The gym was nearly empty, filled only with the low hum of machines and the distant rhythm of someone skipping rope. Mahmoud sat on the edge of the mat, wrapping his wrists with slow, focused hands. His ankle still throbbed beneath the brace, but it was stronger now—stable enough for controlled movement. He hadn't touched a football in nearly two weeks, but VALYS had designed a program that kept him sharp in other ways: balance drills, core strength, mental reaction tests, and endless strategy simulations.
Today was his return.
Not to the field, but to the periphery—just close enough to remind everyone he hadn't vanished.
As he stood, VALYS spoke.
"Neuromuscular stability at eighty-four percent. Caution is advised during lateral motion."
Mahmoud nodded and adjusted his stance.
He stepped into the rehab area, where padded floors and mirrored walls waited like silent judges. A long line of cones stretched across one side—agility drills. Resistance bands were looped around metal bars. It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't dramatic. But this was where comebacks began.
Coach Muneer had allowed it, but without fanfare. "No contact. No field time. Quiet work only."
That was fine. Mahmoud didn't want noise.
He wanted results.
He began the routine: slow steps through the cones, calculated foot placements, light bouncing movements to test pressure. The pain whispered with each turn, but it no longer screamed. Sweat beaded along his jawline. Muscles tightened, then loosened. Each motion was a quiet defiance of every voice that told him to stop.
In the corner of the room, Yasser entered with a towel slung over his shoulder. He paused, watching Mahmoud move through the final cones.
"You back already?" he asked.
Mahmoud didn't stop. "Not all the way."
Yasser nodded. "Looks like it."
Then he walked to the weights, leaving behind silence that felt less like judgment and more like acknowledgment.
Mahmoud finished his set and sat on the floor, breath even but chest heavy.
Every step was small.
But it was forward.
Later that day, Mahmoud found himself in the video analysis room, a dim, quiet space lined with screens, whiteboards, and chairs. The latest academy match footage played on the main monitor—players darting across the screen, colors blurring, formations shifting. He sat alone, a notepad in his lap, VALYS syncing the data directly to his neural feed.
"Would you like to analyze from Player Six's perspective?" VALYS asked.
"No," Mahmoud replied. "Free view. I want to see everything."
He slowed the footage, rewound, and paused at the midfield. The moment before a counterattack. The opponent's number ten had shifted just slightly left—an opening Mahmoud would have caught. But the replacement who played in his absence didn't. The gap closed. The ball was lost.
"Did you see that?" Mahmoud whispered.
"Opponent moved point-three seconds faster than the academy's response," VALYS confirmed. "You would have anticipated the shift."
Mahmoud scribbled something in his notebook.
He wasn't bitter. Not angry. Just observant.
The game didn't stop for anyone. His spot was vulnerable, and others were hungry. The coaches were watching. The team was evolving. And he needed to prove that, even sidelined, he was still ahead of the game.
He replayed the match twice, pausing at defensive collapses, wing overloads, and spacing errors. Every note he took wasn't just for understanding—it was preparation. A silent campaign to be undeniable.
Midway through the session, Kareem entered, surprised to see Mahmoud already analyzing. He didn't say anything at first, just stood by the wall, watching the footage. Then, after a few minutes, he spoke.
"You studying them, or yourself?"
"Both," Mahmoud answered.
Kareem grinned. "Good. You're not the only one trying to climb."
Mahmoud nodded, his eyes never leaving the screen. "I know."
The video kept playing—passes, missteps, hesitations—and Mahmoud saw more than anyone else in the room could. Because while they were playing the game, he had been breaking it down piece by piece.
He might not be on the pitch yet.
But in his mind, he never left.
By the evening, Mahmoud returned home mentally drained but sharper than ever. His ankle was sore, wrapped tightly beneath the compression sleeve, but the dull ache felt like part of him now—no longer an enemy, just a companion in the process. He dropped his bag, sat on the edge of his bed, and stared at the ceiling.
"VALYS," he said softly, "how much time until full recovery?"
"With ideal adherence to protocol, nine days before controlled field reentry," VALYS replied. "Twelve for full-contact approval."
Mahmoud nodded.
"Create a nine-day micro-cycle," he said. "Maximum mental and physical load without risking regression."
"Confirmed," VALYS replied. "Schedule incoming."
Within seconds, Mahmoud's tablet lit up. A strict hour-by-hour plan appeared—nutrition, mobility, tactical review, low-impact strength, mental simulation windows. It was relentless. But that's what he wanted. What he needed.
He leaned forward, grabbed a marker, and crossed a large red X on the wall calendar—one more day behind him. Ten days ago, he could barely walk. Now he was running in his mind, dancing through matches in slow motion, calculating passing angles, rehearsing positioning drills like equations. And when he closed his eyes, he saw the pitch—always the pitch. The green. The lines. The stadium lights.
He missed it in a way words couldn't carry.
Not the applause. Not the scoreboard.
But the silence before a perfect pass. The rhythm of a game played right.
His phone buzzed. A message from his younger cousin: "When are you playing again? I told my friends you're gonna be famous."
Mahmoud stared at the message for a while. Not because he doubted it, but because he remembered a time when no one believed in him—not even himself.
He replied with just one word.
"Soon."
Then he set the phone down, picked up his notebook, and wrote three names—players who would likely challenge him for midfield.
He underlined each one.
Not as enemies.
As targets.
The next morning began before the sun had fully risen. Mahmoud was already dressed in his training gear, ankle secured, breakfast digested, and mind alert. The streets outside were still quiet, painted in cold blues and greys. He made his way to the academy's private rehab room before most players even arrived.
Inside, he began the day's routine—balance board drills, elastic band resistance movements, and carefully timed explosive step exercises. VALYS monitored every angle, every strain, adjusting real-time suggestions in his earpiece.
"Right leg dominant," VALYS said. "Correct distribution."
Mahmoud shifted his weight, adjusted posture, repeated the drill.
Minutes passed like hours, but he didn't rush.
By mid-session, Coach Muneer appeared at the doorway, arms crossed, watching silently. Mahmoud didn't acknowledge him—not out of disrespect, but focus. After several minutes, the coach finally spoke.
"You think you'll be ready next week?"
Mahmoud kept his eyes on the next cone and said simply, "I'll be better than before."
Coach raised an eyebrow. "We'll see. There's a friendly match scheduled in ten days. Top youth team from abroad. Scouts may attend."
Mahmoud's breath slowed. His fingers tightened.
"Earn your way back. Quietly," the coach added before turning and walking off.
Mahmoud stood still for a second. Then he took a slow breath, turned to the mirror, and continued.
Later that day, after drills and recovery, he sat in the empty locker room, towel over his head, muscles trembling. The ache in his ankle was manageable now. But the fire in his chest burned brighter than pain.
He opened his notebook again. Flipped to a blank page. Wrote at the top:
"Day One of Return."
Below it, one line:
"No more proving. Just becoming."
He closed the book, stood up, and walked out without a limp.
End of Chapter 13.