The cones were laid out tighter now. Two small goals at either end. The full pitch shrunk to a third of its size — tight, fast, intense.
Mr. Hadley clapped his hands. "Alright. This is where the real work starts. Smaller pitch means less time, less space, more decisions. I want tighter passes, faster transitions, and shots. Lots of shots."
The players gathered into a loose semi-circle, catching their breath.
"No long balls. No hiding. And if we lose the ball, everyone gets behind it — together. I don't care if you're a winger or a striker. If you give it away, you win it back."
He didn't call names, but his eyes settled squarely on Malik for a beat too long to be subtle.
Malik folded his arms and looked away.
"Malik, you're at right-side defence today," Hadley added. "Play out when there's space, sure — but your priority is shape. Discipline."
Malik blinked. "So I'm basically a right-back now?"
"You're a footballer. Start acting like one."
Malik looked like someone had told him his birthday was cancelled. But he said nothing.
Teams were chosen quickly. Harry was placed with Malik, Reece Mullen, Tommy Lake, and Alfie Kerr playing as a fly keeper — who looked unusually pale.
Liam captained the opposite side with Ethan Barlow, Nathan Stokes, Jordan Pike, and Lewis Palmer in goal — though the goals were barely big enough for a goalkeeper at all.
Mr. Hadley turned to Harry. "You're up front. Let's see what you can do."
The whistle blew.
And the game turned aggressive immediately.
Less than a minute in, Tommy played a short ball into Harry's feet just outside the box. Before he could take a first touch, Jordan Pike charged in — all muscle, all intent — and smashed into him shoulder-first.
Harry hit the deck hard.
All the air rushed from his lungs as the world tilted. He gasped like he was underwater, vision flashing white for a moment.
Jordan loomed overhead.
"Get up," he said, flatly. Then walked away.
No apology. No offer of a hand.
"Play on!" Mr. Hadley barked.
Harry rolled onto his side, heart pounding, trying to suck in air. For a moment, doubt crept in — thick and cold.
Was this how it was going to be?
But as the sting faded, something shifted. Not in his legs, but in his head.
He stopped looking at Jordan Pike as the bully who knocked him down.
And started studying him.
Jordan wasn't clever. He lunged too early. Bit on every feint. Overcommitted. He relied on power — not positioning. And he hated being dragged out wide.
So Harry adjusted.
He dropped deeper, pretending to drift — then popped into the pocket just before the pass came. He baited Jordan into pressing high, then spun off the shoulder. He stopped fighting back physically, and instead, out-thought him.
It started with a one-two.
Malik, still frowning in his new position, clipped a pass into Harry's feet. Harry nudged it back, darted around Ethan Barlow, and received the return pass in stride.
Jordan turned too slowly.
Harry feinted a shot. Lewis dove. The ball rolled in the other way.
1–0.
Mr. Hadley whistled sharply. "Beautiful. That's how you unpick a lock!"
Tommy clapped. Reece grinned. Even Alfie offered a tight-lipped smile.
Jordan stared at the turf.
Harry exhaled slowly, confidence blooming again.
The second goal came minutes later. Reece intercepted a poor pass, threaded it through midfield, and found Harry on the half-turn. One touch, drop of the shoulder, bang.
2–0.
The third came from teamwork.
Harry pulled Jordan left, opening space in the middle. Malik — who'd quietly started enjoying himself again — overlapped into the space and slipped the ball back inside.
Harry touched it once, then poked it through Lewis' legs.
3–0.
Jordan's fists were clenched. His cheeks flushed red. He glared across the pitch like the sun itself had betrayed him. For a second, Harry thought Jordan might swing at him — not in the game, but for real.
Mr. Hadley clocked it, and without missing a beat, blew his whistle. "Switch. Jordan — midfield. Liam, drop back."
It was tactical. But also preventive.
The moment Jordan moved out of defence, the danger of a tantrum passed — barely.
Now with Liam at centre-back, things shifted again.
No brute force. No reckless challenges. Just organisation. Intelligence. Anticipation.
The gaps Harry had danced through before vanished.
His next attempt to turn was snuffed out cleanly. The follow-up pass intercepted before it even reached him.
So he adapted again.
Shorter touches. Quicker lay-offs. Bounce passes into Tommy. Delayed runs. Letting Malik overlap and drag space for him to dart into.
It didn't result in more goals.
But it kept the rhythm alive.
And through it all, the team was watching.
Mr. Hadley watched. Writing. Smiling.
But so did the others.
Liam? Focused. Rising.
Malik? Frustrated at first — but focused. Almost enjoying the grind.
But then there was Alfie Kerr. His shoulders slumped. Late to the press. He misjudged a simple pass, let Liam ghost in behind, and only Reece scrambling back to block the shot spared him the embarrassment of a soft goal.
He muttered a thanks, but Reece didn't even reply — just jogged back, focused.
He looked like he was still trying to convince himself he belonged out there.
Malik's frustration finally burst. He stormed over to Alfie after a misplaced tackle left them exposed again, hands on hips and voice sharp enough to cut the cold air.
"Oi, Alf! This isn't a Sunday kickabout! Pull yourself together or get off the pitch!"
Alfie's face flushed deeper.
Malik threw his hands up in exasperation, eyes flashing. "I'm out here busting a gut in defence, and you're handing them chances like it's a charity!"
The group fell silent for a moment, watching Malik's outburst.
Then Malik's jaw tightened, and he muttered, "Soft lad's got nothing on me when I'm fuming."
He stormed back to his position, shoulders squared but simmering — the team's unofficial showman fully back in character.
Training had changed.
This wasn't just fun anymore.
It was competition.
A few were stepping up.
Others were slowly falling behind.