Mahmoud sat on the cold bench outside the field office, legs aching, shirt damp with dried sweat. Around him, other boys stood in tight circles—talking, guessing, waiting. Some laughed with easy confidence. Others paced in silence. A few had already left, shaking their heads, dragging their bags behind them.
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass and something else—uncertainty.
Coach Muneer stood at the door with a clipboard in hand, calling names one by one. Each player entered the office for a brief conversation. Some emerged with wide eyes and trembling hands. Some returned stony-faced. A few tried to hide their disappointment, but their silence was louder than words.
Mahmoud checked his phone. A missed call from his mother. A text from his cousin asking why he didn't show up for Friday prayer.
He put the phone away.
His name hadn't been called yet.
"Should I prepare your mental script for rejection?" VALYS whispered calmly.
He shook his head slightly. "No."
"Do you want to review performance footage while you wait?"
"No. I already lived it."
"Heart rate elevated. Muscles still recovering. Recommend minimal movement."
Mahmoud leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching the office door like it held his entire life behind it.
For the first time, he felt small again.
Not weak.
Just real.
Like the moment was too big to hold in his chest, but somehow still resting there, waiting.
A boy in a red jersey came out of the office, face pale. He walked past Mahmoud without a word, kicking a stray bottle out of his path.
Then Coach Muneer stepped out, eyes scanning the list.
"Mahmoud Hassan."
Mahmoud stood. His legs almost refused to move at first, but he forced them forward, one step at a time.
He entered the room and closed the door behind him.
Coach Muneer didn't look up at first. He stood behind a desk scattered with evaluation sheets, a laptop, and a half-drunk bottle of water. The air inside the office was stale and still, as if the outside world had stopped breathing.
Mahmoud remained standing.
After a moment, the coach finally spoke.
"You didn't come here to be flashy."
Mahmoud said nothing.
"You didn't try to stand out with tricks or shouting or sliding into tackles for the crowd. You just played."
Still, Mahmoud stayed quiet.
Coach Muneer looked up now, eyes sharp but unreadable.
"You've got raw footwork. Good spacing. Your instincts in tight spaces are above average for your level. Your physique is… inconsistent, but that can be worked on."
Mahmoud's heart thudded hard in his chest.
"You play like someone who has trained alone. A lot. No real coaching—just effort. Repetition. Obsession, maybe."
He nodded slowly. "That's accurate."
Coach Muneer tapped the edge of the desk with a pen, once, twice, as if choosing his next words carefully.
"You're not ready."
Mahmoud's throat tightened. His chest began to collapse inward. The words echoed like metal in a tunnel.
"You're not ready," the coach repeated, "for top-level play yet."
He looked down at his notes again.
"But you are ready to be taught."
A pause.
Mahmoud blinked.
Coach Muneer slid a form across the desk.
"There's a developmental group in the regional academy. Two days a week, early mornings. No guarantees. No payment. No glory. Just work."
Mahmoud's fingers trembled as he picked up the paper.
"It's not a spot on the main team," the coach said. "But it's a door. One most never get."
Mahmoud looked up. His voice came out rough. "Why me?"
The coach leaned back, expression softening slightly.
"Because you didn't stop moving when the ball left your feet. Because when you missed, you reset instead of breaking. Because I saw a boy who doesn't want to be seen—he wants to be better."
Mahmoud stared down at the paper again.
VALYS whispered in his mind, voice low and even.
"Opportunity: confirmed. Minor tier. Long-term growth potential: significant. Estimated timeline for main selection: two to four years based on progress."
He didn't care.
He didn't care how long it took.
He just nodded and whispered, "I'll show up."
Coach Muneer stood and extended a hand.
"Good. Be ready Monday. Wear black. No brands. No noise."
Mahmoud took the handshake. Firm. Real.
When he stepped out of the office, the field was nearly empty. The sun had climbed higher, shining directly into his eyes. He raised a hand to block the light.
He wasn't flying.
But for the first time in his life, he was moving forward—with direction.
Mahmoud walked past the other players without a word. Some looked at him, trying to read his face. Most didn't bother. The ones who had made it already knew. The ones who hadn't didn't want to know. Everyone carried their own version of silence.
Outside the gate, he found a quiet spot under a lone tree by the gravel road and sat down. His legs stretched out in front of him, aching. The form was still in his hand, folded once across the middle. He ran his fingers over the crease again and again, like he needed to confirm it was still real.
"Progression phase unlocked," VALYS whispered.
He didn't respond.
"Emotional state: elevated. Hormonal shift detected. You are experiencing sustained, contained joy."
Mahmoud let out a breath. A small one. Not a laugh, not a sigh. Just a quiet release.
"I'm not sure what I'm feeling," he admitted.
"That is normal. This is unfamiliar territory."
He sat there for a long time, letting the moment stretch. Around him, the world was still moving—cars passing, birds chirping, clouds drifting. But inside, it was like someone had pressed pause on all the doubt, all the second-guessing.
He had a place now.
A small one.
A conditional one.
But it was his.
His mind, however, didn't let the quiet last. Slowly, it began to spin again. What if he couldn't keep up? What if his ankle gave out again? What if the others in the developmental group were ten times better?
"Do you wish to simulate potential failure conditions for preparation?" VALYS asked.
"No," Mahmoud said quickly. "Not now."
"You must acknowledge—"
"I know," he cut in. "I'll have to face them. Just… not today."
VALYS went silent, respecting the boundary.
Mahmoud opened his bag, pulled out a small bottle of water, and drank slowly. Every drop felt earned.
His phone buzzed. A message from his mother.
Where are you? Come home. Your uncle's coming over.
He stared at the message for a moment, then replied.
Had a school thing. Be home soon.
He slipped the phone back into his bag and looked up at the sky. It was clearer now. Wide, open, limitless.
Maybe he wasn't meant to reach the top quickly.
Maybe he wasn't supposed to impress everyone at first glance.
Maybe his story wasn't about sudden brilliance.
Maybe it was about building.
From scratch.
From the dirt.
From rejection.
He stood up, dusted off his pants, and started walking. He wasn't sure where this new path would lead. But it didn't matter.
He wasn't walking aimlessly anymore.
He was walking with a purpose, even if no one else saw it yet.
The bus ride home was long and quiet. Mahmoud sat by the window, resting his head against the cool glass, watching the city blur past. He saw shops opening, delivery bikes weaving between cars, children in uniforms laughing on sidewalks. Life going on like nothing had changed.
But for him, everything had.
In his pocket, the folded form felt heavier than it should. Not like paper—more like weight, responsibility, the start of something that had no name yet. Every bump in the road jolted through his tired muscles, but his mind remained steady.
He thought of his ankle—the surgeries, the limp, the way his parents whispered about it in the next room when they thought he couldn't hear. They never believed he'd play again. Not seriously. Not after that.
When he stepped through the door of his building, he moved quietly. The apartment smelled of lentils and fried onions. Familiar. Comforting. Heavy. His little sister peeked from the living room, then ran to hug him. He hugged her back tightly, almost too tightly.
"You smell like sun," she said, wrinkling her nose.
He smiled and ruffled her hair.
In the kitchen, his mother stood over the stove. She turned as he entered, wiping her hands on a towel. Her eyes narrowed slightly, suspicious.
"Where were you?"
"School," he replied.
Her gaze didn't move. "You didn't answer earlier."
"I was running."
She said nothing, just watched him for a moment longer, then turned back to the pot.
"I need new boots," he said.
She paused.
"What for?"
"PE. Mine are falling apart."
"You don't need expensive ones. It's just for school."
He didn't argue. Not now. There would be time later.
In his room, he locked the door gently and pulled the paper from his pocket. He unfolded it again and laid it on the desk like something sacred. His fingers traced the name at the top. Developmental Academy. Two days a week. No glory. No spotlight.
But to him, it was everything.
He stared at it until the sun dipped low in the sky and shadows stretched across the floor.
"Would you like to schedule pre-trial simulations?" VALYS asked.
"Yes," Mahmoud whispered.
A small projection lit up across his desk. Drills. Balance. Footwork. Pressure decisions. Every detail aligned to push him further.
He took a deep breath and nodded.
"Start tonight. After dinner."
He stood, rolled his shoulders, and looked at himself in the cracked mirror by the wardrobe. Same face. Same scars. Same weight. But a different fire behind the eyes.
This wasn't the dream yet.
It wasn't the win.
But it was the start of the path.
And for the first time in his life, the path wasn't imaginary.
It was real.
And he had a place on it.
End of Chapter 7.