After the match ended, Mahmoud stayed behind in the gym, pretending to tie his shoes just to give himself another minute to breathe. His legs were trembling again, but this time from adrenaline rather than pain. It wasn't just that he'd scored—it was how he'd moved. Sharp. Decisive. He had felt the difference, and more importantly, so had they.
Tariq avoided eye contact on the way out. The rest of the players kept glancing back at Mahmoud as they left, whispering low enough for him not to hear, but not low enough to hide the shift in tone. There was no laughter. No jabs. Just confusion. Curiosity.
Mahmoud stood slowly, rolled his shoulders, and turned to leave.
"You played smart today," a voice called from the shadows near the bleachers.
He stopped. Turned.
The man in the cap was standing near the emergency exit, leaning against the wall. Mahmoud hadn't seen him enter, hadn't noticed him during the match. He looked like someone who didn't belong in a school—too sharp, too focused. There was a clipboard in his hand, and a silver whistle around his neck, though he hadn't used it.
"I wasn't watching for the goal," the man said. "I was watching your movement off the ball. Your spacing. You read the game well. Better than most kids your age."
Mahmoud frowned. "Who are you?"
"Coach Muneer," the man said. "I work with youth programs outside the city. Small regional academies. Sometimes I visit schools to scout raw players. I usually leave disappointed."
"And today?" Mahmoud asked.
The coach smiled faintly. "Let's just say you weren't what I expected."
Mahmoud looked down, unsure what to say. His chest tightened slightly—not with fear, but something else. A dangerous thing. A feeling he hadn't allowed himself to experience in years.
Hope.
Coach Muneer stepped closer, flipping the clipboard around. On it was a sheet filled with notes, player numbers, arrows, and one name circled in red.
Mahmoud Hassan.
"I'd like to invite you to a trial," the coach said. "This Friday. Outside the capital. It's not a big deal—just a preliminary look. No promises. But if you perform well, we might consider you for more structured development."
Mahmoud blinked.
A trial?
His mouth opened, but no words came out.
Coach Muneer read his hesitation. "No pressure. Say no, and I disappear. But if you want to come—bring your boots and be ready to run. A lot."
He tore off a small slip of paper, handed it to Mahmoud, then turned and walked away without waiting for a reply.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Mahmoud stared at the paper.
Time. Place. Coordinates. Three days from now.
He folded it carefully and slipped it into his pocket like it was a piece of treasure.
Then he turned back to the empty gym, his mind spinning, his heart pounding in a way even VALYS hadn't prepared him for.
Someone had seen him.
And it wasn't a simulation.
Mahmoud barely slept that night. He lay in bed staring at the cracked ceiling, the paper with the trial details tucked under his pillow like a secret he was afraid might vanish if he looked away. His body begged for rest, but his thoughts ran endless laps inside his skull. What if this was real? What if this was the beginning?
By 5:00 a.m., he was already on the rooftop, stretching under the pale blue sky as VALYS activated with its usual quiet tone.
"New development detected. Alert: external opportunity presented. Parameters unknown. Shall I analyze risk factors?"
"No," Mahmoud said aloud. "Not yet."
VALYS paused.
"Not analyzing a potential career-changing variable contradicts optimal behavior."
"I know. I just... I want to feel it for myself first."
There was silence, then the soft reply.
"Understood. Emotional instinct temporarily prioritized."
Mahmoud started with light footwork, then built into sprint drills. Every step carried more weight now, not because his legs were heavier, but because his future suddenly had a shape. It terrified him. And thrilled him.
His thoughts drifted back to the man—Coach Muneer. The way he spoke, the way he looked at Mahmoud like he wasn't invisible. That had shaken him more than anything. He had grown so used to being overlooked, he almost forgot what it meant to be noticed.
He pushed himself harder. The drills intensified. VALYS adjusted accordingly.
"Energy depletion threshold: 62%. Time to failure: 7 minutes. Suggested cooldown imminent."
"Not yet," Mahmoud whispered.
He ran faster.
Six minutes later, his ankle screamed for mercy. His lungs felt too small. His chest burned like someone had planted fire behind his ribs.
Then he stopped.
Not from pain. Not from collapse.
He stopped because he knew this pain now.
It was the pain of a new wall.
And he had begun to like breaking walls.
Later that day, at school, Mahmoud walked differently. He didn't speak more. He didn't look for attention. But people noticed. A few nodded. A few stared. Even Tariq didn't say anything when Mahmoud walked past his table in the cafeteria.
It wasn't that they respected him now.
But they no longer underestimated him.
That was enough.
He spent his free period reading up on football academy trials. The drills. The speed tests. The things scouts looked for. He scribbled notes in the back of a worn notebook he usually used for math class. None of it felt real. But somehow, it also felt inevitable.
By the end of the day, VALYS whispered a line he hadn't heard before.
"You are now in territory beyond projection."
Mahmoud smiled, more to himself than anyone.
"Good," he said. "Let's see what happens."
The day before the trial arrived faster than Mahmoud expected. He sat alone on the rooftop just after sunset, tying and untying the laces on his boots over and over. The sky was darkening, the wind carrying a dry chill that swept over his skin like a warning. Every few minutes, he would check the folded paper in his pocket, as if the time or place might suddenly change.
His stomach churned. Not from nerves, but something heavier. A question he hadn't been able to silence.
What if he failed?
"Fear detected," VALYS said calmly. "Analyzing behavioral patterns. This emotion is familiar."
Mahmoud didn't look up. "Yeah. It's been around a while."
"Shall I suppress it?"
"No. Not this time."
He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. His mind wandered back to a memory he hadn't visited in years: the first time he ever touched a football. He was six, barefoot, and kicked a torn ball in an alley with boys twice his size. They didn't pass to him. They didn't even like him. But for one moment, the ball bounced his way. He kicked it forward and ran. They chased him. He laughed like a boy who didn't know what failure was.
That boy was still inside him. Buried under years of doubt, rejection, pain, and silence. But still alive.
"VALYS," he said. "If I go tomorrow and they tell me I'm not good enough... what then?"
There was a pause before the response.
"Then we adapt. Train. Return. Or try a different door."
Mahmoud nodded. "So even if I lose... I don't stop."
"Correct."
He looked up at the night sky, stars beginning to dot the dark canvas above. Something settled in his chest. Not confidence exactly, but clarity. A sense that the trial wasn't about proving he belonged—it was about proving he would show up no matter what.
He stood and began a final round of balance drills and ankle stabilization. VALYS guided him through each repetition, every motion slow, precise, controlled. His movements weren't perfect. But they were intentional. Focused.
"Muscle memory improving," VALYS reported. "Left ankle stability increased by 4%. Reaction time sharper under fatigue."
When he finished, he collapsed onto the concrete with a sigh, staring at the sky.
Tomorrow would be the first time someone outside this dusty neighborhood would watch him play with real intent.
He could fail.
He could fall short.
But for the first time in years, the idea didn't paralyze him.
It pushed him forward.
He closed his eyes and whispered, "Let them see me."
Not the fat kid with the injured leg.
Not the class joke.
Not the failure.
Let them see the version of him that never quit.
The sun had barely risen when Mahmoud stood outside the gates of the regional trial ground. The field stretched wide beyond the chain-link fence—flat, green, almost too perfect for his eyes. It didn't look like home. It looked like possibility.
He adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder and took a deep breath. Players were already warming up inside: lean, tall, confident boys in crisp kits with gleaming boots. Some of them laughed with each other. Others stretched in silence, headphones in, minds locked on the moment.
Mahmoud wore his old black track pants, stitched at the knees, and a shirt that had faded two shades from its original color. His boots were clean but clearly worn.
Still, he walked in.
Coach Muneer spotted him immediately and gave a single nod. No smiles, no welcome speech. Just acknowledgment.
"Over there," he said, pointing to a cone-marked station. "Start with agility ladders."
Mahmoud nodded and jogged over. VALYS activated in his mind with a soft hum.
"Heart rate stable. Visual scanning engaged. Competitor performance: within expected range. Recommend moderate effort for first phase—preserve energy."
He began the drill. One-two steps through the ladder. Light feet. Balanced rhythm. VALYS gave instant feedback: tighten core, lift knees, smooth transitions. He adjusted with every step.
Other players glanced at him, a few with curiosity, one or two with smirks. He didn't care. He wasn't here to impress them. He was here to test himself against the standards he dreamed of.
The drills continued—short sprints, cone turns, first-touch control. One by one, the players were funneled into different groups. Some were pulled aside. Some were waved off entirely.
Mahmoud kept moving.
By the time they reached the small-sided scrimmages, sweat poured down his face. His shirt clung to his back. But his eyes were locked in.
He stepped onto the pitch for the match simulation. Three versus three. Quick passing, sharp vision, immediate pressure.
The ball came to him. A defender closed in. He shifted, faked, and slid the ball sideways to his teammate. Quick return. One-two. Space opened.
He didn't hesitate.
Strike.
Low. Left corner.
Goal.
No celebration. No noise. Just the thump of the ball hitting the back of the net.
Coach Muneer watched from the sidelines, arms crossed. No reaction on his face.
Mahmoud reset, ready for the next sequence.
And the next.
And the next.
His ankle screamed. His lungs burned. His legs dragged.
But he didn't stop.
When the final whistle blew, he walked to the water station, collapsed onto the grass, and stared up at the sky again.
He had left everything on that field.
No regrets.
No lies.
He didn't know if he made it.
But he knew he belonged here.
That was enough—for now.
End of Chapter 6.