The morning sun in Barcelona rose on a squad battered but unbowed. Ajax U-23 filed into breakfast with the haunted look of survivors. Muscles ached, bruises bloomed, and yet a dangerous fire lingered in their eyes.
Femi Adeleye moved stiffly to the window seat, every joint a protest. But he wasn't thinking about his pain. He was thinking about Lagos streets, about all the kids back home chasing impossible dreams. About how close Ajax had come to falling.
Liam Janssen slid in beside him, rib bandages peeking above his shirt collar. His face was pale but the grin was stubborn. "Still upright," he croaked.
Josip Van der Berg limped in next, his ankle bound, refusing a chair. "If I sit, I might stay down."
Souleymane Traoré trailed behind, moving quietly as always. Bakker intercepted him at the buffet. "Big goal, kid. Don't forget who won us that match."
A rare, genuine grin from Souleymane. "I won't."
By midday, the hotel media lounge hummed as final group standings splashed across the screens. The room tensed.
Group A:
Arsenal took the top spot. Kai Sterling's grin dominated the highlight reel after another ruthless display.
Real Madrid edged through in second.
Femi's stomach turned when Madrid's squad list appeared, one name catching him: Elias Rikken. The ghost of last year's final. The boy with the deadly touch. Now dressed in white.
Liam spotted it too. "Is that…?"
"Yeah," Femi muttered. "It's him."
Group B and D flickered past. The crowd barely noticed.
Then came the tweet.
Kai Sterling's post appeared on screen: "Some teams survive by luck. That luck won't last."
Liam scoffed. "He's rattled."
Femi said nothing, but his fingers twitched.
At the Camp Nou media suite, a hush fell over the room. The EFF official took the stage.
The balls were drawn. Names called.
Ajax.
Then—Arsenal.
Kai smirked, adjusting the crown pendant at his neck. A tiny tremor in his hand betrayed something else: fear.
Femi caught it.
The draw continued. Real Madrid landed in their bracket. Elias Rikken's calm stare barely wavered.
Barcelona drew to the opposite side.
In a corner booth, Maximilian Vogel swirled his glass. Brandt slumped beside him.
Brandt grumbled. "Let's leave this circus."
Vogel's gaze lingered on Femi. "We stay."
"Why?"
Vogel traced the rim of his glass. "To see how far he'll go."
A slow, reluctant nod from Brandt.
The squad returned to drills under the fading sun. Recovery runs, light ball work. Dekker drilled silently, his missed clearance from the Juventus match still gnawing at him.
Liam's breath hitched mid-sprint. His side ached but he pushed on.
Josip barked instructions, his ankle taped but his mouth sharp.
Femi paired with Souleymane on overlaps. The silence broke when Souleymane spoke.
"Back home, I was never enough. My brother's the star. National team. Scored in a final. I'm just 'the other Traoré.'"
Femi met his eyes. "I know what that feels like."
Souleymane smirked. "Maybe tomorrow, they remember us."
"Maybe."
Later, Femi leaned against the terrace rail, city lights sprawling below.
His phone buzzed.
See you in the quarters. No flukes this time. — Kai
Femi exhaled slowly, memories rising: U-17 clashes, narrow wins, harder lessons.
He stared into the night. "Come get it, then."
Behind him, Barcelona's city hum promised no rest.