The crowd was louder than Felix expected.
Not massive—this wasn't a professional stadium—but loud enough to feel alive. Shouts echoed from the sidelines, shoes scraped against dry grass, and the referee's whistle cut sharply through the air every few minutes. The noise didn't come from sheer numbers; it came from history. From memory. From rivalry.
City X High School had only two real competitors across the city—and even in nearby cities. In sports, it was the Elite Lions of City Z. In academics, St. Francis High School of City Y.
But the rivalry with the Elite Lions ran deeper.
Far deeper.
Almost every major sports competition ended the same way—City X versus Elite Lions. Finals. Semi-finals. Deciders. Wins traded back and forth, grudges quietly built over years. It wasn't just about winning anymore. It was about pride.
Felix stood near the edge of the field, eyes following the ball as it moved rapidly from one end to the other. Dust rose with every sprint and slide, clinging to socks and shoes. He folded his arms loosely, posture relaxed, but his focus was sharp.
From the opening whistle, it was clear this wouldn't be easy.
Elite Lions pressed hard. Their midfield stayed compact, denying space, cutting off passing lanes before they could fully open. City X's players struggled to settle into a rhythm, misplacing a few early passes, forced to retreat under pressure.
Felix watched Nikhil closely.
Nikhil didn't rush. Didn't overcommit. He adjusted—dropping back slightly, gesturing for calmer buildup. Felix recognized that look. It wasn't frustration. It was calculation.
Then the breakthrough came.
Nikhil intercepted a loose pass near the center line and pushed forward with speed. Two defenders closed in fast, but he didn't slow. He took the shot himself.
Clang.
The ball struck the post and bounced out.
A collective groan rippled through the crowd.
Felix let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
But the pressure didn't fade.
Ten minutes in, Nikhil made his move again—this time drawing defenders toward him before slipping a clean pass wide. The winger sprinted forward, crossed low, and the striker finished without hesitation.
1–0.
Felix exhaled slowly, shoulders easing.
The lead didn't last long.
Elite Lions responded aggressively, exploiting a brief lapse in City X's defense. A rushed clearance, a mistimed tackle—and suddenly the ball was racing into the net.
1–1.
The match tightened after that.
Voices grew louder. Instructions were shouted constantly. Tackles came harder, bodies colliding with dull thuds. Sweat soaked jerseys early, clinging uncomfortably.
Nikhil stayed vocal—clapping his hands, calling for movement, urging his teammates to reset. Felix could see the shift clearly: instead of charging forward blindly, Nikhil pulled back slightly, anchoring the midfield, controlling tempo.
Just before halftime, he found space again.
A quick one-two pass.
A sudden burst forward.
This time, he didn't hesitate.
The shot curved cleanly, arcing just beyond the goalkeeper's reach.
2–1.
The whistle blew.
Felix smiled, clapping softly, the tension easing from his chest.
Halftime arrived with heavy breathing on both sides. Players bent over, hands on knees, gulping air. Coaches shouted instructions over the noise, pointing, correcting, demanding more.
The second whistle sounded.
The second half opened rougher.
Elite Lions equalized again within minutes—an aerial ball, a missed mark, a moment's hesitation punished immediately.
2–2.
For the first time, Felix saw tension flash across Nikhil's face.
Not panic.
Focus.
Nikhil wiped sweat from his eyes, nodded once to his teammates, and reset.
The next goal came from sheer persistence.
Nikhil pressed high, refusing to let the defense breathe. He forced a mistake, stole possession, and capitalized before Elite Lions could recover.
3–2.
Cheers erupted from the sidelines, sharp and loud.
But Elite Lions refused to fold.
A defensive slip. A late challenge. A moment of chaos.
3–3.
The match had turned into a test of endurance.
Players slowed. Legs dragged. Every sprint cost more than before. Felix leaned forward unconsciously, fully invested now, eyes locked onto the field.
With fifteen minutes left, Nikhil made his mark again.
A long ball dropped just outside the box. He controlled it cleanly, shifted past one defender, and struck low and hard.
Goal.
4–3.
Felix felt his pulse spike.
The final goal came late—another fast break, another moment of awareness. Nikhil drew attention to himself once more, pulling defenders away before laying off the ball for an open finish.
5–3.
When the final whistle blew at 11:00 a.m., the field erupted—not with relief, but with earned celebration.
Nikhil jogged toward the sidelines, chest rising rapidly, sweat dripping from his jaw. His jersey clung to him, dust streaked across his legs.
Felix stepped forward instinctively.
"That didn't look easy," Felix said.
Nikhil laughed breathlessly. "It wasn't."
"You scored three," Felix added.
Nikhil grinned wider. "Your brother is a pro in football."
Teammates gathered around them—some collapsing onto the grass, others arguing loudly about missed chances that no longer mattered. A few glanced at Felix curiously, recognizing him as the guy Nikhil was always with.
A few minutes later, Nikhil pulled out his phone.
"Party on me," he announced.
Felix raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"It's Saturday," Nikhil said. "Half-day. And we beat the Elite Lions. We deserve it."
BUZZ BUZZ.
Felix's phone buzzed.
Dev.
"Where are you?" Dev asked.
"Football ground," Felix replied. "You missed a show."
Dev sighed. "I know. It's already on his post. I had to go with my dad for work."
"Figured," Felix said.
"I'll make up for it," Dev continued. "I'll come to your house tomorrow. Don't escape."
Felix smiled. "Wouldn't dare."
"Good. And tell Nikhil not to get too full of himself."
Felix glanced toward Nikhil, who was reenacting his goal with exaggerated gestures for two teammates.
"Too late," Felix said dryly.
Dev laughed. "See you tomorrow."
The call ended.
Lunch was loud.
Plates clattered. Chairs scraped. Teammates teased each other mercilessly. Someone tried to steal fries and nearly started a mock fight. Felix sat slightly aside, listening more than speaking.
Nikhil was at the center of it all—laughing, retelling moments from the match, brushing off praise with easy confidence.
By the time they stepped outside, it was nearing 1:00 p.m.
"So," Nikhil said, stretching his arms, "home?"
Felix nodded. "Yeah."
"Bike or walk?"
Felix snorted. "You're asking that after buying a sports bike?"
"Fair point."
They rode through the city, heat pressing down, wind rushing past. As they reached Felix's street, Nikhil slowed and stopped in front of his house.
Felix stepped down from the bike.