Mahmoud could feel it the moment he woke up—his ankle. A sharp pinch near the bone, not the dull, fading soreness he was used to. This was different. It had returned. He sat on the edge of the bed, pressing his foot gently into the floor. Pain shot upward like electricity. He winced.
"You're limping," VALYS said immediately, its voice as calm as ever. "Anomaly in gait. Would you like a localized diagnostic?"
"No time," Mahmoud muttered. "I'm not missing today."
He wrapped the ankle tight with an old compression band and layered thick socks over it. Each step down the stairs was a negotiation with pain, but he didn't slow. He reached the street and began his walk to the station. The sun had barely risen, and the city still smelled of morning bread and damp concrete.
He didn't think about skipping.
He thought about the clipboard. The coach's silent assessments. The chance that today could be the day he was truly tested. Maybe picked for a full training scrimmage. Maybe trusted.
He had waited too long to sit out now.
By the time he reached the academy gates, the ache had spread to his lower shin. He masked the limp with a subtle shift in stride. He kept his head high and face blank.
Inside the locker room, Yasser was already changing. He looked up briefly, nodded once. Mahmoud returned it.
Coach Muneer entered a moment later.
"Scrimmage today," he said. "Full field. Positions assigned based on last week's performance."
The room went still. Breath held.
Mahmoud tightened his laces, rolled his ankle twice, and stood without wincing.
This was the moment he had trained for.
He would not lose it to pain.
The teams were split with numbered bibs—blue against orange. Mahmoud was handed a blue one, number six. Coach pointed at the center circle.
"Deep midfield," he said.
Mahmoud gave a single nod and jogged to his spot, hiding the limp by shortening his stride. His ankle throbbed with each movement, but he buried the pain beneath layers of focus. The grass was slightly damp, and the air was crisp—perfect conditions, if not for the sharp reminder in every step that his body was close to breaking.
Yasser stood ahead of him in the attack. On the wings were two boys Mahmoud barely knew. Behind him, a strong, stocky defender named Kareem. The team felt mismatched—barely familiar with each other—but the whistle blew before any of them could talk strategy.
The match started fast.
Within seconds, the orange team pressed high. Mahmoud stepped in, intercepted a pass, and turned quickly to break the line. The movement sent a jolt of pain through his ankle, but the ball rolled cleanly to the right wing.
"Keep it moving," he called out.
The team responded.
Yasser dropped deep, took a short pass, and sent it forward in one motion. Mahmoud read the run, filled the space behind him, and offered himself again.
It was working—barely.
But each touch Mahmoud made chipped away at his stamina. The more he moved, the more the pain carved into his mind, threatening to cloud his judgment.
"Your kinetic output is imbalanced," VALYS warned. "Favoring right leg. Risk of compensatory injury rising."
Mahmoud gritted his teeth. "I said I know."
He didn't stop.
He couldn't.
The ball returned to him. He turned under pressure, ducked low, and slid a perfect pass through two defenders. The coach on the sideline blew his whistle briefly—a sign of acknowledgment.
And still, the pain kept climbing.
The field blurred slightly as his breath quickened. Not from exhaustion, but from the weight of pretending everything was fine.
But he wasn't here to play safe.
He was here to be noticed.
Even if it cost him.
Midway through the second half, Mahmoud's body began to betray him. He masked the limp as best he could, but the acceleration wasn't there anymore. When he turned, it took longer. When he passed, the weight behind the ball wasn't quite right. A few of his teammates started hesitating before sending him the ball, choosing easier options. That hurt more than the ankle.
Yasser called for a switch in play and ignored Mahmoud's run into space. The pass went wide instead, forcing a turnover. As they regrouped, Mahmoud moved in closer and said low, "I was open."
Yasser didn't look at him. "You're slower."
Mahmoud swallowed the reply rising in his throat. He knew Yasser wasn't wrong. He could feel the weight dragging behind every movement like a chain.
Coach Muneer called from the sideline. "Midfield drop! Recover fast!"
Mahmoud pushed forward to intercept a pass, planted his left foot—and the pain roared up his leg like fire. His vision flashed white for a second. He staggered but didn't fall. Instead, he jabbed the ball loose and deflected it out of bounds.
The whistle blew. Play paused.
Coach didn't call him off.
Kareem jogged past him, clapping once on his shoulder. "Good read."
The pain was unbearable now. Each step sent lightning through his leg. VALYS spoke calmly in his mind.
"Structural strain in left ankle is at dangerous threshold. Continuing may lead to partial tear."
"I need ten more minutes," Mahmoud whispered under his breath.
"Statistically unwise."
"I don't care."
Coach called out again. "Final five minutes. Push."
The match resumed. Mahmoud didn't move with speed, but he moved with precision. He shadowed space. Read passes before they were made. He turned attackers toward traffic, closed passing lanes with his body. He didn't need to be fast—he needed to be smart.
In the final minute, the ball was loose at midfield. Mahmoud stepped into it, tapped once, and launched a long pass over the top. Yasser ran onto it, took one touch, and curled it into the top corner.
Goal.
The whistle blew.
Game over.
Mahmoud bent over, hands on knees, heart hammering like a drum. The pain had settled into a constant, hot pulse. But behind it was something else.
Satisfaction.
He had stayed on.
He had contributed.
Even injured, even doubted, he had made the final play.
As the teams walked off, Coach Muneer's eyes followed him.
Mahmoud didn't limp this time.
Not until he was sure no one was watching.
Back in the locker room, Mahmoud sat in silence, one hand resting on his ankle, the other gripping the edge of the bench. The room buzzed around him with low conversations, claps on the back, and the rhythmic hiss of showers turning on and off. But he was somewhere else—lost between pride and pain.
He peeled off his sock slowly, trying not to wince. The joint was swollen. Red. Angry. His fingers hovered over it, unsure whether to touch or not.
"Diagnosis confirmed," VALYS said. "Minor ligament strain. High risk of escalation if untreated. You require rest."
Mahmoud exhaled. "Can't afford rest. Not now."
He looked down at the black jersey folded in his lap. Sweat-soaked, stained with grass. It felt heavier than before.
Yasser passed behind him on the way to his locker, then paused. "That pass was world-class."
Mahmoud looked up.
"You saw the gap," Yasser continued. "I didn't even call for it. You knew."
Mahmoud nodded, unsure what to say.
"You're playing hurt, right?"
Silence.
Yasser shrugged. "Stupid. But… brave."
Then he walked away.
Mahmoud leaned back, letting the cold metal of the locker press against his spine. The pain was real now. Loud. But it didn't drown out the quiet voice in his mind that said you earned today.
He took out his phone, opened the notepad app, and typed two words:
Still standing.
Later, when he limped down the stairs outside the facility, he didn't hide it. His body ached with every step, but his mind felt lighter.
Outside, the sky was pale blue, and a breeze carried the smell of distant food stalls. Life moved on, but today, Mahmoud had carved out a space for himself in it.
He walked slower than usual. But he walked with his head up.
He was still in the game.
Still in the fight.
And for now, that was everything.
End of Chapter 11.