The sun leaned toward the horizon, casting molten gold across the rooftops and windows of the quiet neighborhood. In his room, Leon Fischer stood in front of the mirror, slowly pulling his red training top down over his chest. The fabric clung to him with familiarity—this was the sa kit he'd worn all week—but today, it felt different.
He stared at himself.
This wasn't just another academy scrimmage.
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaled, and grabbed his cleats. Then he stepped out of his room, heart steady, nerves simring beneath the surface like a tightly coiled spring.
Downstairs, the warm scent of roasted chicken still lingered in the kitchen, untouched. His mother stood by the counter, watching him with that sa quiet pride she always wore on big days.
Leon paused at the door.
"Thanks for everything, Mom," he said softly. "I'm heading out now."
She crossed the kitchen in two steps and wrapped him in a firm embrace, planting a kiss on his forehead like she used to when he was a boy chasing butterflies, not dreams.
"Good luck, my dear," she whispered. "And rember… enjoy it."
He gave a small smile and nodded. "I will."
Then he was out the door, the cool evening air brushing against his face like a challenge. Down the sidewalk, Byon stood waiting in his kit, bouncing a ball off his foot, his usual easy grin already locked in place.
"Late again, superstar?" Byon called, waving.
Leon jogged up beside him, smirking. "I was warming up… ntally. Don't worry—we're not losing today."
"Confidence looks good on you," Byon laughed, tossing the ball to him.
They walked side by side, the road ahead lit by streaks of dying sunlight and the quiet hum of ambition. The academy gates lood in the distance, familiar and yet monuntal, as if they had grown taller overnight. They didn't speak much on the walk. They didn't need to. Each step echoed with shared purpose.
They arrived at the pitch at exactly 5:30 PM.
The turf was immaculate, its green blades swaying slightly in the breeze. Orange cones and mannequins from earlier drills had been cleared. The air slled like fresh grass, cold sweat, and adrenaline. The sky, now a blend of purple and fire-orange, hovered overhead like a stadium do.
Their teammates spotted them first.
"Here cos the dynamic duo!" Raphael called out, stretching near the goalpost.
Jas Roy gave them a nod. "Ready? We've got a special audience today."
Leon followed his gaze toward the small row of stands.
Three n, seated separately but with unmistakable presence, sat in the front row.
The man in blue—tall, lean, and observant—was from RB Leipzig.
The one in grey, clean-shaven and stern, represented Aston Villa.
The third, dressed in a pitch-black suit with dark-rimd glasses, watched with eagle-like focus. Crystal Palace.
Leon felt the mont press against him—like the drop before a roller coaster.
Byon leaned closer, voice low. "Now the pressure's real, huh?"
But Leon just grinned, his gaze locked forward. "This isn't pressure… it's the chance of a lifeti."
Coach blew his whistle.
"All right, lads. Warm-up starts now."
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