Against All Odds: Legacy Of A Football King
Chapter 189: Training Session 2

Chapter 189: Training Session 2

"Oh, come on," Adam smirked, nudging Martens with his elbow. "You guys act like we didn’t try to do you a favor. We left enough open chances for anyone to score. But sadly, you guys were nowhere to be found."

Benjamin grinned. "Yeah, maybe if you’d been there, we could’ve pushed for twenty... Or thirty."

The laughter grew louder, and Altidore threw his hands up in mock frustration. "You’re telling me that in a game where y’all scored fifteen, I wouldn’t have gotten at least five?"

"Five?" Overtoom repeated with a scoff. "Confidence is good, but that’s delusion. Even Ben here could only scrap away four goals."

"Yeah, yeah," Altidore waved him off, a grin tugging at his lips. "All I’m saying is, next time we get a matchup like that, I better be starting."

Berghuis pointed a finger at him. "Better hope Verbeek doesn’t rest you again, then."

That sent another round of laughter through the group. The energy was light, and the camaraderie evident as they bantered back and forth.

Despite the regretful tone of those who had missed out due to being rested by Gertjan Verbeek, there was no bitterness amongst them—just the playful teasing of a team growing stronger together.

"Alright, alright," Martens sighed, pushing himself up. "Water break’s almost over. Let’s hope this session doesn’t take as much out of us as Veendam did out of them."

That earned a few playful shoves from the players who had actually played in the game, but as the coaches signaled for them to regroup, the laughter faded into focused determination once more.

The break had done its job—restoring their energy, lifting spirits, and reinforcing the bond that made this squad so dangerous.

The players jogged back toward the designated training area, their breath still light from laughter, but their eyes sharp with focus.

Gertjan Verbeek and his assistants stood waiting, observing as the squad assembled. A few stray passes rolled between players as they warmed up their legs again, but the time for banter was over.

"Alright," Gertjan Verbeek called out, his voice carrying across the pitch. "The next drill will be a Attacking versus defending sequence. One-on-one situations. Break through the three defensive rotations, and finish past Alvarado. No hesitation, no second chances."

The players nodded, adjusting their socks and shaking out their limbs. The defenders lined up on one side, grouped in threes, while the attackers took their place on the opposite end.

Alvarado stretched his arms in goal, bouncing lightly on his toes, while Yves De Winter stood to the side, watching for his turn in net.

"Defenders, you rotate after every attempt," Gertjan Verbeek continued. "Attackers, you get the ball at the halfway mark. One defender steps up. If you get past him, the second one engages. If you beat him, you take on the last before going for goal. Quick decisions, quick execution. No room for slow play."

The first set stepped up. Berghuis took position with the ball at his feet. Facing him, Wijnaldum, Gorter, and Johansson waited in staggered formation, ready to step in one by one.

Fweeee!

The whistle blew.

Berghuis feinted right before bursting left, his quick footwork forcing Wijnaldum to react.

The defender stretched his leg to intercept, but Berghuis anticipated it, knocking the ball forward and slipping past.

Gorter stepped up, closing the space fast, but Berghuis cut inside, dragging the ball with the inside of his boot and rolling away from the challenge.

Johansson was the last obstacle. He held his ground, forcing Berghuis to make a move. A quick shift of weight, a flick past the outstretched boot of Johansson—and Berghuis was through.

One-on-one with Alvarado.

He didn’t hesitate to fire a low, driven shot toward the bottom corner.

Alvarado dove.

The ball skidded just past his fingertips and kissed the inside of the post before settling into the net.

"That’s clinical from Berghuis!" one of the coaches called out. "That’s exactly what we need—sharp, decisive, no wasted motion."

Berghuis jogged back, exchanging a few words with Altidore, who was next up. The defenders rotated, with Marcellis, Haye, and Lam stepping in.

Fweeee!

The whistle blew again.

Altidore didn’t waste time. Using his physicality, he barreled forward, his sheer presence forcing Marcellis onto his heels.

A subtle shoulder drop, then a powerful touch forward—Marcellis couldn’t recover on time.

Haye rushed in to engage, but Altidore shrugged him off, using his upper body to hold his ground. Lam was the last in line, and he planted his stance early, bracing for impact.

Altidore saw it.

Instead of forcing the duel, he chipped the ball just past Lam and burst around the other side, meeting it in stride.

Alvarado charged forward, narrowing the angle.

Altidore stayed calm, rolling the ball under the diving keeper with a composed finish.

"Power and finesse," The assistant manager, Martin Haar, commented. "That’s what we expect from our leading man."

The drill continued, each player taking their turn, each moment showcasing a different style—Guðmundsson’s sharp turns and quick feet, Beerens’ raw pace, Henriksen’s clever movement, Overtoom’s tight dribbling.

Some finished with confidence, others found themselves stopped by well-timed defensive interventions or Alvarado and Yves De Winter’s quick reflexes.

Then, it was Benjamin’s turn.

He rolled his shoulders, exhaled slowly, and stepped up. Across from him, Reijnen, Elm, and Adam.

Fweeee!

The whistle blew.

Benjamin started slow, letting Reijnen commit first.

The defender lunged in, expecting an early touch, but Benjamin simply let the ball roll, using the defender’s momentum against him as he stepped around effortlessly.

Elm was next in line, and he played it differently, staying patient, and not diving in.

Benjamin adjusted his stance. A quick series of feints, a sudden burst of acceleration—and he was past, leaving Elm half a step behind.

Now, Adam.

The two locked eyes, and a knowing smirk crossed Adam’s face.

Benjamin hesitated—just for a second.

Adam saw his chance, stepping in aggressively.

But Benjamin was ready.

A delicate drag-back, a quick pivot, and suddenly, Adam was off-balance, staggering awkwardly. Benjamin burst forward, his foot slicing under the ball, lifting it just over Adam’s outstretched leg.

One-on-one with Alvarado.

No hesitation.

A curling effort toward the top corner.

Alvarado stretched—fingertips grazing the ball.

But not enough.

The net rippled.

Benjamin exhaled, running a hand through his damp hair as his teammates let out an approving hum.

"Smooth as ever from Benjamin," one of the assistants murmured. "Didn’t force it, just let the game open up for him."

Benjamin turned back, catching Adam’s grin. "Couldn’t let you win that one," he teased.

Adam chuckled, shaking his head. "Next time, you won’t be so lucky."