The official stadium loomed like a titan at rest, its towering floodlights casting long shadows as the golden evening sun dipped just behind the western stands. A light breeze stirred the air, just enough to sway the flagpoles lined up along the outer walls, each one fluttering with the school emblems of all the teams that had participated in the tournament. The distant echoes of drums, vuvuzelas, and a thousand excited voices spilled out from inside, merging into a vibrant hum that electrified the atmosphere.
It was match day—the final. And the entire city seemed to know.
Outside Gate B, Alya adjusted her schoolbag strap, eyes scanning the bustling crowd of students and fans. The heat had slightly wrinkled her crisp uniform, and the fading sunlight caught in her hair.
Beside her, Roumit tapped his foot, glancing at his phone. "They're late."
"They'll come," Alya replied, not taking her eyes off the crowd. "Armaan said to meet here. Maybe the crowd's slowing them down."
Roumit looked up at the towering stadium. "This place feels official—way bigger than our school auditorium."
Alya smiled softly, then spotted three familiar figures pushing through: Advika, Reet, and Manvi, casual and carrying small flags and VIP passes.
"There they are!" Alya waved.
"Finally!" Roumit grinned, nodding politely at Advika.
Advika returned the nod. "Gate A was crazy. Had to take a detour."
Manvi added, "And Reet already bought popcorn."
"Match without snacks? Criminal," Reet joked.
Laughter broke out, but a quiet tension lingered between Alya and Advika, their eyes locking just a moment too long—unspoken thoughts hanging in the air.
Roumit caught it but stayed silent, smiling as he gestured inside. "Let's get in before Reet finishes all the popcorn."
"Yeah, let's go," Alya said quietly.
As they entered the stadium, the sounds swelled around them like a tidal wave. The roars, the chants, the calls of vendors—all wrapped in the excitement of the final match. The air inside buzzed with adrenaline. Their VIP passes got them past security quickly and up into the reserved section, where parents, school authorities, and close friends of the players were seated.
Near the center of the row, a familiar voice called out.
"Alya! Roumit! Over here!"
It was Armaan's mother, waving warmly with one hand while adjusting the scarf around her shoulders with the other. Beside her sat a young woman in her early twenties, tall and confident, wearing a grey hoodie and ripped jeans—Sohana, Armaan's elder sister.
As the group approached, Armaan's mother greeted them all with a cheerful smile. "It's so good to see you all here! Come, sit with us. Armaan will be so happy to know you all made it."
"Thank you, auntie," Roumit replied with a respectful smile.
Sohana nodded at the girls, her tone casual but friendly. "You must be the ones he invited. I'm Sohana—Armaan's older sister."
One by one, the girls introduced themselves. Sohana gave a special look to Advika and Reet—girls her age—and smiled with a little more curiosity. There was no tension now, only anticipation.
Below them, the field was a riot of green and gold under the powerful lights. The players were already warming up, and the atmosphere buzzed like a charged storm waiting to explode.
The echo of the roaring stadium felt muffled here, inside the brick-walled locker room that smelled faintly of turf, sweat, and anticipation. The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed above as players moved about, some silent in focus, others cracking nervous jokes.
At the far end of the room, standing near the mirror, Armaan was pulling the black and gold captain's armband snugly around his left bicep. His school's crest gleamed faintly in the light, matching the sharp intensity in his eyes. He adjusted his collar, then gave himself a final glance in the mirror before turning.
Just a few lockers down, Samar sat lacing up his boots, already having strapped on his shin guards. He slapped his knees twice, a habit he always did before every big match. Calm, composed, but with that flicker of fire in his eyes—the same as Armaan's.
Armaan stepped beside him, stretching his legs once, then twice. They didn't speak at first. They didn't have to.
These two had played side by side since 7th grade. The chemistry between them needed no words. Left Winger and Striker. Captain and Vice-Captain. But more than anything—brothers in battle.
Samar stood up, his boots clacking against the tiled floor. He adjusted his jersey collar and met Armaan's gaze.
"Ready?" he asked with a half-smirk, one brow raised.
Armaan didn't flinch. His lips curled into a grin, fierce and confident.
"Any doubt?"
They bumped fists lightly, the gesture charged with all the emotion they didn't put into words.
Armaan and Samar stood tall, side by side. Then—clap! clap!—Armaan clapped his hands loudly, catching the attention of every player, even making their coach pause mid-sentence. The murmurs fell silent. All heads turned toward the captain.
Armaan stepped forward, his captain's armband tight around his arm, his voice steady, deep—and booming.
"No one's going to remember what excuses we had. No one's going to ask how tired we were, or how tough they played. They'll remember one thing—who stood last. And it better be us. We've trained in sun, rain, pain—and now? We don't back off. This is our field today. Not because we were given anything—but because we bled for it. Every tackle, every pass, every fall—it ends here, in glory or in nothing. So if you've got even a drop of fear left—leave it behind. 'Cause once we step onto that grass… we're fire in motion. You don't play for the jersey. You play for the soul behind it. For every practice that broke us, for every second we didn't quit—we own this final. Now go make history."
The room froze for a beat.
Even the coach blinked, caught off guard by the sheer weight of the words. Then, with a proud smirk, he walked forward and patted Armaan's back. "That's the captain we needed."
Samar, grinning ear to ear, smacked a loud high-five into Armaan's hand. "You gave me goosebumps, you lunatic."
Armaan just smiled, inhaling deep through his nose and letting the adrenaline kick in. Both boys turned toward the exit of the locker room.
The tunnel loomed ahead.
With the thud of cleats on concrete, the team fell in behind them. Armaan and Samar stood shoulder to shoulder at the front of the line. The light of the stadium spilled in from the tunnel's mouth—and out on the pitch, the opposing team was already lined up.
It was time.
Then, from the loudspeakers, came that echoing voice again:
"ARE YOU READY?! Now please welcome… the FINALISTS on the field—The Marians versus The Drakens!"
As both teams marched onto the massive green of the official stadium, the roar of the crowd exploded like a volcano.
The sea of students, parents, teachers, and fans waved flags, chanted names, and held up homemade signs under the glowing evening sky.
Armaan jogged out with his teammates, his boots slicing into the turf, the number 7 visible to the entire stadium.
In the VIP box, his mother stood up immediately and shouted at the top of her voice. "That's my boy!!! GO ARMAAN!"
Sohana, beside her, let out a proud whistle. "Captain Pasta makes his grand entrance."
Roumit chuckled under his breath, nudging Alya, who was already staring intently at the field.
Then—Armaan's gaze swept the crowd. Amidst the chaos, the signs, and the camera flashes, his eyes landed on them—Alya, Advika, Reet, Manvi, and Roumit, seated near the center.
He smiled softly.
Alya's heart skipped. "W-Was that smile for me?" she murmured.
Advika blinked, slightly flustered. "Wait… was that directed at me?"
The two girls glanced at each other—then immediately looked away.
Just then—
"Give it your all, PASTA WARRIOR!!" Reet's unmistakable voice rang out, sharp and clear.
Armaan stumbled mid-stride.
His face turned crimson.
He turned, spotting Reet waving with an evil grin.
Sohana and his mom burst into laughter, clutching each other.
Roumit snorted. "You just can't run away from your food crimes."
Even Manvi couldn't help but giggle. "He's never living that nickname down."
Armaan covered his mouth to stifle a chuckle, then shook his head and jogged into position with a smirk. Despite the teasing, the fire in his eyes never faded.
It was time.
The final was about to begin.
The crowd had taken their sides.
The captains had taken their marks.
And Captain Number 7 stood ready to make history.
The referee walked to the center circle with a small silver coin in hand. The two captains stepped forward—Armaan from the Marians, in his white and navy blue jersey with the number 7, and the opposing captain of the Drakens in deep red and black.
"Call it," the referee said, flipping the coin high into the air.
"Heads," Armaan answered calmly, eyes following the spin.
The coin landed with a quiet clink on the referee's hand.
"Heads it is."
Armaan smiled faintly. "We'll take kick-off."
With that decided, the teams moved swiftly into position. Samar stood at the center circle, number 8 on his back, shoulders loose but focused. Armaan stood beside him, body tensed and ready. The captain's armband gleamed under the bright floodlights.
The crowd's excitement simmered, ready to erupt.
The anthem faded, the announcer's voice echoed one last time, and the referee gave a sharp nod.
Everyone took their positions.
The stadium held its breath.
Samar stepped up to the center circle, standing tall, his eyes locked on the goalpost ahead. Right beside him stood Armaan, his cleats planted firmly, body leaning slightly forward like a coiled spring. The captain's armband clung tightly to his left bicep, his number 7 sharp under the stadium lights.
They didn't speak—no need to.
Samar placed his boot gently on top of the ball.
Armaan gave the slightest nod.
The final was about to begin.