The whistle cut through the air like a blade.
Not sharp.
Not loud.
Final.
Theo didn't look at the stands.
Didn't look at his teammates.
Didn't even look at the ball yet.
He looked at the grass.
Too green.
Too still.
The pitch felt wider than it should have been — like someone had quietly stretched it overnight, pulled the sidelines farther away just to see who would notice.
The ball rolled toward him for the first time in the match.
Theo opened his body.
And froze.
Not physically.
Mentally.
The memory came first.
Not the image — the feeling.
The sound.
That dull, wrong snap from training.
The half-second of silence afterward.
The look on the other winger's face — confusion before pain, before understanding.
Theo's foot hovered above the ball.
Don't, something inside him whispered.
He passed backward.
Clean. Safe. Correct.
The crowd didn't react.
But the opposition did.
They stepped forward.
The Opponent Who Wouldn't Wait
They weren't here to survive.
That was obvious within five minutes.
Their front line pressed in waves — not reckless, not emotional, but hungry. The kind of pressing that wasn't about winning the ball immediately, but about telling you that every second you held it would cost something.
Theo noticed it first on his side.
The left-back didn't rush him.
He waited.
Closed angles.
Blocked lanes.
Forced Theo toward the touchline like a patient hunter herding prey toward a cliff.
Theo remembered the coach's voice from the night before.
"They'll give you the ball," he had said, tapping the board.
"But they won't give you space. If you chase moments early, you'll disappear by minute sixty."
Theo didn't chase.
He recycled.
Again.
And again.
And with every safe pass, the pitch seemed to lean forward — like it was disappointed in him.
It happened quietly.
Theo received the ball again, this time deeper. He scanned left. Scanned right.
And the sound dropped out.
Not all at once.
Just… faded.
The crowd became a distant murmur. Boots on grass dulled. Even his breathing felt far away, like it belonged to someone else.
Then the light shifted.
The colors drained — not into black and white, but into something worse. Muted. Sickly. Like an old photograph left too long in the sun.
Theo's chest tightened.
Not now.
He took a touch forward.
And stopped.
Because someone was standing in front of him.
Not a defender.
Not a referee.
Himself.
The shadow wasn't solid this time. It flickered at the edges, like smoke struggling to keep a shape. Its face was indistinct, but its posture was unmistakable.
Relaxed.
Confident.
Waiting.
"You're playing scared," it said.
The voice didn't echo.
It didn't need to.
Theo's heartbeat thundered in his ears — too loud, too fast.
"I'm playing smart," Theo whispered back, though his lips didn't move.
The shadow tilted its head.
"You're hiding."
Theo tried to move.
His legs answered late.
A shout tore through the fog.
"THEO—MAN ON!"
The world slammed back into color.
Sound rushed in like a flood.
Theo jabbed the ball sideways just as a defender lunged. The tackle missed him by inches.
The crowd gasped.
Theo didn't celebrate.
He felt the shadow step back into place behind his eyes.
Waiting.
The opposition grew bolder.
They began to overload Theo's side — not committing numbers recklessly, but shifting shape just enough to force Santos to defend longer than they wanted to.
Theo tracked back.
Once.
Twice.
By the third time, his legs already felt heavier than they should have this early.
Manage your runs, the coach had said.
Theo managed.
The left-back noticed.
He began to step higher, daring Theo to beat him.
Theo didn't.
The ball moved inside.
Lucas took control for a stretch — calming, dictating, slowing the match like a conductor insisting on tempo. He found pockets. He escaped pressure.
But even Lucas couldn't erase the feeling.
This wasn't Santos' match yet.
The opposition keeper hadn't broken a sweat.
Theo glanced at the scoreboard.
0–0.
It felt like they were losing.
The closest chance of the half came suddenly.
A misplaced pass in midfield.
A quick vertical ball.
Their striker split the center-backs with a run timed to perfection.
Theo turned just in time to see the shot fly.
Low. Hard. Far corner.
The Santos keeper reacted instantly — a full stretch, fingertips brushing leather just enough to change its path.
The ball kissed the post and rolled out.
The crowd erupted.
Theo didn't move.
He stood there, breath caught halfway between relief and fear.
The shadow leaned closer.
"See?" it murmured.
"You don't decide games. You wait for them."
Theo clenched his fists.
Shut up.
Another pass came his way.
Theo forced himself to breathe.
Wide discipline. No heroics. First half is survival.
That was the plan.
He followed it.
But the plan didn't quiet the noise.
Every safe touch felt like a betrayal of the player he used to be.
Every backward pass echoed louder than a missed dribble ever could.
The crowd shifted restlessly.
Someone in the stands shouted his name.
Theo pretended not to hear.
The referee checked his watch.
One last attack from the opposition — a long switch, a late run, a shot from distance that sailed just wide.
Theo watched it drift out.
The whistle blew.
Halftime.
0–0.
But the body language told the truth.
One team walked in confident.
The other walked in thinking.
Theo lowered his head as he jogged toward the sideline.
The shadow didn't follow him this time.
It stayed on the pitch.
Standing in his position.
Smiling.
Halftime didn't feel like a break.
It felt like being pulled out of water just long enough to remember how much you needed air.
The players gathered near the bench, some standing, some sitting on their heels, hands on knees. No locker room. No closed doors. Just shade, water bottles, and the sound of boots scuffing concrete.
Theo sat down slowly.
His legs weren't burning yet.
That scared him more than if they were.
Coach didn't speak immediately.
He waited until everyone had found a place — until breathing slowed, until eyes lifted without being called.
Only then did he crouch in front of them.
"Alright," he said. Not loud. Not sharp.
Just present.
"We're not losing," he continued. "But we're not controlling either."
No one argued.
Coach tapped the dirt with a finger, drawing a rough shape.
"They're pressing with intent. They want us uncomfortable. And right now—" he looked up "—they're succeeding."
Theo swallowed.
Coach's eyes moved across the group, not lingering, not avoiding.
"The right side," he said. "We're predictable."
Theo stiffened.
Coach noticed.
That wasn't the point.
"Theo," Coach said, calm, "you're doing what we asked."
Theo looked up. "Then why does it feel wrong?"
Coach didn't answer immediately.
Renan did.
From beside Theo, Renan leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Because you're playing not to lose."
The words landed gently.
But they landed.
Renan turned slightly toward him. "You're thinking about your legs. Your minutes. The second half. The tournament."
Theo nodded slowly.
"And that's not wrong," Renan continued. "But it's incomplete."
Coach picked up where Renan left off.
"Football doesn't punish caution," he said. "It punishes hesitation."
He looked directly at Theo now.
"You don't need to be reckless. But when you choose safety, choose it fully. When you choose risk, commit to it."
Theo frowned. "And if I choose wrong?"
Coach smiled faintly. "Then you learn. But at least you chose."
Paulo cleared his throat. "They're overloading when Theo receives."
Coach nodded. "Good. Let them."
Theo looked up sharply.
"Paulo," Coach continued, "you overlap only when Theo commits his man. Not before. Not after."
Paulo nodded.
"Lucas," Coach said, "you stay patient. They'll break shape if we make them wait."
Lucas cracked a grin. "Finally. My kind of suffering."
A few players laughed.
The tension eased.
Just a little.
Coach stood up.
"We don't need magic," he said. "We need honesty. Play what you see. Trust that the others will fill the rest."
Theo drank water slowly.
His reflection stared back at him from the bottle's surface.
The shadow didn't appear.
That worried him more than when it did.
The second half began without drama.
No early chances. No fireworks.
Just pressure.
Theo touched the ball within the first minute.
This time, he didn't pass immediately.
He faced his defender.
Not aggressively.
Not passively.
Just… present.
The defender hesitated.
Theo took one step forward.
Then two.
He rolled the ball across his body and accelerated just enough to force the defender to turn.
No dribble.
No trick.
Just timing.
The crowd murmured.
Theo crossed early.
It missed Davi by inches.
No goal.
But something shifted.
Paulo clapped once. "That's it."
Theo nodded.
Again, he received the ball.
This time, two defenders closed him.
He didn't panic.
He dropped a shoulder, feinted inside, then slipped the ball wide to Paulo and kept running.
The overlap came late.
Perfectly.
Paulo crossed.
Blocked.
Corner.
Theo jogged back slowly.
His legs whispered.
Not pain.
Warning.
Ten minutes into the half, it happened.
A loose ball bounced toward Theo near the touchline.
The defender stepped up aggressively this time.
Theo didn't think.
Didn't measure.
Didn't remember the injury.
He went.
One touch to kill momentum.
A sudden burst.
A sharp cut inside that sent the defender sliding past empty grass.
The crowd rose.
Theo drove forward, head up, heart hammering.
Another defender lunged.
Theo slipped past him too.
Now he was running straight at the back line.
This was it.
The moment.
He struck the ball low.
Hard.
The keeper saved it.
Cleanly.
Theo stood there for half a second longer than he should have.
Chest heaving.
Not disappointed.
Alive.
Paulo ran over and shoved him lightly. "There he is."
Theo smiled.
Then his legs trembled.
Just slightly.
By the sixty-fifth minute, Theo felt it fully.
Not a collapse.
A drain.
Each sprint took something it didn't give back.
He started choosing angles again.
Not out of fear.
Out of necessity.
The opposition noticed.
They pushed higher.
They tested his side again.
Theo tracked back once more — slower this time.
The defender crossed.
Cleared.
Another wave came.
Then another.
Theo bent over briefly, hands on knees.
The referee glanced at him.
Coach stood up.
Looked at the bench.
There was no one.
Theo straightened immediately.
I'm fine, he told himself.
The shadow didn't appear.
But the echo of it lingered.
The coach stood still on the line .
Watching.
Theo clenched his jaw and turned back toward the pitch.
The ball was already coming his way.
And for the first time tonight, his legs hesitated before his mind did.
End of Chapter.
*Whats the feeling when your mind and body go out of sync, when you want to run but can hardly manage to even stand still .