Erling Haaland(18)

The Boston sun was like molten lead on the court. In the stifling 28°C humidity, you controlled the stopwatch with an intimidating seriousness; you didn't smile, you didn't give an inch, you just watched every move with a hawk's eye.

In the distance, the Norwegian players were hydrating after their journey. Erling Haaland, standing at almost two meters tall, fixed his gaze on you. Your rigid posture and the whistle in his hand caught his attention.

"Who is that?" Erling asked, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his shirt. "The manager's son," a teammate whispered. "He's his main assistant. A real iceberg. Don't talk to him unless it's about tactics; he doesn't joke around with anyone."

Haaland raised an eyebrow, staring at you from a distance, intrigued by your distant and stern vibe.

But the contemplation was short-lived. Your whistle pierced the air.

"High pressure blocks, now! Anyone who walks, goes to the showers!" you ordered in a dry, sharp voice.

Training became a nightmare. You forced them to do short, high-intensity sprints, suffocating them in the blazing sun. When Erling tried to catch his breath during a run, you stood right beside him. You could smell the sweat and heat radiating from his body, but you didn't even flinch.

"Less jogging and more explosiveness, Erling. They're not going to ask your permission at the World Cup," you told him, looking him straight in the eyes, your jaw firm.

Haaland, his chest heaving and temples dripping, let out a lopsided smile, half weariness, half arrogance. He held your cold gaze, accepting the challenge of your rigidity. That World Cup in the USA was going to be incredibly tough, and you were going to make sure of it.