Chapter 109: Chapter 109: The Siege of Crenshaw
Pritttt—!
The referee’s whistle cut the air, sharp as steel.
Both teams halted their warm-ups, jogging toward the center circle. The ritual began—line against line, handshakes passing like sparks before the storm.
Julian’s gaze fixed on D-Lo.
Something about him was different.
His face wasn’t just focused—it was emptied, like a man who had carved out his own fear and left only one thing inside: do or die.
Danger. Pure and simple.
When their hands clasped, Julian felt it. The grip was iron, digging into his bones, heavier than the handshake of an opponent. It was a promise.
Their eyes met—just a flicker, but enough. One look carrying a hundred meanings. Rivalry. Fury. Defiance. The hunger of a beast that would burn itself to ash just to bite once more.
Julian didn’t flinch. His hand tightened in return, silent reply etched in his stare: Then die.
They released, and the moment vanished with the shifting lines.
The stadium buzzed, the air trembling like a taut string ready to snap. Floodlights burned overhead, their glow carving halos on the players’ shoulders.
The pitch smelled faintly of damp grass, sharp under cleats that pressed down with steady rhythm.
Parents, students, scouts—their noise was no longer chatter. It was a low, hungry growl, waiting for the first crack of blood.
The players moved into position, boots crunching against the pitch. The air was taut, vibrating with the crowd’s anticipation.
Pritttt!
Kick-off.
Lincoln ball.
Julian tapped it back, smooth and sure, rolling the weight of the opening touch toward Leo.
Leo caught it cleanly. The ball kissed his foot, and for a moment, the past and present collided—his red card, his suspension, the fury of East Valley still etched into his body.
But tonight, his aura was different. Balanced. Sharpened. He felt the ball like it was part of him.
And with that first pass, the war began.
...
The war began.
Crenshaw stepped out in white and teal, Lincoln in sharp blue, the clash of colors bright under the stadium lights.
Leo received the ball, one touch back to Aaron.
Aaron to Ethan.
Ethan carried forward, scanning—then launched it long to the left.
A streak of motion answered.
Noah.
The shadow on the flank.
His boots dug in, his stride long and smooth as he chased the curling ball.
It dropped ahead of him, too far, skipping toward the line. Noah didn’t hesitate—if he tried to control it, it would fly out. Instead, he snapped his leg through, whipping it across before it could escape.
The ball bent into the box—
Blue jerseys already waiting.
Julian.
Leo.
Felix.
[Rule The Pitch – Lv.2: +5 To All Attributes]
Julian lunged, body flinging forward, eyes fixed on the path of leather. His leap cut through the air, forehead ready to drive it home—
But no.
Too far.
The ball ghosted past him, shaving air above his crown.
It bent low, curling right to Leo’s feet. The perfect chance.
Leo braced, eyes flashing, boot swinging—
But the curve betrayed him.
The spin bit into the ground at the last second, the ball skidding away just off-line. His strike snapped empty, slicing high and wide.
WHOOOSH—!
The ball flew past the post. Out of bounds.
A groan rippled through the stands. So close. First blood missed.
Julian’s jaw clenched as he jogged back, the fire in his eyes only burning hotter. This was only the beginning.
...
For the next thirty minutes, the pitch belonged to Lincoln High.
Wave after wave, blue surged forward.
The ball snapped between their boots like lightning chained in human form—short, crisp touches, always forward, always pressing.
Every time a Crenshaw player thought he had space, it vanished.
Every breath they tried to take was stolen by Lincoln’s relentless pressure.
Julian dropped deep into midfield, his eyes blazing as he threaded a razor-sharp pass through the lines.
Noah burst onto it, eating up the ground with long strides, the ball kissing his boots—only for the flag to snap upward. Offside. Javion had timed the trap perfectly, his arm raised before Noah even took the shot.
Javion barked orders, his voice booming across the box. "Step! Step up!" His command was iron, and his backline moved as one.
Every inch they held forced Lincoln to restart, to think, to press again.
Javion wasn’t just a defender—he was a commander. His presence alone kept Crenshaw from shattering completely.
His cleats carved trenches in the turf, every tackle a hammer that reminded Lincoln: not yet, not that easily. Without him, the team would’ve already drowned. With him, they clung to survival.
But Lincoln pressed harder.
Leo and Julian combined next, their rhythm seamless, honed by fire and training. One-two. One-two.
Their movement sliced open Crenshaw’s midfield like blades cutting fabric, pulling defenders out of position. They slipped into the box—Leo shielding, Julian spinning into space. The crowd rose, breath catching.
Then—Javion struck. A predator’s lunge, perfectly timed, cleats snapping through the ball just as Julian swung his boot.
The crunch of leather-on-leather echoed, the ball ricocheting harmlessly clear. Gasps, groans, curses from the Lincoln crowd. Javion’s fist clenched as he roared to his teammates, dragging them back into shape.
Still, Lincoln never relented.
Felix probed the right flank, twisting past one, then two men, only for Crenshaw defender to smother him at the edge of the box.
Aaron surged forward, a thunderous strike from distance—but Crenshaw’s keeper, sprawled wide to parry it away. Each chance was a spark, each parry only feeding Lincoln’s fire.
Julian felt it—the tempo, the rhythm. They were bending Crenshaw, stretching them, tightening the noose.
And on the other end? Crenshaw’s offense looked broken.
Every attempt to counter was smothered before it began. Their chaos—their unpredictable, wild rhythm—had lost its bite.
Every pass was read, every sprint crushed under Lincoln’s relentless discipline. Tariq cut off one lane. Zion slid into another. Riku commanded the backline like a general, his voice sharp, precise.
D-Lo tried to spark something, dropping deep, demanding the ball—but his teammates stumbled, their touches heavy, their choices panicked.
When he slipped a pass into space, Ethan was already there to intercept. When he drove forward himself, Aaron’s shoulder met him, halting him cold.
Crenshaw’s chaos was gone.
D-Ro—their core, their chaos king, the heartbeat of their wild attacks—sat on the bench with his ankle bandaged. Without him, the storm had no eye, no rhythm.
D-Lo carried his brother’s fire, his feet quick and hungry, but he wasn’t the same. He could mirror flashes of D-Ro’s brilliance, but not the soul of it. The spark sputtered. The flame refused to catch.
Every time D-Lo tried to twist free, Lincoln’s wall closed in.
Every pass he attempted, every darting dribble, collapsed under the weight of blue shirts. Without D-Ro beside him, his artistry felt hollow.
The king was gone.
And the heir couldn’t carry the throne alone.
Crenshaw’s attack looked toothless—runners cut off, passes swallowed, creativity crushed before it could breathe.
They were a beast stripped of its claws, still snarling, still charging, but every strike glanced off Lincoln’s armor.
And as the minutes bled away, the truth hung heavy in the air.
It wasn’t if Lincoln would score.
It was when.