Code 9.1 – Composure Under Fire
The rain had dried, but the pitch was slick.
The second half kicked off with a dull thud of the ball, and everything that followed felt louder than it should have.
Every breath.
Every boot scrape.
Every heartbeat in Kyrie's ears.
Clausten hadn't folded. Not yet. They were still in it. And they were angry.
Not angry like fire.
Angry like knives.
The tempo changed immediately.
Clausten stopped faking. They started cutting.
Within minutes, Evan took a shove to the ribs that left him breathless. No whistle.
Then a late slide took Quinn's ankle—blatant. The ref reached for a card.
But didn't pull it.
Just wagged his finger.
"Get up. Play on."
Coach Dominguez cursed under his breath.
On the sideline, Kyrie felt it—that familiar pressure behind the eyes. The part of him that wanted to calculate. Adjust. Fix.
But this wasn't numbers.
This was rot.
Clausten didn't need skill. They needed time. They wanted Westlake to break themselves from the inside out.
Then came the trigger.
A Clausten midfielder—#17—body-checked Jordan mid-transition. Ball gone. Chest-to-chest.
And Jordan snapped.
"You blind, ref?! That's obstruction!"
The ref motioned him back. "Play on."
But #17 leaned in close.
Said something low. Just for Jordan.
Kyrie couldn't hear it, but he saw the shift in Jordan's shoulders.
He saw the fists clench.
Jordan shoved him.
Whistle. Yellow card.
Kyrie jogged over, voice calm, low, surgical.
"Don't."
Jordan turned, jaw tight. "Don't what? Let them steamroll us?"
"They're not steamrolling. You are."
Jordan's eyes flashed. "Easy for you to say when you've got everyone orbiting around your damn system."
"This isn't about me."
Jordan laughed once, sharp. "That's a lie, and you know it."
Kyrie didn't blink.
"You used to lead this team," he said.
"You were the name on the sheet. The one Coach trusted. You want that back?"
Jordan said nothing.
"Then act like it."
And Kyrie walked away.
But inside?
He wasn't calm.
Inside, Kyrie's system trembled.
Because Jordan wasn't just cracking—he was collapsing.
Minutes passed.
Clausten adjusted again. Dropped a man deeper. Played long.
The match turned ugly. Not cinematic—real. Players gasping, tackles slipping, momentum fraying.
Westlake held a thin line.
Kyrie dropped deeper to stabilize. Ren absorbed pressure, repositioned constantly.
But Jordan?
Hesitated.
Twice.
Once on a pressing trap.
Once on a release cue.
And the second time—it cost them.
A pass Kyrie threaded perfectly through midfield met empty space.
Jordan had been too slow to move.
Too bitter to trust.
The counter came fast.
Clausten sent it long—over Taylor's head. Their striker latched on, burned down the left.
One touch. Two.
Shot.
Crest saved it.
Barely.
But the warning was clear.
They wouldn't survive many more of those.
Dominguez didn't hesitate.
"Jordan! Out!"
He subbed in Miles—quieter, cleaner, more precise.
Jordan jogged off slow, chest rising fast, not from exertion—from rage.
He sat on the bench like he wanted to punch through the world.
But said nothing.
And Kyrie?
Didn't look.
Not out of disrespect.
Out of necessity.
Five minutes left.
Everything slowed.
Every touch mattered.
Every pass felt like a breath drawn under water.
Clausten pushed high—frantic, overreaching.
Kyrie waited.
Watched.
Baited.
Then it came.
He drew two midfielders in with a pivot feint. Slipped the ball behind them without looking.
Ren saw it.
Took one touch forward, then sent it wide.
Dante—ghosting into the box—met it without hesitation.
Strike. Net. Game.
2–0.
No roar. No explosion.
Just a cold, clean kill.
The final whistle sounded like the closing of a metal door.
Clausten slumped. A team who had fought with rust and teeth and chaos—beaten by silence.
Westlake didn't celebrate.
They breathed.
Post-Match Locker Room
It was quiet.
Then Taylor muttered, "Ugly win."
Coach nodded. "Sometimes that's the only kind."
He looked at Kyrie.
"You saw it before it happened."
Kyrie didn't answer. He just looked at Jordan.
Still sitting in silence.
Still seething.
Coach followed his gaze.
"That's your next play," he said quietly. "Not the field."
Later – Bus Ride
The road hummed beneath them.
Kyrie sat in his usual seat, notebook in lap. Pen uncapped.
He stared at the blank page.
Then wrote:
Code 9.1 – Composure Under Fire
Clausten = Cracked
Jordan = Desync Risk (Status: Critical)
Desync": Tactical disconnect between Kyrie and a teammate
Problem: Not performance. Personality.
System strain: Interpersonal integrity.
Proposed Solution: Unknown.
He tapped the pen once against the page.
Then drew a line through it.
And rewrote:
No system survives ego.
Not even mine.