Hey everyone, hope you enjoyed the chapter!
Just a quick heads-up, I've been battling a really strong headache, so my writing pace might be a bit slower over the next few days. I'll still do my best to keep the updates coming, but they might not be as frequent as usual.
Thanks so much for your understanding and support!
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Amir didn't waste a second. As the kid finally scampered back with the ball, the captain turned and strode toward his central midfielders.
He didn't yell; his voice was a low, commanding growl that carried across the now-quiet pitch. He pointed decisively toward the space Ryan had indicated. The midfielders listened, their eyes fixed on him, then gave sharp, understanding nods.
The whistle blew. The game restarted, but the respite was brief.
Les Sources launched an immediate attack. A quick pass found their winger, who drove to the byline before whipping a dangerous, curling cross into the penalty area. Their center forward rose, not to shoot, but to flick the ball on with a powerful header, directing it to a teammate charging into the box.
The runner met it first-time, a vicious shot aimed for the bottom corner.
But Amir was already there. He threw his body into the line of fire, the ball thudding against his chest and arm before dropping at his feet.
"HANDBALL! That's handball!" screamed three opponents at once, their arms shooting up in appeal.
"It was his chest! Off the chest!" Karim yelled back, rushing in.
Both teams immediately swarmed the referee, a no-nonsense man in his forties who held up a firm hand, silencing the protests before they could truly erupt. "It was not handball. I had a clear view. Play on!"
As the crowd on the touchline buzzed with argument, Ryan watched the referee's stern, uncompromising posture. "Bet you anything that guy was in the military," he muttered, shaking his head. "Only in Algeria will you have guys with talent worth millions in VAR equipment and they're still unknown, working a day job."
Amir, cool amidst the chaos, had already played on. He cleared the ball not with a hopeful boot, but with a firm, targeted pass out to the right flank. The ball moved quickly until a midfielder, remembering the new plan, played a pass into Ryan's feet in the right half-space.
Ryan took it, driving a few steps outward toward the touchline, pulling the stubborn left-back with him. With the defender committed, he played a simple, sharp pass back into the central midfielder now occupying the space he'd just vacated.
The midfielder, with time and space, immediately looked up and launched a perfect, looping pass toward the central forward. The striker rose and connected with a powerful header, but it deflected wildly off a defender's shoulder, spinning high and fortuitously dropping into the space where Ryan was positioned.
He didn't have to anticipate it; the chaos of the game delivered the ball to him. He watched it fall. Thump. He cushioned it perfectly, killing its momentum dead.
The left-back closed in again, wary now. In his mind, Ryan flicked his fishing rod, the bait thrown into the calm lake of the defender's focus.
Tick.
The soft, definitive sound of the fish taking the bait.
The defender bit, shifting his weight. Instantly, Ryan Instantly, Ryan was gone, exploding into the pocket of space. He drew back his foot and launched a first-time, driven pass directly into the path of the overlapping Karim.
Karim met it in stride. He didn't have time for a perfect touch. He lunged at the ball, sending a wobbly, looping cross towards the far post. It wasn't pretty, but it was effective, sailing over the goalkeeper's outstretched hands.
Their left winger, completely unmarked, watched it drop from the sky. He didn't even need to jump. He simply met the ball with his foot and guided it calmly into the back of the net.
The net rippled. 1-0.
The goalscorer wheeled away in ecstasy, and Karim sprinted to join the celebration, arms wide. From the sideline, a wave of noise erupted—a mix of roaring cheers, rhythmic clapping, and sharp, whistling sounds of approval.
"YAAAAAH! GOOD GOAL!"
"BRAVO! BRAVO!"
"LET'S GO! THAT'S HOW YOU DO IT!"
The passionate shouts in Arabic and French filled the air, the entire neighborhood pouring its emotion onto the pitch. It was more than a goal; it was a shared victory.
Ryan simply turned and started walking back to the halfway line, a job done. Amir fell into step beside him.
"That cross was shit," Ryan stated, without looking at his captain. "He should be embarrassed it led to a goal."
Amir reached out and roughly, affectionately, ruffled Ryan's hair. "Oh, you are trouble," he said, a rare warmth in his gruff voice.
Ryan swatted his hand away, but a smirk tugged at his lips. "This is more trouble than it deserves."
He looked up from the dusty pitch, his eyes scanning the surrounding buildings. The shouts had drawn attention. In a few windows, he saw curtains being pulled aside and faces peering out, wondering what all the noise was about.
"Glad we don't have noise rules in this country," he muttered.
The goal had changed everything.
With the lead, and with the new tactic working, the entire game opened up. The invisible chain that had been holding Ryan's team back was broken. Now, when they built an attack, they had a clear pattern: find Ryan in the half-space.
Sometimes, he would turn and combine quickly with Karim overlapping outside him, stretching the defense horizontally. Other times, he would drift inside, linking with the central midfielders and suddenly overloading the heart of the opposition's defense. He was the pivot, the point from which all their attacks now flowed.
Les Sources, forced to push forward in search of an equalizer, left gaps at the back. This led to swift counter-attacks. One such move saw Ryan receive the ball on the halfway line with only one defender to beat. He feinted to shoot, sold the defender a dummy, and glided past him, driving into the vast, open space ahead. He drew the goalkeeper out and unselfishly squared the ball across the face of the goal... only for a desperate, sliding tackle from a recovering defender to somehow deflect it over the bar for a corner.
The ball didn't always end up in the net, but the threat was constant. The pressure was unrelenting. They were in complete control.
Les Sources, forced to push forward, found a rare chance to counter. Their winger intercepted a wasteful pass and immediately launched a long ball up to their isolated central forward.
The striker tried to turn and go direct, but Amir and his fellow defender closed the space instantly, forming an impenetrable wall. The ball ricocheted off a shin and spun loose into the midfield.
Ryan was the first to react, reading the bounce and darting in to claim possession before an opponent could. Instead of panicking, he shielded the ball, bought a precious few seconds, and sold a simple dummy that wrong-footed the pressing midfielder. With calm precision, he then laid the ball off to Amir, who was now in space and could start a new, controlled attack.
The referee's whistle blew for halftime. As the players began trudging toward the touchline, Ryan fell into step beside Karim.
A slow, knowing smirk spread across Ryan's face. "So," he began, his voice laced with mock innocence. "I remember you said 'sometimes.'" He gestured around at the pitch they now dominated. "Wanna be a winger now?"
"It's just so fun playing there!" Karim replied, his face lit up with the joy of their successful strategy.
"Yeah, true," Ryan said, his tone shifting to something drier. "Let's hope when they score, it can still be fun." He rolled his eyes. "And I'm not tracking back too much, just so you know."
As they reached the sideline, other teammates—the goalscorer, the midfielder—came up to Ryan, bumping fists with him and clapping him on the shoulder.
"Good job, man!"
"Seriously, good job out there."
He gave them all a slight, tired nod, the smirk still playing on his lips.