The morning light filtered through the large windows of the Devertary United training hall as the players gathered around.
Their coach, Harrison, stood before them with a calm but commanding presence. The air was tense yet curious,everyone had heard rumors about what had happened the previous night.
Harrison took a deep breath before speaking. "Last night, I met with representatives from our sponsors.
After several hours of discussion, we officially sealed a partnership with Anozira Corporation. They'll be our new sponsors moving forward."
A wave of murmurs rippled through the group, some filled with excitement, others with mild concern. Before Harrison could continue, Axel,his tone sharp and defensive,rose from his seat.
"So Shark's part of the Big Four now?" he snapped. "What about me, huh? Before he came along, it was my name the fans chanted on the pitch. I deserve to be there too!"
The room went silent. Then, from the corner, Rona crossed his arms and replied with a smirk, "That was then, Axel. Not now. Stop living in the past."
The players couldn't help but chuckle, their laughter echoing lightly in the room. Axel's face twisted with anger as he shot Rona a glare, pushing past his teammates and storming out.
Harrison raised his hand, calming the laughter. "Let him be," he said firmly. "Don't go after him."
He continued, his tone returning to professional. "Later today, we'll be filming a promotional video,both to introduce our new partnership with Anozira and to advertise their products. I expect every one of you to be there on time and ready."
After the meeting, Harrison walked through the quiet corridors until he reached Axel's room. The door was half open, the sound of muffled frustration inside.
"Axel," Harrison said as he entered, his voice steady. "You can do better. But right now,you're pathetic."
Axel turned sharply, his anger faltering under the coach's gaze.
"Shark isn't your rival," Harrison continued. "He's your partner. You both can shine together if you stop trying to outdo each other.
Remember,our formation is 4-4-2. Two strikers, not one. You're both vital to the system. So act like it."
He turned and left, leaving Axel deep in thought.
---
The mood in the Maraford mansion was heavy. Players sat in silence, the sting of their sponsorship loss still raw.
Lourenco, their coach, sat by the window, staring blankly at his phone when it suddenly lit up.
He glanced at it once, sighed, and ignored the call. But when it rang again, louder and more insistent, he groaned and answered, irritation clear in his voice.
Moments passed then his expression changed. The frown melted away, replaced by disbelief… and then joy. Within seconds, he was on his feet, laughing and shouting.
The players stared at him, confused.
"Coach?" Ramírez asked. "What's going on?"
Lourenco turned to them, grinning wide. "Boys our prayers have been answered! Collins Rutherford, the owner of Darvent Corporation, has bought Maraford! It's like we've swapped places with Devertary United. We're under new ownership!"
Cheers erupted through the mansion. Though Darvent wasn't as financially mighty as Anozira, its influence and prestige were undeniable. It meant hope,rebirth.
Moments later, a deep knock sounded from the mansion gates. The players rushed out to see a white limousine glide through the driveway, the bold letters DARVENT gleaming on its side.
The car door opened, revealing a middle-aged man with slick yellow hair, dressed immaculately in a white suit.
"Rutherford," Lourenco whispered in recognition.
The man turned to face them, his smile sharp. "That's right. Collins Rutherford. And you must be my new team,Maraford."
He looked them over with keen eyes. "Anozira dropped you because they thought you were finished,'shitholes,' they called you." His tone was biting but confident.
"But I don't believe in lost causes. I believe anyone can rise again… if they're given the chance to shine."
Collins Rutherford stood tall before the gathered players, the crisp document in his hand fluttering slightly in the morning breeze.
The club's crest gleamed at the top of the paper, proof of his complete ownership.
His expression was calm but firm, his tone carrying the authority of a man who tolerated no excuses.
"Now that this is official," Collins said, raising the paper slightly, "I expect every one of you to be ready.
Our next match is against Nixon Pool and I won't be welcoming any irrelevant loss. Not one."
A tense silence followed his words, the players exchanging uneasy glances. His eyes swept over them with quiet intensity before he turned and walked toward the edge of the pitch.
Moments later, the scene shifted to the Maraford training ground.
The sound of thudding boots and echoing whistles filled the air as the players drilled relentlessly under the watchful gaze of Collins Rutherford.
His arms were crossed, his sharp eyes following every movement, every pass, every sprint, every misstep.
He said nothing, but his presence alone carried weight. The players knew that under their new owner, mediocrity would no longer be tolerated.
Each movement on the field was now more than training; it was a test, a statement of who deserved to stay in Maraford's colors.
The afternoon sun hung low over the Maraford training ground, casting long shadows across the freshly cut grass.
The sound of quickened breaths and pounding boots filled the air as the players pushed through a small but intense training session.
Cones and hurdles lined the pitch a narrow obstacle course designed to test both speed and precision.
Marcel stepped forward, his eyes locked on the goal ahead. The moment the whistle blew, he burst into motion.
He tore through the first set of obstacles with lightning speed, his boots barely grazing the turf.
With every step, his balance and control were seamless a blend of power and grace.
He weaved between cones, leapt over the final hurdle, and charged straight into the penalty box.
Without hesitation, he struck. The ball curved sharply, brushing past the outstretched gloves of the keeper before slamming into the top corner of the net.
A brief silence followed, then cheers erupted from his teammates. Even Collins Rutherford, watching from the sidelines with his arms folded, allowed a faint nod of approval.
Marcel jogged back, sweat glistening down his face, his teammates patting his back in admiration.
The session continued, but one thing was clear Maraford's spirit was reigniting, one perfect strike at a time.