Marcus felt it during the warm-up.
Not from the ball. From the way the opposition moved without it.
Their midfield stayed tight, almost stacked. No unnecessary stretching. The centre-backs didn't drift toward the wings during passing drills. They stayed central, shoulders squared, eyes forward.
Eyes on him.
Marcus jogged through his stretches, rolling his ankles slowly, watching without staring.
The assistant coach walked past, clipboard tucked under his arm. "They've done their homework," he said lightly, like it was nothing.
Marcus nodded once.
He already knew.
The whistle went.
From the first exchange, the match felt different.
Marcus dropped instinctively in the third minute. Just a small movement, the kind that usually created a window. The ball came toward him and stopped halfway, the midfielder hesitating.
Too late.
Two bodies closed in immediately. Not rushing. Not lunging.
Containing.
Marcus laid it off first time and felt a shoulder clip him as he turned away.
No whistle.
"NO TURNING," someone shouted from the opposition bench.
Marcus exhaled through his nose.
So that was the rule.
He stayed high for the next phase, pinned between centre-backs who didn't bother pretending they were interested in anything else. One of them leaned in close enough that Marcus could feel his breath.
"Thought you liked dropping," the defender murmured.
Marcus didn't answer.
The ball moved wide. Cross came in. Cleared.
Reset.
The opposition didn't chase Marcus when he drifted sideways. They slid with him. Zonal. Patient. The space never opened fully.
They weren't chasing him. They were waiting.
Marcus stopped moving for a moment, standing still on the last line. It felt wrong. Like holding his breath.
The midfielder looked up, searching.
No lane.
Turnover.
Eighteenth minute.
The opposition broke from the turnover cleanly. One touch into space. Second touch through midfield. Marcus sprinted back, lungs tightening, already knowing he was late.
The ball went wide. Cross came early.
The striker arrived between defenders and met it flush.
GOAL.
Score: Manchester United Academy 0 – 1 Opponent
The away end erupted.
Marcus slowed to a jog, hands on hips, staring at the grass near the centre circle.
This time, no one shouted.
That was worse.
The captain jogged over. "You okay?"
Marcus nodded. "They're cutting the lane."
"Then don't go there," the captain snapped.
Marcus turned to him. "THEY WANT ME THERE."
The captain hesitated, eyes flicking toward the opposition midfield resetting into their shape.
He didn't respond.
The next ten minutes were suffocating.
Every time Marcus checked toward the ball, the passing angle vanished before it existed. When he stayed high, the midfield stalled. When he drifted wide, the defence slid across in one piece.
The winger finally lost patience.
"WHERE ARE YOU?" he shouted after another sideways pass.
Marcus spun toward him. "THEY'RE WAITING FOR ME."
"Then DO SOMETHING ELSE."
Marcus clenched his jaw and turned away.
The opposition centre-back laughed softly.
Thirty-first minute.
Marcus tried something different.
Instead of dropping away from the defenders, he drifted toward them. Not into the space behind. Into the space they thought they owned.
The centre-back shifted instinctively. Just half a step.
That was enough.
The midfielder drove into the space that opened and hit a low shot from distance. The keeper parried it awkwardly.
Rebound.
GOAL.
Score: Manchester United Academy 1 – 1 Opponent
Marcus sprinted back immediately, not celebrating, eyes scanning the opposition shape as they reset.
They were arguing now. Pointing. Gesturing.
Good.
The rest of the half turned into a mental duel.
The opposition adjusted again, dropping a midfielder deeper to screen Marcus's movements. No fouls now. No cheap contact.
Just patience.
Marcus was forced into one-touch play. Cushion. Release. Move.
Any hesitation was swallowed instantly.
"MAKE HIM RUSH," the opposition captain shouted.
Marcus felt the pressure compress time itself.
Halftime came without another goal.
The dressing room buzzed, but it wasn't confident.
"They're sitting on you," the winger said, pacing. "Every time you move."
Marcus nodded. "I know."
"Then what's the plan?"
Marcus looked up. "Wait them out."
The captain frowned. "That's not a plan."
"It is," Marcus replied quietly. "Just not a loud one."
The coach watched the exchange without interrupting.
The second half started slower.
Deliberate.
The opposition didn't overcommit anymore. They let Marcus have the ball in harmless areas and snapped shut the moment he tried to turn.
Fifty-fourth minute.
Marcus dropped late, but the pass came half a second too early. He had to reach for it. His touch bounced.
Chance gone.
Groans from the stands.
Marcus clenched his fists and jogged back.
Not every adjustment works.
Sixty-first minute.
The opposition tried to bait him now. Left a lane open. Just enough to tempt.
Marcus almost took it.
Almost.
He stopped himself.
The pass went elsewhere. Safe. Boring.
The defender cursed under his breath.
Seventy-second minute.
Marcus stayed high through three full phases of possession. Didn't move. Didn't show.
The centre-back relaxed.
Then, late, Marcus darted across the line.
The midfielder tried to slip the ball through, but the pass was heavy.
Too heavy.
The keeper claimed it easily.
The crowd groaned again.
Marcus slowed, frustration tightening his chest.
The final ten minutes were cautious on both sides.
No one wanted to lose now.
Marcus felt the weight of it. Being the focal point without being the finisher. Being watched without being trusted.
Eighty-sixth minute.
One last chance.
Marcus drifted sideways again, pulling a defender just enough. The ball came late. He laid it off first time.
The shot flew just wide.
Hands on heads.
The whistle followed soon after.
FULL-TIME SCORE: Manchester United Academy 1 – 1 Opponent
Marcus stood still as players shook hands around him.
A draw.
Not a failure.
Not a breakthrough.
The opposition captain passed him in the tunnel and said quietly, "You make teams nervous."
Marcus nodded once.
Behind him, the rival striker scoffed. "All that for a draw."
Marcus didn't turn.
The coach fell into step beside him as they walked toward the bus.
"They treated you like a threat," he said.
Marcus looked up.
"That's new," the coach added. "Get used to it."
Marcus nodded.
He already was.
That night, lying in bed, Marcus replayed the match again and again.
The lanes that never opened.
The traps that waited patiently.
The moments where moving less did more.
Being ignored had been easier.
Being understood was dangerous.
BEING UNDERSTOOD IS MORE DANGEROUS THAN BEING IGNORED.
Marcus stared at the ceiling, breathing slow.
Good.
Let them plan.
He'd already started planning back.