The pitch didn't look great.
Dry patches everywhere, lines faded to ghost trails, and one of the goals was slanting forward like it had given up holding itself up. The kind of place where you played not because it was good, but because there wasn't anywhere better.
Kairo zipped up his jacket, following Rell toward the group already forming near the centre circle. A few boys were kicking stray balls around. Others just stood with their hands in their pockets, staring blankly like they hadn't woken up yet. The wind cut through the open field, cold enough to sting his fingers even through the sleeves.
Coach Denton stood near the halfway line with his arms crossed and his whistle hanging off one lip, chewing it like gum. Clipboard in one hand, stopwatch in the other. The usual look of a man who didn't care what excuses anyone brought—just results.
Two sharp blasts of the whistle echoed across the field.
"Let's go! Line up!" he called. "Proper eleven-a-side today. No jogging around cones. And heads up—we've got seniors joining in."
That was enough to shift the mood.
Nobody groaned, but a few heads turned. The energy changed. Older boys meant more eyes on you—and more ways to get embarrassed. Everyone knew the senior team was sharper, faster, stronger. Most of them played district-level. A couple had agents sniffing around already.
Kairo spotted Marcus stepping onto the pitch, arms folded, jaw tight. Didn't look at anyone. He wasn't here to be friendly.
Coach pointed out bibs.
"Red team—you're the underclass squad."
Rell caught his and let out a quiet sigh. "So we're the sparring partners."
Kairo gave him a crooked grin. "Just try not to collapse in midfield."
They scattered across the pitch. Kairo ended up on the right wing. Rell slotted into the centre. Joel, shaky as ever, was stuck in goal. The rest of the positions filled themselves out. Nobody was arguing over who got what. They all knew how this was going to play out.
The whistle blew.
And the gap was obvious from the first minute.
The senior team moved like a machine. Sharp passing, quick turns, no wasted movement. Every touch had purpose. They didn't talk much. They didn't need to.
On the underclass side, it felt like everyone was half a second behind. Kairo barely got a sniff of the ball in the first ten minutes. Any time someone tried to dribble, it was gone in a flash. They were chasing shadows, lungs already working harder than they should've been.
Two goals slipped in before they even found their shape. One from a low cross, another from a cheeky chip over Joel who was still trying to figure out his angles. The seniors didn't celebrate. No flexing, no banter. Just calm, clinical football. It almost made it worse.
But the thing about playing against people better than you—it only takes one mistake for a chance to open up.
Fifteen minutes in, the ball got pinged loose in midfield. A lazy clearance, probably meant to go out wide, got intercepted by Rell. He didn't overthink it—just redirected it over the top.
It wasn't perfect. It hung for a second. Enough time for someone to react.
Kairo reacted.
He broke into a sprint without hesitating, legs moving before his brain had even caught up. The ball bounced once, and he cushioned it with his left foot, tapping it forward into space. A defender rushed him, but he didn't try anything flashy. Just leaned into the run, dropped his shoulder, and shifted right. Clean movement. Almost instinctual.
He hit the edge of the box and fired a low cross straight through the gap between two defenders. Fast, tight, dangerous.
Daniel was there.
One step. Side-footed it home without breaking stride.
Bottom corner.
Coach Denton let out a sharp whistle from the sideline. "That's how you break a line! Good football!"
Kairo let himself breathe again. No smile. No celebration. Just nodded to Daniel and jogged back.
It was still 2–1, and everyone knew they weren't about to win this, but a goal like that—against that team—mattered. Not because it changed the scoreline, but because it reminded you the gap wasn't impossible.
From there, the match slipped back into pattern. The seniors didn't panic. They tightened up, started pressing harder. A few more goals followed. Clean finishes. One was practically walked into the net. By the end, it was 5–1.
Coach gathered them near the touchline after the final whistle. Clipboard tucked under his arm, voice firm but not angry.
"Could've been worse," he said, which was basically a compliment in Denton-speak. "Some of you looked like you were just watching. But a few of you actually played."
His eyes moved across the group, pausing slightly on Kairo.
"That goal didn't happen by accident. That's what I want—movement, timing, no hesitation."
No one said anything, but the glances came anyway. Not cold—just curious. People noticed moments like that, even if they didn't talk about them.
Coach moved on quickly. "Interschool season starts in three weeks. That means real matches. Trials are unofficial—this is it. You show up sharp in training, you get picked. You play like passengers, you stay on the bench."
That landed heavy.
Three weeks wasn't much time.
They broke off soon after, collecting bottles and walking toward the changing room without much talk. Everyone looked tired, but it wasn't the running—it was the realisation that you either belonged here or you didn't.
Back in the locker room, they showered fast. Kairo didn't linger. Once he'd dried off and thrown on his hoodie, he gave Rell a nod and stepped outside.
The cold had deepened, and the sun was already slipping behind the rooftops. That late-afternoon glow washed the buildings gold, but the air had a bite to it.
"You walking?" Rell asked as he caught up.
"Yeah."
"I'm cutting through behind Keso's. Mum needs stuff."
"Alright. Later."
They parted at the bend. No fuss. Just the usual quiet split.
Kairo's walk took him past the old garage with the broken gate, then the row of half-boarded shops with peeling posters still clinging to their windows. The street was mostly empty now—people either inside or gone. Not quiet in a peaceful way. More like a city exhale. No traffic. No chatter. Just the wind brushing leaves across the concrete.
He turned onto a smaller road near the scrapyard, where the pavement dipped and the streetlamp flickered on too early.
That's where he saw them.
Five guys posted up against a graffitied wall. Hoodies on. One messing with a speaker, the bass low and muddy. Another exhaling a cloud of smoke that didn't smell like anything you'd get in a shop. No schoolbags. No uniforms.
They weren't there for the view.
Didn't move when they saw him. Didn't say anything either. Just watched.
Kairo didn't need to guess. Lesser gang.
Not one of the proper crews with names and numbers—just a loose group of dropouts and hangers-on. Guys who hung out because they had nowhere else to be. Not serious enough to be feared. But still the kind who could ruin your day if they were bored enough.
He kept walking.
Not fast. Not slow. Just steady, like there was nothing to notice.
Didn't make eye contact. Didn't fidget.
He stepped a bit wide, giving them room without making it obvious. Passed by without breaking pace.
Nothing happened.
But he felt it—the silence. Not dangerous, not loud, but tight. The kind that told you it could've gone another way if the wind had shifted.
He didn't look back.
Just kept walking.