The electric buzz from the Lot 7 session carried the team back to Riverside on a wave of exhausted euphoria. They had a coach. They had a core. For a few hours, the impossible deadline felt like a challenge they could meet.
But reality, cold and logistical, seeped back in by morning. Over a hurried breakfast of cereal and bananas, Javier laid it out with his typical bluntness. "We have ten field players and no keeper. Rajiv is playing hardball, waiting to see if Santos's team looks more legitimate. We need at least four more starters and a full bench. We also have exactly zero of the off-field staff. The league won't care how good our triangle passing is if we don't have a registered manager or physio by deadline."
The euphoria faded, replaced by the familiar, grinding pressure. Pops pushed his bowl away, his mind racing. They'd tapped the obvious academy talent. They needed to look elsewhere, to take a risk. And they needed a manager—someone who could handle the logistics, the paperwork, the league bureaucracy—yesterday.
A memory, from before Riverside, surfaced. A different kind of football. Not on academy turf, but on cracked asphalt. Not with whistles and cones, but with trashcan goals and the deafening roar of a neighborhood crowd.
"Bob's Lot," Pops said suddenly.
Leo looked up,confused. "Bob's… what?"
"It's a court.Over in the industrial district. Street rules. No offsides, walls are in play, everything's faster, tighter. The best technical players I've ever seen play there. Not 'coached,' but… magical."
Javier frowned. "Street players? Pops, we need discipline, not playground tricks."
"We need players who aren't afraid,"Pops countered. "Players who can create something from nothing when the system breaks down. And we need them now. It's a long shot, but so was Coach Declan."
Declan, when Pops called him to propose the scouting mission, grunted. "Street football is a different language. The grammar is all about individual expression. We need sentences, paragraphs. But… sometimes a single word of genius can change a game. Be back for afternoon session. And Pops," he added, his voice lowering, "on the street, respect is everything. You don't go as a scout. You go as a player asking for a game."
---
Bob's Lot was a fenced-in asphalt rectangle behind a defunct textile factory, a hallowed ground for the city's underground soccer scene. The "goals" were painted rectangles on the brick walls at each end. The surface was a patchwork of cracks and faded graffiti. The air smelled of old brick, spray paint, and relentless competition.
A game was in full flight—a blistering, non-stop 5-v-5. The pace was insane. First touches were not for control, but for setting up the next move instantly. Shoulder barges were legal and forceful. The ball pinged off walls with geometric precision.
And at the heart of it all was a trio that moved as a single, terrifying organism.
They were three young men, maybe 16 or 17, clearly brothers. The tallest had dreadlocks tied back and moved with a languid, deceptive grace, shielding the ball with a body that seemed to possess its own magnetic field. The second was compact and explosive, a low center of gravity making him impossible to knock off the ball as he weaved through traffic. The third was all sinewy length and impossible reach, intercepting passes with a spider-like intuition.
They weren't just playing; they were conducting a symphony of chaos. A non-verbal flick of the head, a subtle shift in posture, and they'd interchange positions, leaving markers bewildered. They passed not to feet, but to spaces only they knew their brother would already be occupying.
"The Okenwa Triplets," a man next to Pops said, nodding at the court. He was older, sipping from a flask. "Michael, Daniel, David. From over in Lagos originally. Been here a few years. They don't play for academies. They play for Bob's. And they own it."
Pops watched, mesmerized. Javier, beside him, had lost his skeptical look. His analytical mind was working overtime. "The tall one (Michael)… he's the deep-lying playmaker. But look, he's also their primary defender. The explosive one (Daniel) is the engine, the transition. The long one (David)… he's everywhere. A free radical. It's… it's anarchic. But it works."
The game ended on a blistering combination: Michael, from deep, lofted a pass off the back wall. David, with a physics-defying leap, headed it across the goalmouth without looking, where Daniel volleyed it into the top corner. The small crowd erupted.
As the players gathered for water, Pops, heart hammering, walked onto the court. All eyes turned to him—the outsider in his clean Riverside training top.
Michael Okenwa, the tall one with the dreads, took a long drink and eyed Pops. "Academy boy. Lost?"
"No,"Pops said, forcing his voice steady. "I came to play. And to talk."
A ripple of laughter went through the locals.Daniel, the compact brother, grinned. "Talk is cheap. Play is expensive. You got the fee?"
"What's the fee?"
"Pride,"David said, his voice quiet but carrying. "You lose, you leave your shirt. And you listen."
It was a test. A gauntlet thrown. Pops looked at his Riverside jersey. It was a symbol of everything this court wasn't. He nodded. "Alright. But if my team wins, you listen to me."
The brothers exchanged a look, a silent conversation passing between them in an instant. Michael shrugged. "Deal. You and who else?"
Pops turned. Javier, pale but resolute, stepped forward. Leo, buzzing with nervous energy, joined them. They needed two more. Pops pointed to two of the younger guys on the sidelines who'd been watching with keen eyes. "You. And you. Let's go."
A new 5-v-5 was formed: The Okenwa Triplets plus two of their regulars versus Pops's hastily assembled squad.
The next twenty minutes were the most humbling football education of Pops's life. The structured patterns drilled at Riverside were useless here. The Okenwas played in a blur of intuitive understanding. They used the walls as extra players, their passes caroming at impossible angles. They pressed in unison, a suffocating wave that forced errors.
Pops scored once, a moment of individual brilliance, dancing past David and curling a shot into the bottom corner. But it was a lone spark in a storm. The Okenwas scored four, each a masterpiece of streetwise synergy. The final whistle (a shout from the old man with the flask) blew.
Pops, drenched in sweat, walked over to Michael. He started to peel off his Riverside jersey.
Michael held up a hand, stopping him. He was breathing hard, but a glint of respect was in his eye. "You got heart, academy boy. And that move for your goal… that was not taught. That was felt. Keep your shirt."
"The deal was a talk," Pops said, pulling the Phantom League requirements from his bag. He handed it to Michael.
The triplets huddled, their heads together. They read the paper. Their expressions shifted from curiosity to disbelief to intense focus. They argued in low, rapid tones in a mix of English and Igbo. Finally, Michael looked up.
"This is real?"
"As real as that goal you just scored off the wall,"Pops said. "We have a coach. A real one. We have a core of academy players. We have six days. We need players who aren't afraid of the dark. Players who can win when the lights are off and the pitch is broken."
"Why us?" Daniel asked, his aggressive posture softening. "We don't play your kind of football."
"Exactly,"Javier cut in, surprising himself again. "We have the structure. You have the chaos. Together, we have the complete game. We need your creativity. Your fearlessness."
David, the quiet observer, spoke last. "They will look at us and see street rats. They will think we are undisciplined. They will try to break us with their systems."
"Yes," Pops said simply. "And then you will break their systems with something they've never seen before."
The triplets looked at each other. Another silent conference. A nod from Michael.
"We have conditions,"Michael said. "We play together. All three of us, or none. We train, but we do not lose our language." He tapped his temple, then pointed between his brothers. "This. This stays."
"Understood,"Pops said.
"And we get real kits.Not hand-me-downs."
"We'll make it happen."
Michael extended a hand. It was calloused and strong. "Then we are in. For the challenge. For the chance to show that football is not only in the green grass."
Pops shook it, a surge of triumph flooding him. Three players. Instantly. Not just any players, but a self-contained unit of breathtaking, unorthodox talent.
PLAYERS: 13/20. The Okenwa Triplets: Michael (CDM/CB), Daniel (CM/AM), David (Utility). Confirmed.
---
The return to Riverside was a victory, but the clock was screaming. They had players and a coach. The two remaining blanks on the list—MANAGER and PHYSIO—loomed larger than ever. They were the boring, essential foundations that could sink the entire ship.
Later that afternoon, during a grueling defensive shape drill with Declan barking coordinates, Pops's mind churned. A manager. Who did they know who was organized, connected, unflappable, and willing to work for free for a team of teenage dreamers?
The answer came from an unexpected source: Chloe Adebayo.
During a water break, she approached Pops, her voice barely above a whisper. "I overheard you talking about a manager. The logistics."
"Yeah,"Pops sighed, splashing water on his face. "It's a nightmare. We need someone who can handle travel, registration, communications… adult stuff."
"I might know someone,"Chloe said. "But she's not… conventional."
"At this point,'conventional' is a dirty word. Who?"
"Her name is Selene Frost.She runs the Frost and Flame Academy."
Pops nearly choked on his water. "The what academy?"
"It's not a soccer academy,"Chloe clarified, a faint smile touching her lips. "It's a finishing and strategic arts school. For… well, for daughters of diplomats, executives, old-money families. They teach etiquette, logic, crisis management, geopolitical strategy, and competitive fencing."
Javier, overhearing, looked baffled. "A finishing school? What does that have to do with us?"
"Everything,"Chloe said. "Selene Frost is the most organized, strategically brilliant, and resourceful person I've ever met. My parents tried to send me there for 'polish' one summer. I lasted two weeks before I ran back to soccer. But I saw how she operates. She runs that place like a Fortune 500 company crossed with a Swiss watch. She arranges international trips, handles complex budgets, negotiates with vendors, and manages the expectations of incredibly demanding parents. And she's a huge football fan. Obsessive. She sees it as the perfect model of fluid strategy and tactical warfare."
Pops and Javier exchanged a look. It was insane. It was perfect.
"Will she do it?" Pops asked.
Chloe shrugged."She's bored. She told me once that managing genius teenagers with swords was less challenging than managing a football team's salary cap in the Championship. She might see this as an interesting puzzle. A real-time case study."
They had no other leads. After the training session, Pops, Javier, and Chloe took a bus across town to the exclusive River Oaks neighborhood. The Frost and Flame Academy was a stunning, modern glass-and-steel building that looked more like a corporate headquarters than a school.
They were met in a minimalist, serene reception area by Selene Frost herself.
She was in her late thirties, dressed in an immaculate, sharp-lined pantsuit the color of slate. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe but elegant bun. Her eyes were a piercing grey, and she regarded them with the detached curiosity of a scientist examining a new species.
"Chloe Adebayo," she said, her voice cool and precise. "You fled my summer program. And now you return with… athletes." Her gaze swept over Pops's scruffy training gear and Javier's grass-stained knees. "Intriguing."
"Ms. Frost," Pops began, launching into his now-practiced pitch. He handed her the Phantom League sheet.
She took it, holding it between two fingers as if it were a specimen. She read it once, then again, her brow furrowing slightly. She walked to a large touchscreen monitor on her wall and began typing with rapid efficiency.
"Phantom League. Wild Card initiative. New this season. Low probability of success for ad-hoc teams. Estimated failure rate in qualifying rounds: 87%." She turned back to them. "Statistically, this is a fool's errand."
"We have a coach," Pops said. "Declan Ward."
Selene's eyes flickered.She typed again. "Declan Ward. Former UEFA B licensed coach. Promising career derailed by… personal tragedy. Disappeared from professional circles eight years ago. Notable for a tactical philosophy based on spatial compression and rapid transition. Interesting."
"We have thirteen players," Javier added. "A mix of academy and street talent."
"Street talent?"Selene's interest seemed to heighten. "Unpredictable variable. High risk, high reward. The Okenwa triplets, by any chance? Their highlights on the 'Street Kings' channel have a 2.3 million view aggregate."
Pops gaped. "How did you—?"
"Data is my currency,Mr. Tekhero." She finally put the paper down. "You have assembled the most fascinating, disparate, and volatile set of components I have seen in some time. You are missing a manager and a physiotherapist. You are also missing transportation, a training facility beyond a gravel lot, insurance waivers, league compliance forms, nutritional planning, and a coherent media strategy, should you improbably succeed."
She listed their shortcomings with surgical precision. It was devastating.
"Will you help us?"Chloe asked quietly.
Selene steepled her fingers. She looked out her window at the manicured gardens, then back at the trio of desperate teenagers. A slow, calculating smile touched her lips. It was not a warm smile, but it was alive with intellectual engagement.
"What you are attempting is not a sports venture. It is a startup. A high-risk, high-chaos startup with a one-week launch window. My usual clients pay a premium for my ability to bring order to complexity." She paused. "This, however, presents a unique algorithmic challenge. The human variables are gloriously messy. The constraints are severe. The probability of catastrophic failure is exhilaratingly high."
She stood up, decision made. "I will be your Team Manager. Pro bono. Under two conditions. One: I have full operational authority off the field. My decisions on logistics, planning, and strategy are final. You play football. I manage everything else. Two: I require full data access. Training metrics, physiological data, game footage. Everything feeds into my models."
Pops didn't hesitate. "Yes."
"Excellent,"Selene said. She tapped her monitor, and a series of complex Gantt charts and lists materialized. "First, the physiotherapist. I have already cross-referenced licensed sports physios within a 20-mile radius who have expressed interest in non-traditional roles or flexible hours." She highlighted a name. "Kaelen Jones. Works primarily with ballet dancers and parkour athletes. Understands explosive, atypical movement patterns and overuse injuries. He will understand your street players and your academy players alike. I will schedule an interview for him with your Coach Declan for tomorrow."
Pops felt like he'd been caught in a whirlwind. In ten minutes, Selene Frost had diagnosed their every ailment and prescribed a course of treatment.
"Second," she continued, "facilities. The gravel lot is unsustainable for daily two-a-days. I have a contact at the city parks department. There is a flood-lit artificial turf field in McGuire Park whose evening slots are underutilized. I will secure it for your 7 PM sessions through a 'youth development initiative' grant I will file tonight."
Javier looked like he wanted to kneel. "You can do that?"
"I already have,"Selene said, tapping her screen. "The permit is pending, approval probability 94%. Now, transportation. A 15-passenger van will be required. I will lease one under the corporate entity I am forming for this team—'Elevate Football, LLC.' Your parents or guardians will need to sign liability waivers, which I will email to you within the hour."
She handed Pops a tablet. "This is a shared operations dashboard. You will see schedule updates, task lists, and resource allocations in real time. Tell your players to download the app. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have grant applications to write and a ballet physio to recruit."
Stunned, grateful, and utterly overwhelmed, the trio was ushered out. The glass doors of Frost and Flame Academy slid shut behind them.
On the sidewalk, under the serene River Oaks sun, they stood in silence for a full minute.
"She…" Leo began, then stopped.
"She's our manager,"Pops finished, a disbelieving laugh escaping him. He took out his notebook. In the MANAGER column, he wrote: SELENE FROST. In the PHYSIO column, he put a tentative star next to KAELEN JONES.
Two blanks, all but filled. The administrative engine of Team Elevate was no longer a void. It was a precision machine, already humming to life.
---
The next 48 hours were a blur of relentless activity, a two-front war fought on the asphalt of Bob's Lot at dawn and the pristine turf of McGuire Park at dusk, with Selene Frost' digital orchestration conducting the chaos in between.
Kaelen Jones, the physio, was a revelation. A former gymnast with a calm demeanor and sharp eyes, he watched Declan's brutal first evening session at the new park facility. He saw the Okenwas' explosive, unconventional movements, saw Chloe's efficient grace, saw the twins' powerful collisions. Afterward, he didn't give a speech. He simply set up a massage table and started work on Daniel Okenwa, who was nursing a tight hamstring.
"Your power comes from here," Kaelen said, his fingers locating a specific knot in Daniel's glute. "But you're compensating with your lower back. We'll fix that, or you'll be done in three weeks." His quiet authority earned instant respect. He was added to the dashboard. PHYSIO: KAELEN JONES. Confirmed.
The team was gelling, but in a volatile, fissionable way. The academy players and the street players existed in separate orbits. The Thompsons viewed the Okenwas' tricks as risky showboating. The Okenwas saw the academy structure as slow and predictable. Tensions simmered.
It erupted during a small-sided game. Finn O'Connell played a safe, square pass back to Javier. Daniel Okenwa, reading it a mile away, intercepted and, instead of playing simple, attempted an audacious heel-chip over a baffled Aidan Thompson to find his brother David. The chip was overhit, and the ball went out for a throw-in.
Aidan Thompson slammed the ball into the turf. "What was that, circus act? We're trying to build something here!"
Daniel got in his face,chest puffed. "You build with bricks. We build with lightning. You are too slow!"
A shoving match started.Voices rose.
Declan's whistle was a shriek of pure fury. He strode into the middle, separating them with a glare that could freeze fire. "STOP!"
The field went silent.
"You think this is about styles?"Declan's voice was low, dangerous. "You think the Phantom League will care if you're from the academy or the street? They will see one thing: a divided team. And they will destroy you. They will target the rift and hammer it until you break into pieces."
He pointed to the sideline, where Selene Frost stood observing, tablet in hand, and Kaelen waited with his kit. "See them? The manager and the physio. They are the support. You are the weapon. But a weapon with two different types of steel that do not bond will shatter on first impact."
He made them all sit on the center circle. "Thompson. What is Daniel's greatest strength?"
Aidan,scowling, muttered, "He's unpredictable."
"Correct.Oken