Fweeee!

The whistle blew.

Perring didn’t sprint. He started at a measured trot, the ball moving in short, rhythmic taps. He let Jonny Dacres commit first.

Dacres, eager to prove himself against the new ’big-money’ signing, lunged in for an early interception. Perring didn’t even change his pace. He simply let the ball roll, stepping around the defender and using Dacres’ own momentum to glide past. It was so effortless it looked like a dance.

Mbete-Sekou was next. He was smarter. He stayed patient, keeping his knees bent and his eyes on Perring’s hips, not the ball. He didn’t dive in.

Perring adjusted his stance. He performed a quick series of feints, left, right, left, so fast the eyes struggled to follow. Then, a sudden burst of acceleration. It was a change of gears that caught Mbete-Sekou off-guard. By the time the defender turned, Perring was already two yards clear.

Now, it was Toby Kuipers.

The two locked eyes. Kuipers was one of the most physical defenders in the squad, and he had a knowing smirk on his face. He wanted to welcome the newcomer to Northcastle with a heavy shoulder.

Perring hesitated for just a second, a stutter-step that looked like a mistake. Kuipers saw his chance and stepped in aggressively, looking to shut down the lane.

But Perring was ready. It had been a trap. A delicate drag-back with the sole of his boot, a quick pivot, and suddenly, Kuipers was off-balance, his legs tangling as he tried to adjust.

He staggered awkwardly, nearly hitting the turf. Perring burst forward, his foot slicing under the ball, lifting it in a delicate arc just over Kuipers’ outstretched leg.

One-on-one with Booth.

There was no hesitation. Perring didn’t look at the goal; he knew where it was. He opened his body and hit a curling effort toward the far top corner.

Booth stretched, his body fully extended, his fingertips actually grazing the leather of the ball. But the power and the spin were too much. The ball bypassed his hand and rippled the top corner of the net.

A collective hum of approval went up from the sidelines.

"Smooth as ever from Perring," Teddy murmured to Maddox. "He didn’t force it. He just let the game open up for him. That’s top-tier vision, Eric. He sees the space before it exists."

Maddox nodded. "He’s the glue. Whittaker and Navarro are the blades, but Perring is the hand that swings them. If we can keep him fit for Spain, we have a chance."

Noah Perring jogged back toward the center circle, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and caught Toby Kuipers’ eye.

The defender was still recovering his stance after being turned, and Noah offered a small, knowing smirk. It wasn’t a gesture of arrogance, but of shared competitive fire. Kuipers just shook his head, a grin tugging at his mouth as he prepared for the next rotation.

"Don’t get too comfortable, blonde," Kuipers called out. "The grass is still slippery."

Noah didn’t reply, his focus already shifting to the next man up.

Harvey Quinlan stepped into the starting zone. He looked at the defensive line waiting for him: Kaiden Shaw, Noah Mbete-Sekou, and Finnley Mayers.

Quinlan wasn’t the fastest player in the squad, nor was he the most physically imposing, but his brain worked at a different speed. He took his first touch with the outside of his boot, moving toward Kaiden Shaw.

As Shaw stepped up to close the gap, Quinlan used a series of precise, delicate touches. He moved the ball just inches at a time, keeping it perfectly shielded.

He feinted a pass to the left, and when Shaw hesitated, Quinlan flicked the ball through the defender’s legs. It was a clean nutmeg that drew a sharp "Ooh!" from the players watching on the sidelines.

Quinlan moved onto Noah Mbete-Sekou. The center-back was massive, a wall of muscle and reach. Quinlan didn’t try to outrun him. He used a body swerve, dropping his shoulder to the right while dragging the ball back with his left.

Mbete-Sekou bit on the fake, shifting his weight. Quinlan spun away, finding the pocket of space behind the defender.

But Finnley Mayers was waiting at the edge of the box. Mayers didn’t get distracted by Quinlan’s footwork. He stayed low, his eyes locked on the ball rather than the attacker’s eyes.

As Quinlan prepared to shift the ball for a shot, Mayers timed his move perfectly. He lunged with a strong, clean sliding tackle, his studs connecting firmly with the ball and poking it away into the safety of the touchline.

"Excellent defending from Mayers!" Teddy Johnson shouted, clapping his hands. "That’s how you stay disciplined. No unnecessary lunges, just good positioning. That’s top-class, Finnley!"

Quinlan picked himself up, nodding in respect. He knew he’d been beaten by a better defensive read.

Next up was Ollie Pritchard. If Quinlan was a surgeon, Pritchard was a hurricane. He didn’t wait for the defenders to set. The moment the whistle blew, he knocked the ball ten yards ahead of himself. It was a bold move, a challenge to anyone to catch him.

Noah Mbete-Sekou and Kaiden Shaw both tried to converge on the ball, but Pritchard was already there. His acceleration was frightening.

He reached the ball before Shaw could plant his feet and used a sharp, jagged cut to bypass Mbete-Sekou. The big defender reached out a hand, but he was grabbing at shadows.

Pritchard bore down on Finnley Mayers. The defender tried to repeat his success from the previous round, staying deep and patient. But Pritchard didn’t give him time to think.

He feigned a sprint to the right, then dropped his shoulder hard to the left. The sheer speed of the movement forced Mayers to turn his hips too quickly. Pritchard burst past him, the grass kicking up behind his heels.

He was one-on-one with Freddie Booth. The keeper came out to narrow the angle, but Pritchard didn’t hesitate. He struck the ball with pure confidence, a low drive that sizzled across the turf and tucked into the bottom corner.

"No chance stopping that one," an assistant coach remarked to David Frank. "Once Pritchard gets up to speed, it’s almost impossible to catch him. He’s a different animal when he sees the goal."