Chapter 56: Chapter 56: Ten-Lap War
Riku raised his arm, stopwatch in hand.
"Ready... three, two, one—go!"
They burst forward.
Some went all in from the start, trying to snatch an early lead. Cael was one of them—knees pumping, arms slicing the air.
"Let’s goooo!" he roared, burning energy like it was endless.
Julian and Leo didn’t take the bait. Their strides were measured, breathing steady. Ten laps was a long war—you didn’t win it in the first minute.
The first lap blurred by, the sound of pounding cleats echoing across the field.
Second lap—still controlled.
By the third, the first signs of fatigue began to show in the sprinters.
By the fourth, the early fire was burning out. Shoulders drooped. Steps dragged. Cael’s "speed booster" had sputtered—his breaths now came in ragged gasps, almost whistling.
Julian’s pace didn’t break.
One by one, he reeled them in.
Fifth lap. Sixth lap. Seventh lap.
The survivors:
Leo—smooth and efficient, holding pace.
Cael—looking like he’d been left to die in the desert.
And, surprisingly... Riku.
He hadn’t even entered the bet, but something in him had ignited—maybe Cael’s trash talk, maybe pride. Either way, he was in it now. Sweat shone on his forehead, his normally calm face twisted into something fierce.
Eighth lap. Ninth lap.
Breath plumes hung in the winter air, sweat soaking shirts despite the cold. Muscles screamed.
Last lap.
Leo surged.
Julian followed, pumping his arms harder, boots tearing at the turf.
Riku dug deep, his footfalls thudding close behind.
Cael... was making sounds no human should. His breaths rattled like death itself was running beside him.
Half a lap to go—Leo still in front.
Julian leaned forward, every tendon in his legs straining. The world narrowed to the white line ahead.
Faster.
He overtook in the final stretch—breath ragged, vision tunneling—
—and crossed the line first.
"YEAHHHHH!" Julian staggered, then collapsed onto the turf, arms spread wide.
Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, stinging his eyes. His legs trembled like overworked pistons, lungs pulling in the cold air like it was molten steel.
From the sideline, Coach Owen’s voice cracked like a whip.
"Really, you guys?!"
Half a scold, half disbelief.
Leo, Riku, and—finally—Cael stumbled in after him, collapsing in a heap nearby.
For a while, none of them spoke, just gulping air and letting the pounding in their ears fade.
Then Julian broke the silence.
"So... here’s the deal. My punishment for the losers..." He grinned, still lying flat. "If I score in the next match, all of you will be my fish."
Leo raised an eyebrow. "Your what?"
"My fish," Julian repeated, smirking. "We’re doing a fishing-themed celebration. You’ll flop around on the pitch like you’ve been caught, and I’ll reel you in."
Cael groaned. "Please tell me you’re joking."
"Dead serious," Julian said, grin widening. "Hope your acting’s good."
Leo snorted. "I never took you for the celebration type."
"Let’s just say..." Julian chuckled, pushing himself upright. "...I’ve changed."
Even Riku cracked a small grin, shaking his head. "If this goes viral, I’m blaming you," he muttered. Cael, still sprawled on the grass, lifted one hand weakly in protest before letting it flop back down.
The laughter lingered for a few seconds before Coach’s whistle cut through the air again.
Training resumed—passing drills, positional plays, formation work—until the sun began to sink and the cold crept in, breath misting heavier in the evening chill.
...
By week’s end, the ten-lap war felt like an old bruise—still tender when touched, but no longer slowing anyone down.
Lincoln High marched into a three-match stretch that would decide their early-season momentum.
First up: East Valley Tech.
Home turf.
No travel.
They waited for the visitors like a fortress waiting to be tested.
The East Valley bus rolled in, and their coach stepped off for a brief, stiff handshake with Coach Owen.
The visitors wore red-and-black kits, their formation a rigid 4-4-2. On paper, they averaged 100–110 attributes, with two standouts: a center-back at 150, a central midfielder at 160.
It should have been a breeze—except they came to play a bruising, physical game.
From kickoff, it was a war of bodies.
Shirt pulls when the ref’s eyes wandered.
Shoulder checks that rattled ribs.
Boots clipping ankles just shy of a foul.
Julian and Leo took the brunt of it, every run shadowed by a shove or grab. Passes died in torn-up divots. Cleats skidded over frost-slick grass. The ball never moved without someone’s breath hot on your neck.
The crowd felt the tension too—shouts rang out with every collision, parents and classmates leaning forward as if their voices alone could push Lincoln through the tackles.
The winter air smelled faintly of damp turf and sweat, the kind of scent that clung to your jacket hours after the match.
For forty minutes, the scoreboard stayed clean. The match was ugly—scraps of play stitched together by sheer grit.
Then, in the 42nd minute, the gap opened.
Leo drifted into the half-space, luring two defenders with him. His heel flicked, almost lazily—except the ball sliced perfectly between the center-backs.
Julian was there in an instant.
One touch to set.
One to bury it low past the keeper’s glove.
Halftime: 1–0.
The second half was no gentler. In the 58th minute, Julian broke free for a one-on-one, only to be scythed down from behind just outside the box.
The whistle shrieked, a yellow flashed. Pain flared in his leg, but he waved off the medics—nothing serious.
The tackles kept coming. The air smelled faintly of damp earth and sweat. The crowd muttered and growled with every shove.
In the 73rd minute, Lincoln earned a corner.
Leo swung it in.
Riku rose like a piston, timing his leap perfectly.
The header cracked off his forehead and rocketed into the net.
2–0.
Coach Owen didn’t hesitate—Julian and Leo were subbed out, saved for the next battle.
From the bench, Julian leaned forward, watching the final minutes play out with his pulse still running high.
The ache in his leg was nothing compared to the buzz in his chest—the kind that came from scoring and knowing there was still more to give.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, he was already picturing Cael flopping like a fish in their next goal celebration.
[ MATCH PERFORMANCE RATING: 10.5 ]