Chapter 59: Chapter 59: Predators on the Pitch
For the rest of training, Julian’s focus kept drifting toward Noah.
And yeah—there was no denying it—he was on another level.
His shooting was sharp and economical, each strike biting into the net with surgical precision.
His first touch carried the kind of weight and direction that came from years of repetition, the ball obeying like an old friend.
Even so, there were cracks—small moments of clumsiness, a step just half a beat slow, a grimace when he twisted wrong. The injury still lingered, shadowing his movements.
But his body remembered. Muscle memory clung to him like a second skin, dragging him toward brilliance whether his leg was ready or not.
Julian tracked him like a predator watching a rival in its territory. The more he watched, the more his jaw tightened.
He could already imagine the headlines—Noah’s comeback, Noah’s unstoppable form—and it lit a stubborn fire in Julian’s chest.
Laura’s voice slid in from his side.
"You feel threatened?" she asked—no teasing, just blunt curiosity.
"Maybe," Julian admitted without looking away. "I can’t say I’m not. But I’ll win this. I’ll devour him."
His tongue darted out, slow and deliberate, like a beast tasting the scent of its prey.
Laura exhaled sharply, half a hiss.
"Sometimes, you’re really scary."
Julian’s laugh was low and unhurried. "Hahahaha."
The rest of the week was nothing but grind.
Training. Training. Training.
Sweat turned the pitch slick beneath their boots. Breath came in steam clouds under the pale winter sun.
Coach Owen’s voice was constant—sharp, relentless—hammering into them that in their last game, they’d barely scraped a win.
Every drill felt like a test, every sprint chased by the coach’s barked demands to "push faster" or "tighten your line."
By Friday, the rhythm of drills and shouting had burned itself into their bones.
And then it was here.
Matchday.
An away game.
Against the first seed.
The bus ride felt different this time.
The usual laughter, the playful banter, even the occasional music from someone’s phone—gone.
All that filled the space was the steady growl of the diesel engine, the faint hiss of the vents, and the rattle of cleats knocking against one another under seats.
Outside, a cold, overcast sky pressed against the tinted windows. The glass fogged faintly where breaths met the chill, blurring the city into gray smears.
The air smelled faintly of turf rubber and the tang of muscle rub lingering on skin and jerseys.
Julian sat by the window, the glass cool against his arm, Cael beside him in the aisle seat.
The silence wasn’t awkward—it was heavy.
The kind of heavy that made every inhale feel like drawing in match-day nerves.
A sudden jab to his ribs broke it.
"Psst... psst. Julian." Cael’s elbow dug in again.
Julian turned, one eyebrow lifting. "What?"
He half-expected some nonsense.
Instead, Cael leaned closer, his voice low but—because the bus was that quiet—it carried like a microphone feed into every ear.
"You... you’re really an Ashford? The Ashford Industries Ashford?"
The name rippled through the bus like a pebble hitting still water.
Several heads turned.
Leather seats creaked as players shifted to listen.
Ashford Industries.
The gleaming chrome empire of American automotive.
Billboards. Boardrooms. Billions.
Leo twisted in his seat ahead, eyes going wide.
Riku, behind them, straightened with a slow grin.
Even Noah’s mask of calm cracked, his gaze sharpening just enough to show surprise.
Julian kept his voice casual, almost lazy. "Yeah. I’m the son of the Ashford family."
The air in the bus changed—like everyone had inhaled at once and forgotten to exhale.
It wasn’t just surprise—they were recalculating. Every player there had thought they knew Julian Ashford. Now they weren’t so sure.
"What the fuck, man..." Cael’s voice broke through, half disbelief, half awe.
Leo froze mid-turn, mouth hanging open as if someone could toss a ball through it.
Riku’s grin grew.
Even Noah’s composure slipped for a moment.
"But... I never see you in their campaigns," Cael pressed. "Just the other one. Is he your brother?"
Julian only smiled, slow and unreadable. The answer sat ready on his tongue—but he let the silence stretch instead, watching them fidget under it.
Cael drew breath to push again—but a hand clamped over his mouth from behind.
Riku’s voice came low and firm. "Enough."
The bus seemed to sink back into its tense rhythm—the rumble of the road, the faint tang of sweat and turf polish clinging to kits, the cold glass shivering with every bump.
And though no one said it out loud, every player there now looked at Julian differently.
Respect, curiosity, and a thread of unease—it was all there in their glances.
...
San Dimas High rose ahead like something out of a glossy prep-school brochure.
Tall stone buildings loomed over perfectly trimmed hedges.
The front steps were lined with banners in gold and silver, fluttering in the breeze. Even the air here seemed... cleaner.
Money didn’t just fund this place—it was in the bricks, the paint, the way people carried themselves.
The campus felt like it had been built to intimidate visiting teams before the match even began.
Lincoln High’s bus hissed to a halt at the curb.
One by one, cleats hit the pavement.
"Henryyyy!"
A voice rang out—high, quick, familiar to someone other than the players.
Julian turned just in time to see a woman sprinting toward Coach Owen. Her strides were sharp, unhurried only by the fact she was wearing heeled boots.
Late twenties, maybe early thirties. Blue eyes that caught the light, framed by a sheet of black hair tied back in a loose knot. Skin sun-kissed to a warm bronze.
"Stop—take it easy, dude." Coach Owen caught her by the shoulders, half-laughing, half-bracing against her momentum.
"Don’t be like that! It’s been forever since we’ve seen each other," she said, breathless but smiling.
"Coach, don’t go soft on the other team," a voice piped up—small but sharp.
Julian glanced down.
A kid—no, a player—stood there in San Dimas’ gold-and-silver kit, the gleam dulled slightly by tape wrapped around both ankles. Five-foot-two, maybe, but there was nothing timid in his stance.
"This," Coach Owen said, gesturing toward the woman, "is San Dimas High’s coach, Chelsea Olivia."
She gave the Lincoln squad a once-over, her smile polite but assessing. "Hello, kids. And this here—" She turned, resting a hand on the short player’s shoulder. "—is Victor Salinas."
Julian knew the name.
Knew the reputation.
Victor Salinas wasn’t just one of San Dimas’ key players. He was their star—a fifteen-year-old forward who played like a devil let loose.
Julian’s eyes narrowed, and ASHI’s interface slid into his vision.
User: Victor Salinas
Position: ST
Age: 15
Total Attributes: 312 (145)
The number hit like a cold splash of water.
Injured or not, the kid was dangerous.
And from the way Victor’s eyes lingered on him—measuring, weighing—it was clear the feeling was mutual. This match wasn’t just going to be a clash of teams. It was going to be a hunt.