The locker room smelled of rubber soles, dried sweat, and fresh detergent. Mahmoud stepped inside, gripping his small gym bag tightly. The walls were painted a sterile gray, lined with benches and open metal lockers, each one marked by a strip of white tape with a handwritten name. Most were still blank.
He found his name scribbled unevenly at the far end: MAHMOUD H. Someone had probably written it in a hurry. It didn't matter. It was there.
Inside the locker, folded neatly, was a black training jersey and matching shorts. No numbers. No logo. Just matte black cloth. Uniformity. Anonymity.
Mahmoud reached in and touched the fabric. Cool. Clean. Lighter than he expected. He changed quickly, pulling the jersey over his head and tying his laces with slow precision. VALYS activated the moment he sat down on the bench.
"Uniform identified. Environmental readiness: confirmed. Physical condition: within optimal range for performance."
He didn't respond. He was too focused on the knot in his stomach.
Around him, other boys began to arrive. Some walked in chatting, others silently like him. Familiar faces from the tryouts—Yasser among them. Yasser nodded once. Mahmoud nodded back. No words. They were teammates now. Maybe rivals. Both.
Coach Muneer entered without warning. The room fell silent.
"Out to the field. Ten minutes. Jog there. Don't speak. Don't lag behind."
No greetings. No warm encouragement. Just command.
Mahmoud stood, his heartbeat accelerating.
Outside, the early morning field shimmered with dew, the sun barely rising behind the fence. The grass was trimmed tight. White lines were crisp. Rows of cones and hurdles had already been set up, waiting for feet to cross them.
They jogged in silence, cleats thudding softly against the turf.
Every step brought Mahmoud back to the same question: Am I ready?
But he didn't let it linger. The only answer was action.
The warm-up began without explanation. High knees, lunges, side shuffles—each movement timed, structured, relentless. No breaks between drills. No moment to breathe. Coach Muneer paced like a silent predator, clipboard tucked under one arm, stopwatch clicking in his hand.
Mahmoud focused on his breathing. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. He matched the others in rhythm, refusing to fall behind. His legs burned early, his ankle throbbed slightly, but he adjusted his weight, minimized the pressure, kept going.
"Breathing pattern uneven. Heart rate climbing too fast," VALYS whispered.
"I know," Mahmoud murmured under his breath.
He corrected his pace, shortened his strides, found a rhythm that didn't drain him. Around him, a few of the boys were already gasping, falling out of sync. The drills shifted to partner sprints. Yasser was paired with him again.
On the first go, Yasser exploded ahead, gaining a two-step lead. Mahmoud pushed harder on the second sprint, narrowing the gap. By the third, they crossed the finish line together. Yasser glanced at him, sweat on his brow, eyes sharp.
"You're quicker now," he said.
Mahmoud just nodded.
Coach Muneer blew the whistle again. New station. Ball work. Speed touches around cones. Alternating foot passes. Weighted passes into angled nets. Every task had a timer. No one could keep perfect form. That wasn't the point. It was about adjustment. Recovery. Endurance under pressure.
Mahmoud stumbled on the first drill. His foot clipped a cone. He cursed under his breath and reset. On the next run, he was smoother. Cleaner. VALYS adjusted his movement vector in real time.
"You are overcompensating with the right leg. Shift balance mid-stride. Rotate core earlier."
He listened, applied, improved.
By the time the passing drills began, Mahmoud's shirt was soaked, and his legs ached, but his vision was clearer. The fog of nervous energy had burned away.
Coach Muneer passed behind him during a rapid-fire sequence.
"Better," he said without stopping.
A single word. But it landed like a spark in Mahmoud's chest.
Better.
That was all he needed.
After a short hydration break, they were divided into two squads for a controlled possession drill. Half-pitch. One-touch max. No goal, just control and movement. Three-minute rounds. Rotation every time the defending team won the ball.
Mahmoud was placed in the middle. Not as a winger or a forward, but in a deeper role. It caught him off guard. He looked at the coach for confirmation, but Muneer had already turned away.
He adjusted his position quietly.
The drill began fast. The first pass came to Mahmoud hard and low. Instinctively, he touched it forward and angled it to the right. Clean. Immediate. The ball moved again, and again, circling rapidly. Every pass felt like a spark—burning quick, disappearing even faster.
On the third rotation, a defender lunged for the ball. Mahmoud cut left, then backheel-passed into space behind him without looking. The teammate there caught it perfectly.
A whistle.
"Reset," Coach Muneer called. "New defenders."
The players changed without complaint.
Yasser was watching him now.
On the second round, the pressure intensified. Defenders pressed earlier, traps were set quicker, and fatigue was starting to bleed into the rhythm. Mahmoud had to think faster. His lungs hurt. His head felt heavy. But his body responded.
He dropped deeper when necessary. He filled gaps no one else noticed. Twice, he called for the ball with a sharp clap of the hands—breaking the pattern just enough to reset control.
By the end of the drill, he had rotated five times, and not once had he lost the ball.
Muneer glanced at him. No expression. But he scribbled something down.
Mahmoud didn't smile. He didn't react. But inside, he felt it.
The respect he had been chasing was beginning to form—not with words, but with time.
As the groups switched out, Mahmoud sat on the edge of the turf, wiping sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his jersey.
VALYS whispered again.
"Performance integrity holding. Decision-making speed increased by 12% since last week. You are adapting."
Mahmoud looked across the field at the others still waiting their turn.
"I have to," he whispered.
Because adaptation was no longer a choice.
It was survival.
The final segment of the session was shadow play—situational drills with no opponents, just movements across the pitch in formation. Coach Muneer called out scenarios, and the players had to react instantly: lose possession on the left wing, recover into shape; quick counter through the middle, break the defensive line; fall back under pressure, control the midfield.
Mahmoud found himself commanding more space than before. Not by shouting, but by movement. He filled gaps, stepped into passing lanes that didn't exist seconds earlier, offered himself as a pivot every time a teammate stalled. Each run felt purposeful. Each touch was deliberate.
There was no glory in shadow play. No goals. No fans. No cheering. Just rhythm and precision and understanding. That's what separated amateurs from professionals—how they moved when no one was watching.
Coach Muneer barked another cue. "Midfield collapse. Mahmoud, recover wide!"
Without hesitation, Mahmoud sprinted from his central position to the wing, timing his arc to mirror an imaginary opponent. His cleats scraped against the turf as he slowed, positioning himself between the phantom winger and the passing lane.
"Good!" the coach called.
The first praise of the day. Out loud. Clear.
It hit harder than Mahmoud expected.
He locked eyes briefly with Yasser across the field. For the first time, Yasser gave a small nod—not the wary acknowledgment from earlier, but something more solid. A sign of recognition.
By the end of the drill, Mahmoud was soaked through. His socks sagged at the ankles, his knees ached, and his left calf twitched from strain. But he stayed on his feet as the coach dismissed them.
"Same time tomorrow. Eat well. Rest better."
Mahmoud walked back to the locker room with slow, quiet steps. Inside, he peeled off the jersey and sat down, staring at the sweat-soaked fabric in his hands. It wasn't just a black shirt anymore. It was proof. A small symbol of the war he fought within himself every day.
VALYS chimed in softly.
"Recorded data has been saved. Your trajectory is rising."
Mahmoud looked into the mirror on the far wall. His face was red, his hair clinging to his forehead, his eyes tired but alive.
"Then we keep going," he whispered.
No applause. No headlines. No guarantees.
But a step forward.
And that was enough.
End of Chapter 10.