By seven, Julian and the HSV II squad had gathered in the meal room.

Steam curled off trays lined with pasta, rice, and roasted vegetables — a mountain of carbs for the war ahead. The hum of chatter filled the air, low but restless. Everyone knew what tomorrow meant.

Julian took his seat beside Mageed, with Anssi settling across from them. Plates clattered, chairs scraped, and hunger met anticipation.

"Congratulations on the starting lineup," Anssi said, cutting into his chicken.

Julian nodded, tone steady but loud enough to carry. "Yeah. Hopefully I can keep this spot."

A few heads turned at that. Forks paused midair.

He didn't lower his voice. Let them hear it.

Ambition wasn't arrogance. It was a declaration.

Mageed smirked beside him, shaking his head.

Anssi only smiled, the faintest glint of pride in his eyes — like a senior watching a rookie step into the fire.

From the far end of the room, Coach Soner appeared, clipboard in hand, his presence cutting through the noise.

"After dinner," he said, voice even but sharp, "follow me to the conference room. We'll go over our plan for tomorrow."

Then he was gone again — a ghost of structure, leaving only discipline in his wake.

"Yes, sir," the team replied in unison, even with mouths full.

Julian returned to his plate, digging in. The food wasn't bad — hearty, simple, built for energy. Not luxury, but fuel.

He ate clean, deliberate, every bite a promise: he'd turn this meal into motion, this night into momentum.

Tomorrow wasn't just another match.

It was the first test — and he intended to write his name across it.

Mageed nudged him lightly with his elbow. "You realize this is the first full pro briefing you'll get under Soner, yeah?"

Julian gave a small nod. "Good. I want to see how he thinks before the whistle."

"Then pay attention," Mageed said, lowering his voice. "He doesn't just coach. He dissects."

Julian smiled faintly, already knowing. That was why he was here. To learn the anatomy of winning."

…

The conference room buzzed faintly — low whispers, chairs scraping, the hum of the projector filling the silence. The screen cast a pale glow across the players' faces, eyes fixed forward.

Coach Soner stood at the front, hands clasped behind his back. His shadow stretched long across the wall, steady as a commander before the map of his battlefield.

"We'll be facing BSV Kickers Emden," he began, voice calm but iron-edged. "Their system? 4–2–3–1. Structured. Compact. Built to defend first, counter later."

A slide flicked across the screen — Emden's shape unfolding in white lines, frozen mid-motion.

"They started strong this season, but lately—" Soner tapped the screen, the formation flickering into clips of recent games "—they've begun to crack. Shape collapses under pressure. Transitions slow. But that makes them dangerous."

He turned, gaze sweeping across the room.

"They'll see us as their turning point. Expect them to fight like a wounded beast. Hungry. Cornered."

The projector shifted again. A close-up photo appeared — sharp features, trimmed beard, number 10 emblazoned across his shirt.

"This man," Soner continued, tone sharpening, "Tobias Steffen. Thirty-three years old. Experienced. Their brain, their pulse, their calm. He's the one who dictates their tempo."

Julian leaned forward slightly, studying the screen. The veteran's eyes seemed to look straight through the camera — the gaze of someone who'd seen hundreds of matches, and survived every kind of war.

"Set pieces, creativity, composure — he's a master of controlling rhythm. You give him time, he'll kill you with one pass. Treat him like a general on the field — one mistake, and he'll carve you open."

The clip rolled — Steffen bending a free kick over the wall, threading impossible passes through narrow gaps, his touch light but lethal.

Soner paused, letting the silence settle like a blade.

"He creates extraordinary moments. Don't let him."

He looked back to the squad — eyes locking on the midfielders, then the defenders.

"Cut the lines. Press him early. Make him rush. He's old, but he's clever — force him to think faster than his body can handle."

Another slide clicked — silhouettes of two more players flickered beside Steffen.

"Now— their other key threats…"

The first clip rolled. A tall, broad-shouldered figure in white and blue surged down the flank, barking orders, pointing, driving his teammates into position.

"Dennis Engel," Coach Soner announced. "Right-back. Captain. Twenty-nine."

His tone carried weight — respect, not fear.

"Engel's their anchor. Leadership, composure, voice — everything runs through him in the back line. He's played in higher divisions. Seen pressure. He organizes their shape, commands transitions, and he's loud enough to wake the dead."

The clip froze mid-frame — Engel's mouth open mid-shout, his arm raised, eyes burning like a field marshal.

"He won't break easily. If you rattle him, the whole back line cracks."

A second tap. The screen shifted.

Another player — lean, sharp, eyes bright with ambition. The footage showed him cutting in from the flank, linking with the midfield, curling a shot into the far corner.

"Pascal Steinwender," Soner continued, "twenty-eight. Listed as a winger, but don't be fooled. He drifts inside, dictates rhythm, and arrives late in the box."

The projector rolled a highlight reel — one-touch combinations, driven shots, cool finishes.

"He's not just flair. He's presence. If Steffen is their mind, Steinwender is their rhythm."

Coach Soner's gaze swept the room — sharp, unblinking.

"These three — Steffen, Engel, Steinwender — must be contained. Shut down their rhythm, and their shape collapses. But don't forget—football isn't three against eleven. It's eleven versus eleven. Threats come from everywhere. Remember that."

He tapped the clicker again. The screen lit up with footage — Kickers Emden pressing in transition, their fullbacks overlapping, their midfield closing gaps like jaws.

"Watch their spacing. Their buildup is structured but predictable. Exploit the moment they reset — that's when they're blind."

He turned, scanning every face in the room.

"Don't underestimate them. But don't worship them either. We're not here to bow. We're here to impose."

His gaze settled briefly on Julian.

"You've got the first strike, Ashford. Make it count. Press from the front. Don't chase shadows — dictate them. Make them feel your weight before they even find the ball."

Julian met his eyes, nodding once. No words needed.

The clips rolled, and Soner narrated each freeze-frame with surgical precision. Every misstep, every hesitation, every opening — underlined in red.

Julian leaned forward, eyes locked, memorizing every cue, every tell.

He caught Omar Silah glancing at him once — just a flick of the eyes, competitive and cold. Julian didn't return it.

He kept his focus on the screen, on the rotation patterns, on how to win before the whistle. Let Omar measure him; tomorrow, the pitch would answer.

When the final frame faded to black, Soner clicked the projector off.

"Alright," he said, voice steady but carrying a weight that filled the room. "That's all. You've got the plan. You've got the tools. Now give me the execution."

He straightened, hands behind his back.

"Go. Back to your rooms. Sleep well. Tomorrow—we win."

"Yes, sir! Yes, sir!" The team answered in unison, voices echoing through the hall.

The sound lingered even after they filed out — a rhythm of boots and belief.

Julian walked last, his reflection ghosting across the dark screen, the outline of a striker already halfway inside tomorrow.

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