The stadium fell into a hush of anticipation as the referee brought the whistle to his lips.
PHEEEEEEEP!
The shrill sound echoed through the enormous arena like a signal of war.
Samar, standing tall at the center line in his white and navy-blue kit with the number 8 shining on his back, nudged the ball with a swift tap to his left. Right beside him, the captain of the Marians — Armaan — in jersey number 7, picked it up with calm confidence. His eyes scanned the pitch like a battlefield.
He took two controlled touches and sent a clean ground pass to their main midfielder, who immediately turned and launched a deep back pass to the defender Avinash.
Armaan, already beginning to jog diagonally forward, kept track of the unfolding formation.
"Good… Just like the plan. Build-up from the back. Maintain tempo. Control possession."
He smirked, watching the clean execution.
Avinash saw his moment and sent a high, curling pass back forward — a beauty arcing through the air, targeting Samar, now positioned centrally a few meters ahead.
Tap!
Samar controlled it effortlessly with his chest, then slid the ball to their right center midfielder who took it with a bounce and guided it to their right winger hugging the sideline.
The winger tried pushing past his marker with a feint and speed, but the defender in front read the move quickly and closed in.
His mind flickered back to Coach's sharp words:
"Pass the ball when you're not in a position to break through. Don't let ego waste opportunities."
Without hesitation, he pulled back and delivered a straight ground pass across the field toward Armaan, who was hovering just outside the box.
But—
THUD!
An opposing midfielder intercepted it with a slide just before it reached Armaan.
"Damn!" Armaan cursed under his breath, immediately chasing back.
The Drakens were already on the move.
Their interception turned instantly into a lightning-fast counterattack.
The intercepted player flicked the ball sideways to their left midfielder, who touched once and sent it diagonally to their agile center-mid.
He dodged the outstretched leg of the Marian left-back and accelerated.
Three swift passes later, their right winger cut inside, pulling Marian defenders toward him. Then came the decisive through ball.
Their striker, tall and sharp-eyed, broke through the last line of defence just in time — he received the ball at the edge of the box, skipped over a sliding tackle from Avinash, and pulled back his leg.
BOOM!
The shot went like a missile — bottom left corner.
The Marian goalkeeper dove, stretching fully —
—but it was too late.
GOAL!
Cheers erupted from the Drakens' side as the crowd roared. The scoreboard changed:
MARIANS: 0 – DRAKENS: 1
The striker who had scored sprinted to the corner flag, dropped to one knee, and mimed lifting the flag like a sniper rifle, peering through the invisible scope, "target eliminated."
The crowd responded with a mix of gasps, cheers, and whistles.
In the VIP stands, Alya stood from her seat in shock, heart pounding. Advika narrowed her eyes and muttered,
"That counter was ruthless…"
Roumit folded his arms. "Armaan's team just got caught off-guard."
Reet clenched her fists. "Don't worry. He'll answer. You'll see."
Back on the pitch, Armaan watched the celebration with focused eyes, his breath slow and steady. He wasn't angry — he was alert.
"Alright," he muttered under his breath.
"Now we're playing for real."
The scoreboard blinked with cold defiance:
Drakens – 1 | Marians – 0
Armaan's eyes narrowed.
He didn't say a word.
He simply raised his hand and brought his fingers together, forming a triangle — a silent signal shared only by the Marians. One they had trained to perfection.
His teammates immediately understood.
Time for the Triangle Link Attack.
The referee's whistle echoed again.
PHEEEEW!
Samar tapped the ball gently to the central midfielder, who didn't hold it for long. One sharp touch and the pass zipped to the midfielder on his right. With instinct born of training, he relayed it back to Samar.
A perfect triangle. Sharp. Agile. Calculated.
They advanced as one, slicing through the midfield line with the simplicity and danger of a sharpened spear.
Drakens defenders began to step up, sensing the flow — but the Marians weren't done.
As pressure started building, Samar, ever aware, glanced toward the left. Armaan had already made his run — ghosting between defenders, wide open.
Samar smiled faintly, murmuring under his breath,
"Do it, Armaan... it's to you now."
He chipped the ball high — a beautiful lob that soared over the opposition's heads.
All eyes followed the ball.
Armaan arrived like it was destiny.
The pass came in perfectly. And in that one moment, time slowed down.
With a dramatic flair, he crossed his right leg behind his left, bending his body ever so slightly — mimicking the move of his football idol, Neymar.
Thump.
The ball kissed his foot and obeyed, landing right in front of him with a gentle bounce. Smooth. Effortless. Stylish.
The stadium erupted.
Roars of applause, cheers, gasps — the kind of noise that shook the very stands. Students jumped. Girls screamed. Phones flew out to record what was surely the coolest move of the match so far.
The VIP section had its own reaction.
Alya's breath hitched, her hand flying to her chest as her eyes widened in disbelief. Advika's gaze sharpened, blinking slowly — stunned into silence.
Reet leaned forward and screamed, "That's my captain!!"
Meanwhile, Sohana, seated beside Armaan's mother, chuckled with folded arms.
"My brother never misses a chance to show off, huh?"
She shook her head, laughing. "Hahaha… damn poser."
But on the field, Armaan didn't break his focus.
He was just getting started.
Armaan didn't waste a second after receiving the ball in style.
He scanned the field — quick flicks of the eye, calculating, reading every movement.
The defenders were closing in.
Distance to the goal: 36 meters.
Position: slight left.
Crowd: roaring.
Mind: locked in.
He exhaled slowly. Then…
He unleashed his weapon — DRIBBLING.
The first Drakens player lunged — too slow.
A swift flick of Armaan's left boot and the ball slipped away.
Second one came tighter — but Armaan's footwork was poetry in motion; he spun, danced past.
Two down. Three to go.
The crowd gasped. Even the announcer choked mid-commentary.
The third and fourth defenders tried to close in together. Mistake.
Armaan slipped between them like wind through trees, ball glued to his feet.
Now it was just him and one last challenger.
The fifth came at full speed — reckless.
One feint to the right, and the poor lad tumbled left. Armaan was through.
"He's through five!! FIVE!!" someone screamed from the stands.
The VIP section?
Everyone had stood up. Every single one.
Sohana's mouth was wide open. Armaan's mother clutched her chest with pride.
Alya covered her mouth in awe, eyes sparkling.
Even Advika, who usually had a stone-cold gaze, whispered, "…Incredible."
Now Armaan was outside the box, still slightly left — but with the perfect angle.
He paused. Scanned.
Then smirked and whispered,
"Gotcha."
Boom.
He took the shot.
A right-footed, curving shot — the kind that looked impossible until it danced through the air.
The ball spun and flew, curling mid-air with precision.
The Drakens' goalkeeper dove with full force, fingers grazing the air...
Too late.
SWISH!
The net shook.
For a second — just one — the world stood still.
Then the stadium exploded.
"YYYYYYYYEEESSSSSSS!!!"
People screamed. Chanted his name. Some lost their voices. Flags waved. Confetti burst from drums. Girls nearly fainted. Teachers were whistling. Seniors were on their feet. Juniors were crying.
The announcer screamed something no one could hear. It didn't matter.
Armaan had equalized. But more than that — he had announced his presence.
And how did he celebrate?
He jogged slowly to the sideline, hands spread wide by his sides, palms down, chin raised.
A silent declaration.
"Calm down. I'm here. I've got this."
The crowd went even louder. A wave of screams followed his every step.
Samar ran over, slapped his hand in a high-five.
"Damn... That was a beauty, brooo!!"
Armaan gave a cool, composed nod, eyes still sharp.
"It's just the beginning… Let's go," he replied — calm, organized, radiating focus.
This wasn't just a match anymore.
This was war.
And their Captain had arrived.
The whistle echoed again.
And this time, even the Drakens weren't holding back.
They came in tighter, sharper, dead serious. Their striker — the so-called Sniper — had fire in his eyes. He charged forward like a bullet, aiming to repeat what he'd done before.
But this time…
He was facing Avinash.
The fortress. The wall. The best defender of the entire championship.
One look. One read.
And before anyone could blink, Avinash snatched the ball away with a clean tackle that had the crowd on their feet again. No fouls. No mercy. Just pure class.
With no time wasted, Avinash launched a low-pressure pass — fast, fierce, and straight to Armaan.
The ball zipped across the field and landed right at Armaan's boots.
He didn't even need to look.
Armaan could feel the presence behind him — the breathing, the shift of weight, the sound of cleats scraping grass.
A defender was tailing him.
So what did he do?
He rolled the incoming ball back behind him, catching the defender off guard…
And nutmegged him.
Yes.
He slid it clean between the defender's legs, turned, and lunged forward, scooping the ball like it was glued to his soul.
"THAT BOY IS SPITTING BEAUTIES TODAY!!" Reet screamed, eyes wide open.
Manvi beside her was practically losing it — "I CAN'T! I JUST CAN'T! WHO IS THIS GUY?!"
The whole crowd had been flipped upside down.
Armaan dashed forward, head up, control tight. One more defender came lunging in — but Armaan flicked the ball slightly ahead, and ran past him, passing it to himself. Clean. Slick. Devastating.
Now he was near the edge of the box.
And that's when he spotted him—
Samar. Wide open.
"Show 'em, buddy…" Armaan whispered.
He launched a perfectly timed high cross — it soared above the defense like a silver bullet.
Samar leapt — CRACK!
Header. Direct. Goal.
Back of the net.
The stadium erupted. Again.
The wave of energy was electric, like thunder roaring through every corner of the stands.
Samar didn't even think twice. He sprinted to the corner flag, grabbed it like a sniper rifle, and mimicked taking a clean shot.
"BAM!"
The crowd went wilder than ever.
Meanwhile, Armaan ran toward Samar, smirking like a proud general. He smacked him on the back and said loud enough for the front row to hear—
"That's my son…"
"Shut up, you punk!" Samar laughed and shoved him jokingly — and then pulled him into a tight brotherly hug.
On the stands, Roumit stood up from his seat and yelled:
"I'M MISSING THEIR BRO RIGHT NOW!!"
Both Armaan and Samar turned their heads, caught his voice—
And stuck out their tongues playfully, grinning like little brats.
The three of them burst into laughter from their places — pitch and stands — their bond echoing stronger than ever.
This wasn't just a final.
This wasn't just a match.
This was a brotherhood on fire.
Just as the crowd was still roaring from that electric brotherly goal, the half-time whistle finally echoed through the stadium.
The players paused, breath heaving, adrenaline rushing.
The scoreboard shined brightly above the field:
Marians – 2
Drakens – 1
The crowd stood up in applause, honoring the show they had just witnessed.
And as the Marians jogged toward the bench with quiet pride, Armaan looked up at the stands — locking eyes briefly with his mother, his sister, Alya, and Advika.
He smiled.
Half the battle was done.
The other half?
It was just about to begin.