The euphoria of the victory over Blue Lightning still hovered over the court, sweet and electric. The Gentle Tigers barely had time to savor it. The pace of the interclass tournament was relentless. As they drank water and tried to catch their breath, the coach, with his megaphone and clipboard of destiny, was already announcing the next match.
"Attention, everyone! The last game of the second round to seal the round of 16 spots! Gentle Tigers versus... the Asphalt Dragons!"
If the names of opponents had once sparked fear, now the reaction was different. A look of recognition passed between the Tigers' players. The Asphalt Dragons. Their reputation preceded them, but not for being strong. They were known for their extravagant uniforms—green and gold—which were far more impressive than their actual futsal skills. They were considered the third weakest team in the tournament, a title that the Tigers themselves had once proudly held.
"Asphalt Dragons?" said Piter, trying to contain a grin. "I saw their game earlier. Their goalkeeper is afraid of the ball. And the striker tripped over himself like three times."
"That's dangerous," said Elismar, his voice serious, cutting through the wave of overconfidence.
"Dangerous?" asked Ryan, confused. "But they suck!"
"Exactly," Elismar continued, gathering the team. "That's what makes it dangerous. We just beat last year's second-best team. We're feeling invincible. And that's when you lose. You go in thinking you've already won, let your guard down, and they score. Then panic kicks in. Today, we're not giving chance to bad luck. We respect them like we respected the Concrete Dogs. We go in focused, kill the game early, then manage the lead. No showing off, no arrogance. Got it?"
The team nodded, their captain's seriousness pulling them back to reality. Clara, listening nearby, smiled with pride. He was no longer just a motivated player; he was becoming a true leader.
"That's right, captain," said Markin. "No game is won before the final whistle. Let's go all in."
They stepped onto the court. The Asphalt Dragons were already there, and their uniform really was a masterpiece of exaggeration. They looked more like samba dancers than a futsal team. And on their faces, a palpable fear. Facing the team that had just humiliated Blue Lightning wasn't in their plans.
The whistle blew, and the confidence gap was a chasm.
The Tigers started with possession, passing with the calmness of veterans. The Dragons chased the ball around clumsily, like a swarm of confused bees.
In the first minute, the first chance. Elismar moved forward through the middle and spotted Lester open on the wing. The pass was sharp. Lester controlled it and, instead of crossing, remembered the opponent goalkeeper's fear. He shot. It wasn't a strong kick, but it went to the corner. The Dragons' goalkeeper, instead of diving, hopped sideways and shrunk his arms like the ball was a venomous animal.
GOOOOOAL! 1–0 GENTLE TIGERS!
The goal was so easy the Tigers didn't even celebrate with excitement. They just regrouped at midcourt, exchanged nods, and returned to position. Pure professionalism.
The Dragons got even more nervous. On the kickoff, their defender tried a long pass. Piter, well-positioned, intercepted with his chest. He adjusted the ball and, without giving the defense a chance to recover, fired a rocket with his right foot. The shot was straight at the goal, but so powerful the goalkeeper, trying to save it, ended up palming the ball into his own net.
GOOOOOAL! 2–0!
"My bad, guys!" the goalkeeper shouted, looking at his own hands as if they weren't his.
"It's okay, China! It happens!" one of his teammates replied—without much conviction.
The match turned into an attack-vs-defense training session. The Dragons could barely cross midfield. And when they did, Elismar was there to shut it down with unsettling ease.
The third goal was a team play, a dance. Elismar passed to Ryan, who returned it first-touch. Elismar opened it to Lester on the wing. Lester faked a cross and rolled it back to Piter. Piter made a dummy move. The ball went through his legs and met Elismar, who had cut inside the box. He received, turned, and placed it in the far corner. A textbook goal.
GOOOOOAL! 3–0!
"What is this, guys? Barcelona?" someone shouted from the stands, drawing laughter.
By halftime, that was the score. Clara approached the team. "I'm proud of you. Not for the score, but for the respect you're showing. Keep it up."
The second half was a chance for the Tigers to test plays and, mostly, for Markin not to have a heart attack. The Dragons got a single shot on goal, a weak, muffled ball that Markin saved with a yawn.
The fourth goal came from Ryan's sheer determination. He stole the ball on defense, sprinted the entire court, ran out of breath, but still managed to shoot. The goalkeeper saved it, but the rebound went straight back to Ryan, who, collapsing from exhaustion, managed to tap it into the net.
GOOOOOAL! 4–0! THE EFFORT GOAL!
His teammates helped him up, praising his drive.
The fifth and final goal sealed the coffin with a golden key. The ball landed at Lester's feet at the top of the box. He had time. He could've stopped, thought, passed. But he looked at the goal, took a deep breath, and remembered all the "girl kicks" he'd been teased for. He unleashed a shot. It wasn't a missile, but it flew straight, hard, and into the top corner. The goalkeeper didn't even move. A screamer. Lester's redemption.
GOOOOOAL! 5–0!
Lester ran to midcourt, finger raised, face glowing with a joy he had long buried.
The final whistle was a relief for the Asphalt Dragons. The Gentle Tigers shook hands respectfully, without mocking. They had done their job.
With two convincing wins, they were officially qualified for the round of 16. The journey continued. And with every step, they seemed stronger, more united, more ready. They were no longer a surprise. They were a real threat. And the rest of the interclass was finally paying attention.