By Friday, it was like the whole academy had felt the shift.
Something about the way we played—me, KJ, and Kyle—it was starting to mess with people's heads. Players, coaches, even the staff who didn't watch much soccer were beginning to say it:
Those three brothers are different.
Three Teams. One Mission.
Every morning, we walked through the Metro Academy gates together. The same baggy black jackets, the same fire in our eyes. But when we got inside, we split.
Kyle peeled off left toward the U16 group. KJ nodded and headed straight for U18s. I turned right, toward the U13 field.
"You better score today," Kyle said over his shoulder.
KJ smirked. "You too. Or don't even call me your brother."
I grinned. "Y'all already know what I'm on."
And just like that, we scattered like heat-seeking missiles. Different fields. Different opponents. Same mindset.
KJ's Game: The Shadow Runner
KJ was playing striker again, but that didn't mean he stayed still. He was a ghost in the box—disappearing behind defenders, then reappearing right as the ball arrived.
A deep ball came over the top. He didn't call for it. He didn't even look. Just took off.
Three touches—one to control, one to split the defenders, and the third to bury it.
Bottom corner. No celebration. Just a nod to his teammates, then jogged back to midfield like he expected it. Because he did.
The assistant coach on the other team muttered loud enough to hear, "Jesus… who the hell is that kid?"
Kyle's Game: The Cold Killer
Kyle's left foot might've been illegal in some states.
He toyed with his defender all game—stepovers, hesitation dribbles, feints so smooth they looked like water. Then, out of nowhere, a nutmeg so disrespectful the guy froze like he got hit with a freeze ray.
The whole sideline groaned.
Even his coach, Coach Darren, laughed out loud. "Good Lord, Kyle. Give the poor kid a break."
He didn't.
He dribbled right into the box and finished clean. One touch, bottom corner.
High-five from his winger. Cold walk back.
Kyle didn't smile. Didn't need to.
Kareem's Game: The Visionary
Me? I played the long game.
I didn't score until the second half. But I was making defenders dance all over the pitch with feints and body shifts—sometimes smooth, sometimes raw and aggressive, depending on how I felt.
The moment came when my striker made a weak diagonal run. Most kids would ignore it. But I saw it two passes ahead.
I slipped the ball through a space no one else noticed. The defender screamed, "No way!" as the ball skidded between his legs and onto my teammate's foot.
He shot. Rebound came out.
I followed. One-time finish.
Coach Leo let out a breathy, "Damn…"
My teammates ran over. A couple high-fives. One head tap.
Then I jogged back, cool as ever.
Three Goals. Three Styles. Same Blood.
When we met up after training, none of us said much. We didn't need to.
Kyle raised an eyebrow. "Score?"
"One," I said.
KJ nodded. "Same."
Kyle shrugged. "Obviously."
We bumped fists and walked to class.
Class is… Kinda In Session
At Metro Academy, we didn't have to switch buildings for school. Teachers came to us. Portable classrooms. Academic blocks. The whole deal.
KJ slouched in the back of the English room, hoodie up. He didn't hide his hatred for school—but he still knocked out his assignments like it was nothing when he felt like trying.
Kyle was helping another kid with math during break. He was that good. But every time the English teacher mentioned "theme" or "literary devices," Kyle would mutter, "This is dumb," under his breath.
Me? I finished my assignments before class was over and spent the rest of the time sketching soccer tactics in the margins.
From the outside, we might've looked like three regular kids grinding through class.
But we knew better.
We weren't just passing time.
We were waiting—for our chance.
And it was coming.