
Ryan feinted. A sharp dip of his right shoulder, a look inside. In his mind, he heard it—the soft, definitive plip of a fish taking the bait.
Got you.
He exploded in the opposite direction, pushing the ball with the outside of his boot into the space he'd just created. Two driving strides forward, eating up the ground, and without a second thought, he whipped a curling, early cross into the heart of the six-yard box.
It sliced through the air, bypassing the first defender and finding his team's central forward, who connected with a powerful header that flew just over the crossbar.
It was their first real chance. A moment of pure, individual quality manufactured from a hopeless situation.
The central forward, already jogging back, turned and raised a hand, giving Ryan a sharp, acknowledging thumbs-up.
Ryan nodded, already stepping into position…the goalkeeper collected the ball for the goal kick.
In the following minutes, a pattern solidified. Ryan's side of the pitch became the secondary option. It wasn't a conscious freeze-out; it was muscle memory. The midfielders, under even a hint of pressure, would automatically recycle the ball to the familiar left wing, to players they'd grown up with. Ryan would make a good run, would be in acres of space, but the pass would consistently go the other way.
He was the new component in the machine, Ryan thought, a wry, internal smirk on his face. Every company has its familiar faces. It's no different here.
A few moments later, his right-back won a tackle and booted the ball up the line towards him. Ryan controlled it, turning to face the play. Immediately, he heard the central midfielder shouting, "Here! Ryan, here!"
Instead of playing a simple pass to his feet, which would have forced the midfielder to receive it with his back to goal, Ryan took a half-step and drilled a crisp, first-time pass directly into the path of his run. The ball arrived perfectly in stride, allowing the midfielder to look up and play forward immediately without breaking rhythm.
It was a small thing, an invisible service. But it was the kind of pass that makes a teammate's job easier.
The midfielder, surging forward with the momentum Ryan's pass had given him, saw a glimpse of goal from thirty yards out. He took the shot, but his technique betrayed him. The ball skewed wildly off the side of his boot, sailing high and wide, eventually disappearing over a fence into someone's backyard.
A collective groan went up. The game halted. "I'll get it!" a kid from the sidelines yelled, scrambling off to retrieve the ball.
Karim and Amir took the opportunity to walk over to Ryan.
"Yo, good job," Karim said, clapping him on the back. "I knew I liked you for a reason."
"Yeah, yeah, your beastly sixth sense," Ryan replied dryly. He gestured to where the ball had vanished. "With that kind of shooting, we need a golden retriever as our team assistant."
Karim squinted into the distance. "Nah, that kid's not finding his way back."
Ryan's attention shifted fully to Karim, his expression turning analytical. "Why don't you get up the pitch more? You could do a job in the attack."
"And leave all those guys to our central defender?" Karim asked, nodding towards Les Sources' physical forwards.
Amir, who had been listening silently, grunted. "Yeah... Thinking about it, I don't like you that much."
"The team isn't familiar with me yet," Ryan explained, his voice low. "If I try to dribble and drive more, a single tackle from that back line and I'm out of commission."
Karim hesitated, then gave a slow nod. "Yeah... I guess. I can get up the pitch sometimes. They don't keep the ball much."
"Their bread and butter is the counter-attack," Amir said, his voice a low rumble. "With you up there, we're opening the game for them."
"Captain, the game has to open up somewhat," Ryan countered, pointing to the channel between the wing and the central midfield. "I'll be in there. When the midfield gets pressed, they'll have an outlet. I can play it first-time to Karim on the overlap, or I can turn and find the center forward." He sighed, acknowledging the risk. "And I'll keep an eye on the space Karim leaves."
He saw Amir considering it, then giving a slow, thoughtful nod.
"...When necessary," Ryan added with a lazy shrug, letting the captain know his effort would be measured, not limitless.