Football System: Touchline God
Chapter 47: The Test III

Chapter 47: The Test III

Peterson’s pen paused only for a moment this time. Maddox didn’t miss it—the flicker of approval in the older man’s eyes before he resumed writing.

Sarah Chen, standing beside him, leaned forward slightly, her focus sharpening like a blade finding its target.

The players reset for kickoff, panting, sweat darkening their kits. But the energy had shifted. This wasn’t a test anymore. This was competition between them. Pride. Desire burning bright in their young eyes.

Maddox turned slightly to Peterson. "May I speak to them quickly before we restart?"

Peterson gave a curt nod. "Thirty seconds."

Maddox jogged to the sideline, clapping twice. The sound echoed across the small pitch like gunshots. "Kyle’s team—quick huddle!"

They gathered around him, still catching their breath, steam rising from their shoulders in the cool morning air.

"You fought back which is good. Now stay hungry. Don’t play to draw. Play to win."

He turned to Kyle, whose bleached hair was now dark with sweat. "Their center-back likes to step forward into midfield when they’re in possession. Exploit that space behind him. Send someone running early. Even if the ball doesn’t come, it’ll keep him honest."

Kyle nodded, his jaw tight with concentration. "Got it."

"To the rest, communicate more. Let each other know where the threats are. You’re not kids in bibs anymore. Play like a team."

He stepped back, his voice carrying across the small group. "Let’s finish this right."

Fweeee!

The whistle’s sharp cry cut through the morning air.

Second half resumed. The tempo was even higher now, if that were possible. Passes fizzed across the artificial turf like bullets. Tackles snapped with the sound of bone on bone. Maddox felt it with every cell—the raw, unfiltered beauty of football when players let go of fleeting thoughts and just... played.

Devonte, the metronome from Tommy’s team, started to assert himself again. He moved like liquid mercury, drawing fouls, slipping passes between lines, turning away from pressure like it was routine. His dark skin glistened with sweat, but his eyes remained cold, calculating.

Maddox found himself nodding with growing respect. This kid had something special, though not on the same level as Kyle, it was commendable. The kind of presence that couldn’t be taught.

Behind him, Sarah Chen made a note. "That number eight," she murmured to Peterson. "He’s got it."

Peterson grunted in agreement.

But Kyle’s team didn’t fold. Far from it. Their wing-backs were relentless now, pushing as high as wingers, forcing Tommy’s front three to track back more and more. The tactical battle was unfolding like a chess match played at lightning speed.

Then, in the twenty-fourth minute, it happened.

A risky back pass from Tommy’s right-back rolled slower than it should have. The pass hung in the air for a heartbeat too long, spinning lazily across the artificial turf.

Kyle pounced like a hawk, intercepting before the center-back could react. He didn’t hesitate.

Touch. Burst.

One-on-one with the keeper.

Maddox didn’t breathe. The entire pitch fell silent except for the sound of Kyle’s boots hitting the turf, each step bringing him closer to glory or disaster.

Kyle shaped to shoot near post—then dragged it low across goal instead. The keeper was already moving, his body committed to the near post. Wrong-footed.

The ball rolled slowly toward the far corner, spinning with cruel precision.

2–1.

The net rippled like water hit by a stone.

Kyle didn’t celebrate wildly. Just turned, arms out, grinning as his teammates mobbed him. Their joy was infectious, pure, the kind that reminded you why you fell in love with football in the first place.

From the sideline, Sarah let out a quiet, "That was ice cold."

Peterson scribbled furiously now, muttering something under his breath that sounded like approval.

Tommy’s team was shell-shocked for a beat. Just a beat. Then they regrouped, their young faces set with determination. Maddox admired that too. Character showing through disappointment.

Two minutes to go.

Now came the chaos. Tommy’s team surged forward like a wounded animal, desperate to salvage the draw. Maddox could feel the panic spreading through Kyle’s team like wildfire. They dropped deep. Too deep.

"Don’t park the bus yet!" Maddox shouted, his voice carrying across the pitch. "Push one line up! Don’t invite them in!"

Marcus, the center-back who had once been blamed, barked orders now. His voice cut through the noise of battle, organizing his teammates with newfound authority. He stepped up just enough, dragging his line with him. It was risky—but it gave them a fighting chance.

The tactical adjustment was immediate. Kyle’s team found breathing room, space to think, room to play out from the back when Tommy’s desperate attacks broke down.

Then came the last play.

Devonte danced between two midfielders like they were training cones, his feet moving in a rhythm that seemed to hypnotize defenders. He spotted a diagonal runner, one last chance to salvage something from the game.

He floated a pass that was too good—cutting through three defenders with surgical precision. The ball hung in the air like a promise, rotating slowly as it arced toward its target.

Tommy’s striker brought it down with a velvet touch, his first contact killing the ball stone dead. The goal was fifteen yards away, the keeper slightly off his line.

He fired the shot. Low and hard.

Saved.

The keeper—Kyle’s keeper—threw out a leg and blocked it. The ball ricocheted off his shin pad, spinning wildly toward the penalty spot. Players converged from all directions, a scramble of boots and desperation.

The rebound spilled loose... but the final whistle went before anyone else could react.

Fweeeee!

The sound cut through the morning air like a blade, ending thirty minutes of pure football that had felt like a lifetime.

Silence ensued for a second.

Then Kyle’s team erupted. Not wild celebration—but elated relief. The kind that came after weathering a storm and coming out intact. They hugged each other, their young faces bright with accomplishment.

Maddox clapped slowly as the boys gathered at midfield, hands on knees, patting backs, bumping fists. Even Tommy’s team joined in, their disappointment tempered by respect for the game they’d just played.

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