The air was still dark when Mahmoud slipped out of his building, boots slung over his shoulder, bag packed with a change of clothes and a single banana for breakfast. The street was nearly silent, lit only by scattered streetlamps and the faint orange of the early dawn. His breath was visible in the cool morning, and each step echoed more than it should have.
He didn't take the main road. He cut through the alleys, past shuttered shops and locked gates, the shortcut he'd memorized from years of walking alone. The developmental academy was outside the city's edge, reachable only by one specific bus and a ten-minute walk. Missing it meant losing the day.
As he waited at the stop, VALYS activated in his mind, calm and clear.
"Estimated arrival time at academy: 5:58 a.m. First session begins at 6:00. You are within acceptable margins."
Mahmoud nodded silently.
"Your resting heart rate is high. Elevated stress?"
"I didn't sleep," Mahmoud whispered.
"That is not optimal."
He leaned his head back against the post. "I know."
The bus came into view, headlights cutting through the grey air. Mahmoud boarded and took the seat furthest from anyone, clutching his bag like a shield.
He had expected the fear.
What he didn't expect was the doubt.
Not about the others.
About himself.
What if today revealed that he wasn't even good enough for the lowest rung? What if all this training, all the whispers from VALYS, the silent mornings, the cuts and bruises—it all amounted to nothing?
He looked out the window as the buildings gave way to open fields, and beyond that, the edges of the academy—gates, fences, low buildings with flat roofs, and a small stadium that looked bigger than life.
"Reminder," VALYS said, "Progress is non-linear. Expect plateau. Expect resistance. Expect pain."
Mahmoud exhaled slowly. "And failure?"
"Occasionally necessary."
He closed his eyes and let the bus rock him gently, not to sleep, but to a stillness deep enough to carry him through the fear.
When they arrived, he stepped off and began walking toward the entrance. The gravel crunched beneath his feet, the first real sound of the day.
No one greeted him. No one looked twice.
And that, in some way, made him feel ready.
The field was still empty when Mahmoud arrived. Low fog clung to the grass like a protective veil. The air was thick with dew and quiet expectation. In the distance, cones were already lined up, perfectly spaced. A metal whistle lay waiting on a clipboard atop a folding table. No one else had arrived yet.
He jogged a slow lap around the pitch to warm up, each step steady, measured, not rushed. His breath came in visible puffs, and his muscles ached with familiar tightness. But he welcomed the pain. It told him he was awake. Alive.
VALYS activated without prompting.
"Surface traction: 86%. Minor dew will reduce stability during cuts. Suggest reduced lateral movements in warmup phase."
Mahmoud nodded. He shifted drills, focusing on forward motion and ankle strength. Short sprints. Stop-and-go acceleration. He moved through them with quiet discipline, ignoring the tension in his calves.
By the time the first player arrived, Mahmoud was already mid-stretch, sweat dripping down his temple. The newcomer—a tall, lean boy with a sharp jawline and flawless boots—gave him a quick once-over but said nothing.
Others followed. One by one, they trickled in. Eight total, including Mahmoud. No one laughed. No one talked loud. These weren't schoolyard players. These were boys chasing something serious, and every pair of eyes held the same guarded fire.
At exactly six, a sharp whistle cut through the air. Coach Muneer stepped onto the field, clipboard in one hand, a stopwatch in the other.
"No talking today," he barked. "You're not here to make friends. You're here to be tested. Everything you do matters. How you run, how you breathe, how you fail."
He looked over the group.
"Start with baseline drills. You'll move in pairs. I'll be watching every step. And if I see laziness, you go home."
The players split up. Mahmoud was paired with the tall boy—Yasser. Apparently a youth prospect from a private school team. Mahmoud could feel his eyes scanning him, measuring his weight, his foot placement, his posture.
They began.
The first round was short sprints with direction changes.
Mahmoud kept pace.
Yasser was faster.
Next came cone weaving with tight turns.
Mahmoud matched him.
Yasser looked surprised.
Third drill: one-touch passing with increasing tempo.
Mahmoud faltered once, mistimed a step.
Yasser smirked.
Coach Muneer said nothing.
But Mahmoud saw him write something on the clipboard.
His lungs burned by the end of the first circuit. His legs already tired.
But he didn't stop.
He wouldn't.
Not when he'd waited his whole life to be in this kind of place.
The sun began to rise properly, casting long shadows across the field. The fog had lifted, and the air grew warmer with each passing minute. Sweat soaked through Mahmoud's shirt, sticking it to his back, but he didn't wipe his face. He didn't slow down. Not once.
The drills shifted to ball control. They had to juggle, sprint, change direction, then control a high pass mid-run and shoot. It looked easy from the sideline. It wasn't.
Yasser was clean, smooth, effortless.
Mahmoud was rough, efficient, and precise—but not beautiful.
Coach Muneer paced behind them with his arms crossed, watching everything with narrowed eyes.
On Mahmoud's second repetition, the pass came in too high. He stretched, brought it down with his chest, stumbled for a second—but recovered, cut to the left, and fired a shot that hit the corner of the net.
Coach Muneer didn't react.
But he didn't write anything down either.
That meant something.
They moved on to recovery drills, then coordination ladders, then short-range positioning sequences.
With every step, Mahmoud could feel his body resisting. His ankle ached with a dull throb. His thighs screamed. His breathing grew sharp.
But he stayed focused. Quiet. Grounded.
Yasser looked at him again, frowning slightly now—not with arrogance, but confusion. Like he couldn't figure out why someone like Mahmoud, with a body built more like a wrestler than a winger, was still keeping up.
And maybe that was the point.
Mahmoud wasn't built like them. He wasn't trained like them. He wasn't raised in clubs or summer camps. He was molded by repetition, by failure, by silence. And now he was standing in the same space.
One of the trainers handed out hydration packs. Mahmoud took his and sat down near the edge of the field, keeping his back to the fence, his eyes forward.
VALYS spoke quietly.
"Balance correction observed. Fatigue thresholds exceeded. Pain level approaching limit. Recommend cooldown in thirty minutes."
"I'm not done yet," Mahmoud whispered.
"No. You are not."
He tightened his laces, rolled his ankles gently, and stood again.
There were still drills left.
Still things to prove.
But Mahmoud wasn't chasing approval anymore.
He was testing himself against the doubt that had lived in him for years.
And every step forward was a step away from it.
The final session of the morning was a half-pitch scrimmage. Four against four. No goalkeepers. Quick transitions. No instructions. Just play. Coach Muneer stood on the sideline with his stopwatch and clipboard, saying nothing.
Mahmoud's team had Yasser, two other players with sharp touches and quicker feet, and him. No one said a word as they lined up.
The whistle blew.
It started fast. Touch-pass-sprint-cut-touch again. Mahmoud found himself in the center, not by choice but by design. They wanted him to hold, distribute, recover. He adjusted quickly.
He didn't try to be the star.
He tried to be the glue.
He made the simple passes. He moved into space. He covered others' mistakes. And once—just once—he intercepted a fast break, turned with one touch, and lobbed a perfect through ball to Yasser, who sprinted onto it and finished cleanly.
Yasser didn't say thanks. He just nodded.
But that was enough.
The tempo rose. Players began pressing harder. Mistakes became more frequent. A few rough tackles. Tension brewed.
Mahmoud took a kick to the shin but kept going. His breathing was ragged now. His shirt stuck to him like a second skin.
But he refused to stop.
Near the end, a loose ball rolled into his zone. Two players rushed it. Mahmoud got there first. A light flick to the side. Spin. Pass.
Clean.
The whistle blew one final time.
Coach Muneer walked onto the pitch. Everyone stood still, panting, waiting.
He looked at each player. Eyes scanning, calculating, silent.
Then he spoke.
"Good. Most of you showed why you're here. A few of you showed why you might not stay."
No names.
Just a warning.
Mahmoud stood tall, despite the pain in his legs and the fire in his lungs.
"You'll be informed of your status by the end of the week," the coach said. "Until then, train like you've already lost your place."
The group nodded.
Dismissed.
As Mahmoud walked off the field, VALYS spoke again.
"Analysis complete. You performed in the top 20th percentile of this group. Positional awareness remains your strongest trait. Acceleration needs improvement."
Mahmoud didn't respond.
He reached the edge of the field, dropped onto a bench, and looked back at the goal.
It stood empty now.
But earlier, the net had moved.
Because of him.
That image stayed with him as he untied his boots, packed his bag, and made his way back to the road.
No applause.
No confirmation.
But deep inside, he knew one thing clearly:
He belonged here.
And he wasn't leaving.
End of Chapter 8