The morning sun broke through thick northern clouds, painting golden streaks across the Newcastle training pitch. The wet grass from last night's rain still clung to my boots as I stepped into formation for the drill.
"Alright, one-on-one transitions," the coach barked. "Attackers, show us something. Defenders, shut it down."
I rolled my shoulders. Across from me stood Sadio Sarr.
Twenty-one. Senegalese. Fast. Sharp. Already starting at center-back for one of the best teams in the world, and doing it like he was born for the job. He didn't talk much—but he saw everything. The kind of defender who didn't guess. He read.
The whistle chirped.
He closed me down instantly, his footwork tight, weight balanced. He didn't dive in—smart move. I gave him a shoulder feint left, shifted right, then snapped into a Cruyff turn that bought me just enough room. One touch. Then a burst.
Gone.
I slipped past him clean.
The drill ended with a smattering of approval from the sideline.
As I jogged back, Sadio met me halfway, breathing hard but not angry.
"Nice move," he said, his French-accented voice soft but steady.
I bumped fists with him. "You almost had me."
He smirked. "Almost doesn't stop the goal, does it?"
I grinned. "You've been watching tape?"
"A little. Your shoulder drop gives you away sometimes."
"Damn. Already scouting me?"
"You're not as fast as before," he added, without insult. "But… smarter. More calm."
I paused. That was the kind of truth you only respected from someone who meant it.
"And you," I said, "you're already better than I was at twenty-one."
He didn't respond at first, just looked away toward the goal, eyes narrowing.
"Except for one thing," he finally said.
"Oh?"
"I hate standing in the wall."
I blinked. "The free kick wall?"
He nodded, his jaw flexing. "I don't know why. I can throw my body into a slide tackle, fight for headers, no fear. But when I'm in the wall… and the free kick is coming? It's like… I freeze up inside."
He tapped his chest.
"Feels like I can't breathe for half a second. Like the ball's going to hit me in the throat and I'll just… drop."
I watched him, surprised—not because he had a fear, but because he admitted it. This kid, all muscle and sharp edges, just laid it bare like that.
"You ever told the coach?"
He shrugged. "He knows. I still do it. Just... doesn't go away."
I nodded slowly. "You're still standing there. That's what matters."
Sadio glanced at me, that smirk returning. "Yeah, well. Until one day the ball hits me and I cough up a lung."
I laughed. Loudly.
"You'll be fine. Besides," I added, "next time you're in the wall, I'll stand next to you. Might make it less terrifying having an old man as a human shield."
Sadio chuckled and jogged back toward the formation.
But for a moment, I just stood there, watching him.
Even the strongest carry their shadows. Some just learn to sprint with them faster than others.
The locker room buzzed with the usual end-of-session energy—boots kicked off, towels slung, laughter echoing between tiled walls. I peeled off my sweat-drenched shirt and reached for my bottle when I heard it.
"Lukas. My office."
The gaffer's voice wasn't sharp, but it wasn't casual either. One of those neutral tones you couldn't quite read.
I followed him past the hall, through the narrow door with his nameplate barely hanging on.
Coach Shaw—ex-midfielder, sharp-eyed, rarely smiled unless we won big. He didn't waste time.
He slid into his seat, leaned back, arms crossed.
"You're sharper now. More decisive. I see it. You're not the same player I first got."
I nodded, but something inside me stayed still.
"You've been patient," he added, "and it's showing. You're syncing better with Melissa and James. That goal in the scrimmage last week? Vintage stuff."
I should've felt good.
Maybe I even did.
But my mind was already slipping—falling back into the cold.
[Flashback – Last Season, Away Match]
The air had been thick with frustration.
We were down 2–0, and I was drowning.
I couldn't control the passes. My touch was off. Every time I opened my body for a shot, it closed before the ball got there. Every run I made felt like a second too late.
And on the sideline, Coach Shaw was pacing like a man waiting for a fire to catch.
"LUKAS! MOVE! YOU'RE KILLING THE FLOW!"
His voice cracked across the field, loud enough for the traveling fans to hear.
I didn't reply. Didn't lift my head. Just stood there, in the storm of his fury, letting the game wash over me.
You used to bark back. Shout. Lead.
Now you just count the minutes 'til the whistle.
When it finally came, I walked off with my head down, boots heavy like bricks.
Nobody looked at me.
They didn't have to.
I already knew what they saw.
[Present – Coach's Office, Now]
The gaffer poured himself a mug of coffee. The steam curled into the room like a quiet breath.
"You keep this up," he said, tapping a pen against his clipboard, "you might start the next game ."
I didn't smile. Not really.
Just sat there, hands in my lap, watching the way the steam faded.
Progress doesn't erase pain.It just gives it somewhere else to hide.