Midfield Maestro

The next day arrived with a bite in the morning air, and Takumi was already awake, stretching in his dorm room, his body aching from the intense training the day before. The clock on the wall read 5:00 AM. It felt like the world outside was still asleep, but not him—not today. Today was another test.

He was still thinking about the conversation with Saki yesterday. The unexpected kindness, the way she had made him feel... normal. It was a rare feeling here at Skyline FC Academy, where everyone was obsessed with becoming the best. Takumi pushed the thought aside as he finished his warm-up stretches. There was no time for distractions.

The dorm room was quiet except for the soft sounds of his own movements. He grabbed his bag, threw on his jacket, and made his way out into the cold morning air. The academy grounds were still, and the only sound was the faint rustle of leaves stirred by the wind. The air felt crisp against his skin as he walked toward the training pitch. The faint glow of the stadium lights illuminated the field in front of him, casting long shadows across the grass.

Takumi wasn't alone when he reached the field. Shinji was already there, stretching and looking as energized as ever despite the early hour.

"Yo, Usui!" Shinji called out with his usual grin. "You ready for some pain?"

Takumi chuckled lightly. "I'm ready. Let's just hope I survive it."

Shinji laughed and threw a playful punch at Takumi's shoulder. "Survive? Please. You're gonna crush it. I can already see the midfield maestro in you."

Takumi rolled his eyes but couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his lips. Shinji had been nothing but supportive since the moment they met. His unshakeable confidence was infectious, even if it sometimes bordered on overconfidence. Takumi found that he didn't mind it. If anything, it made him want to keep up.

"Alright, you two," a voice called out from across the pitch. It was Coach Sora, standing at the edge of the field, arms crossed and his piercing eyes scanning the players as they arrived. "Let's get started. The rest of the team should be here soon, so don't waste time chatting. We've got work to do."

Takumi's stomach tightened. Another day, another test. This time, it was a full squad session—11 v 11. They would be working on ball movement, possession, and—most importantly—decision-making under pressure. Takumi's heart began to race, his mind already cycling through everything he needed to do.

Coach Sora didn't mince words as he gathered everyone around. "I've seen what you're capable of individually, but now it's time to see what you can do as a team. The midfield is the engine of the team. If you don't control it, you don't control the game. Usui, Tanaka—you're starting today."

Takumi's stomach fluttered, but he nodded, keeping his face neutral. Shinji, ever the optimist, shot him a thumbs-up.

"Today's focus will be on quick transitions," Coach Sora continued, his voice cutting through the air. "When you lose the ball, you have five seconds to recover it. The quicker you press, the quicker you get possession back. If you're in midfield, you need to be constantly moving—forward, sideways, always looking for options."

Takumi's thoughts started to race. Quick transitions, pressing, recovering possession—these weren't just words. They were principles that had to be lived on the pitch. He couldn't afford to hesitate. He had to think faster, move quicker, make every touch count.

The team split up into their respective positions, and Takumi found himself standing in the middle of the pitch alongside Shinji, facing off against their opponents. The field stretched out before him, and despite the pressure, Takumi felt a thrill in his chest. This is where I belong, he thought. This is my chance.

The whistle blew, and the game began.

At first, Takumi struggled to get into the rhythm of the match. The ball was pinging around the field, fast and furious. Shinji was already on the attack, running at full speed with the ball, trying to create space for himself. Takumi moved off the ball, positioning himself to receive a pass, but the defenders were sharp, and there was little space to maneuver.

He found himself in a familiar situation: on the back foot, trying to react to what was happening around him. But something was different this time. The intensity was higher. The pace was faster. And Takumi realized that he was moving slower than he should be. The ball whizzed past him, and he barely managed to intercept a loose pass, his touch too heavy.

The opposing team's midfielder, a tall player with short-cropped hair named Hiroshi, intercepted it. Takumi tried to press immediately, but Hiroshi was already two steps ahead, passing the ball out wide. The counterattack began, and Takumi watched as the opponent's winger sprinted down the sideline.

"Press! Press now!" Coach Sora's voice rang out, harsh and demanding.

Takumi snapped into action, sprinting toward the winger. He reached him just as the player attempted a cross into the box. Takumi slid to intercept, his foot grazing the ball just enough to send it out for a corner.

"Not bad," Coach Sora said, but his voice lacked warmth. "But that was slow. You should have been on him the second he touched the ball. You're the one who needs to dictate the game, not react to it."

Takumi clenched his jaw, frustration simmering beneath the surface. He knew Coach was right. He had hesitated. He had reacted instead of taking control. That wasn't good enough.

The rest of the first half passed in a blur. Takumi struggled to assert himself, trying to force his movements and decisions into sync with the speed of the game. Every time he received the ball, he felt rushed. Every touch felt like it wasn't quite as sharp as it should be. And every time the opposition regained possession, Takumi felt like he was one step behind.

By the time the half-time whistle blew, Takumi was drenched in sweat, his legs burning. He jogged off the field, trying to steady his breathing, but the disappointment gnawed at him. I'm not ready. Not yet.

Coach Sora had them huddle in a tight circle at the edge of the pitch.

"Usui, Tanaka," he began, his gaze sharp. "You've both got potential. But potential means nothing unless you're willing to push yourselves. Usui, you're not commanding the midfield. You're moving too slowly. You're not dictating the tempo. You need to see the game faster."

Takumi swallowed, his throat dry. His heart was racing again, but this time it wasn't from the pressure of the game. It was from the weight of the coach's words. He's right. Takumi knew he wasn't performing to his best. He wasn't even close.

Shinji leaned over to him and whispered, "Don't let it get to you, Usui. We've still got the second half. You've got this."

Takumi nodded, but his mind was already elsewhere. See the game faster. That was the key. The players who succeeded weren't the ones who could simply play the game. They were the ones who understood it before it even happened. They could predict, create, and make the right decisions in the blink of an eye.

The second half kicked off, and Takumi immediately felt the pressure building again. This time, however, something inside him clicked. He was still nervous—still unsure of his every move—but he knew he had to push through. He couldn't afford to sit back anymore.

He made a conscious effort to move faster. Instead of waiting for the ball to come to him, he started seeking it out. He called for it, moved into space, and demanded it. When he got the ball, he didn't wait to figure out what to do—he moved the ball immediately, whether it was a quick pass or a switch of play. Every decision was faster, sharper, more instinctual.

And when it worked—when the ball flowed smoothly from one player to the next, when the team's movements began to sync up—Takumi felt a rush. It was working. He was finally in control.

In the 60th minute, after a particularly quick transition, Takumi found himself at the heart of a counterattack. Shinji had made a run down the left, drawing the defenders away from the middle. Takumi saw the space. He saw the triangle forming between him, Shinji, and the winger on the far side.

He made the pass. A quick, one-touch ball into space, right in Shinji's stride.

Shinji cut past the defender and took a shot. Goal. 1-0.

Takumi pumped his fist, his heart hammering. That was it. That was what he had been working for. The quick transition, the awareness of the space, the perfect execution. He was finally starting to see the game as he should.

The whistle blew a few minutes later, signaling the end of the session. The team gathered around, sweaty and exhausted, but there was a palpable sense of satisfaction in the air.

Coach Sora's eyes scanned the players, and this time, his gaze lingered on Takumi. "Better. Much better. But this is just the start. Keep working."

Takumi nodded, his chest swelling with a mix of relief and pride. For the first time in his short career at the academy, he felt like he was starting to understand what it truly meant to control the midfield.

As he walked off the field, Shinji slapped him on the back. "That pass was perfect, man. You've got it. You really do."

Takumi felt a wave of gratitude toward his friend. "Thanks. I couldn't have done it without you making that run."

Shinji grinned. "We've got this, Usui. Just keep pushing."

As they made their way to the locker room, Takumi couldn't help but smile to himself. Today, he had taken a small step forward. It wasn't perfect, but it was progress. And for the first time, he truly believed that he was on the path to greatness.