The whistle pierced the air again.
"Now we work on long passes, control, and movement. Focus, and more focus!" Coach Holloway's voice rang out across the pitch, gravelly and direct.
The players shifted into new positions, stretching limbs and shaking out fatigue. Cones were placed diagonally across the field—about thirty meters apart—and the drill began. Two players to a cone, one passes, the other controls.
Leon jogged toward his station, eyes scanning the others.
A pass sailed overhead nearby. Too much power. The receiver scrambled to chase it down, stumbling over his own feet.
Another boy sent a low drive that bounced awkwardly and clipped his teammate's shin. Miscommunication. No chemistry.
Leon's expression remained neutral
"This drill isn't about power. It's about rhythm. Touch. And reading the run before it even happens."
His turn came.
He stepped toward the ball, standing still for a beat. His partner, a lean midfielder with good speed, had already taken off in a diagonal run.
Leon's right foot swung forward.
The ball floated through the air—clean, precise, spinning gently, landing chest-height in front of his teammate with surgical accuracy. The boy cushioned it perfectly.
Coach Holloway, arms crossed and clipboard in hand, gave a rare nod.
"Very nice, Fisher. You clearly have an excellent eye."
Leon didn't respond.
This was the easy part.
Moments later, another ball came streaking toward him—fast....curling. Leon didn't even have to ask who sent it.
Byon grinned from across the pitch.
Leon trapped the ball with his instep, soft and controlled, then glanced back.
"Your passes are unreal, Byon…"
"Told you,"Byon called back, flashing a wink. "I'm a born playmaker!"
Leon couldn't help but smile. There was an elegance to Byon's style—a kind of joyful cleverness. He wasn't just playing football. He was painting with it.
A pass like that wasn't luck.
It was vision.
Time moved on, and so did the drills.
What started as crisp touches became slower, heavier. Sweat now soaked through the backs of jerseys. The sun, once pleasant, had become merciless.
Some players began to lag.
A few collapsed onto the grass during water breaks, legs splayed, chests heaving.
But Coach Holloway wasn't done.
Not yet.
"We're not finished!" he barked."If you want to prove yourself, you have to endure! If the scouts see laziness… you've got no chance!"
A scout. Right. Leon glanced over toward the far side of the field.
The same man stood silently in the shade. Sunglasses hiding his eyes. Notepad in hand. The name above his head still floated faintly
Leon's fingers clenched slightly.
"I don't just want a chance. I'm not here to hope I get picked. I'm here to become a star. This body… it's a whole new lifetime. And I won't waste it."
The final drill began—pressure passing.
A grid was set. Tight spaces. One touch. Quick decisions. Opponents were allowed to press. Mistakes were punished.
Leon felt alive.
He weaved through the grid, calling out passes, adjusting his angles. The moment the ball came to him, he already knew where it needed to go. He didn't dwell.
He lost the ball once—bad control on a heavy pass. A flash of frustration. But instead of freezing, he spun, sprinted, and intercepted it before the defender could reset.
Focus.
Keep moving.
Keep improving.
Byon danced through his side of the grid with a rhythm all his own, threading balls between legs, flicking no-looks, laughing when someone tripped trying to press him.
"Oi, eyes up, number twenty-three!" he shouted mid-pass.
Leon laughed under his breath.
Even tired, Byon didn't lose his edge.
From the sidelines, Coach Holloway watched silently, the sun glinting off his whistle. He hadn't spoken in minutes.
Then, slowly, he jotted something in his notebook.
A few lines. A brief pause.
Then one more sentence.
His eyes lingered on Leon.
"That kid…" he muttered under his breath. "There's something different about him."