The sun was low, casting a honeyed glow over the North Training Ground as the boys lined up shoulder-to-shoulder. Their jerseys clung to them, drenched with sweat, the air around them heavy with the lingering scent of damp grass and effort. Boots scraped the turf. Chests rose and fell. Breath fogged in the late afternoon chill.
Coach Holloway stood in front of them, arms folded, a clipboard tucked under one elbow. He was a broad man, built like an old centre-back—thick shoulders, shaved head. The kind of coach who didn't need to shout to command attention. When Holloway spoke, the pitch listened.
He let the silence stretch long enough for every heartbeat to quicken.
Then—
"Listen up."
"We've got a match coming up. A big one."
No one moved, but a ripple of curiosity buzzed through the group. Even the normally cocky ones—Rafael Costa, all slick touches and smug grins—shifted slightly.
"It's not just any fixture," Holloway continued. "There'll be scouts watching. Real ones. Premier League. Championship. Big clubs with deep pockets and long mories."
Gasps. Eyes widened. One of the younger boys let out a soft, "No way…"
Leon's heart gave a single, asured thump. Then another. Slower than the others. He watched Holloway closely, the old instincts sharpening.
"This," the coach said, "is your mont. For so of you, it might be the only one you get."
Leon didn't blink.
He knew what that ant.
In the Championship, he'd watched teammates burn out before twenty. He'd seen academy hopefuls tear ligants at sixteen and never return. The ga didn't give second chances.
Except .
"Training starts tomorrow at 7 AM sharp," Holloway said. "You'll be evaluated every day. If you're not serious about this—don't waste my ti. Don't waste theirs." He nodded toward the assistant coaches lingering at the back.
"No excuses. No lateness. No nonsense. If you want it—prove it."
Byon, standing just to Leon's right, leaned in with wide eyes. "So… I could end up at Man City?"
Leon didn't answer. His gaze stayed fixed ahead.
The mont hung in the air.
Then Holloway turned, gave a sharp whistle, and the players broke formation. So cheered, others ran to get water. But Leon stayed rooted for a mont longer.
He felt it.
A once-in-a-lifeti chance… all over again.
Later, the sky dimd as Leon and Byon walked side by side through the quiet streets that curved around the academy grounds. Suburban London bathed in golden hues. Sparrows chirped in the trees, their songs mingling with the distant hum of traffic. The houses here were small but clean. Fences lined with ivy. The kind of neighborhood where kids could dream big without ever realizing how small the odds were.
Byon had slung his boots over his shoulder. He walked with a bounce in his step, grinning like a boy who'd just been handed a golden ticket.
"Man…" he exhaled, practically buzzing. "Imagine if I made it to Arsenal. Or even Crystal Palace. I'd take either. I just want a jersey with my na on the back, you know?"
Leon nodded slowly, eyes on the pavent. "What matters most is being physically ready and working on your weaknesses."
Byon stopped mid-step.
"…Huh?"
Leon blinked.
Byon squinted at him. "What are you on about?"
Leon realized a beat too late. That tone. That phrasing. That was Danein Blake speaking. Not Leon Fischer.
"Who are you," Byon asked, half-laughing, "and what have you done with the real Leon? You used to talk about cartoons and chocolate milk—not… 'working on your weaknesses'."
Leon's mouth opened. Then shut. Then pulled into an awkward smile.
"I an, we just gotta train hard," he said, forcing his voice higher, lighter, more ten-year-old. "So we can be super aweso!"
Byon burst out laughing, clapping him on the back. "Now that's more like it! You scared for a second, bro. Thought aliens had swapped you or sothing."
Leon smiled sheepishly, playing along, but inwardly—
He's not wrong.
There was a gap now. A subtle dissonance between who he looked like and who he was. He couldn't drop Championship-level talk into every conversation without drawing suspicion. This life was Leon's… and Danein's. He had to balance both.
"Anyway," Byon went on, animated as ever, "we need a celebration move."
Leon glanced at him. "What?"
"For when we score in the match! You assist , I bang it in top bins, and then we bust out sothing cool. Like a dance or—ooh! What about the 'Fusion Pose' from Dragon Ball?"
Leon blinked again. Then, despite himself, he laughed.
"A dance, huh?"
Byon did a quick twirl and nearly tripped over his own boots. "C'mon, you gotta have one! You can't just do a boring fist pump like Coach Holloway."
Leon smirked. "I'll think about it."
Byon grinned. "That's all I ask."
They kept walking. The street curved into a narrow path between hedges, where evening light spilled through in warm gold. It was quiet now. Just footsteps and the chirp of birds overhead.
Leon glanced upward.
The clouds were gone. The sky was open and deep, tinged in orange and lavender. He thought about what Holloway said. One chance. He'd had his. Lost it.
And sohow…
He was back at the starting line.
A ten-year-old with a thirty-year-old soul.
But this ti, the path ahead wasn't blocked by age or injury. This ti, the climb was ahead of him, not behind.
The road to glory was long.
But it started again tomorrow.
At 7 AM.
Reviews
All reviews (0)