The sun was barely above the horizon when Mahmoud stepped onto the side pitch. The air was crisp, the grass damp with dew, and the field was empty except for one assistant coach setting up cones in silence. It wasn't an official session, but Mahmoud had requested permission to move under supervision—controlled, non-contact drills. No crowd. No teammates. Just recovery in motion.
He began with basic sprints at half-speed. Forward, backpedal, lateral steps. The ankle held. Not perfectly, but well enough. VALYS tracked everything—step symmetry, ground pressure, reaction timing—and relayed it in calm, mechanical notes.
"Lateral motion 92% restored. Acceleration lag: 0.3 seconds below peak."
Mahmoud pushed harder. Again. And again. He wasn't aiming to impress anyone but himself. The previous night's note echoed in his head: no more proving—just becoming.
Coach Muneer arrived midway through the session, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. He didn't speak. Just watched. Mahmoud kept going—drills, footwork, turns, explosive shifts between cones. It wasn't flashy. It wasn't loud. But it was sharp. Every movement calculated, every step intentional.
After thirty minutes, Mahmoud finished the set, chest heaving. He walked over, picked up his water, and finally looked up at the coach.
"How's the ankle?" Coach asked.
Mahmoud shrugged. "Learning to trust it again."
Coach nodded once. "There's a friendly match in eight days. The lineup's not final. You've got until then to show me you belong in it."
Mahmoud didn't smile. Didn't flinch. He just nodded.
Coach turned to leave but paused. "This—what you're doing—this is how real players are made. In silence."
Then he walked off.
Mahmoud stood in the center of the pitch, breathing in the cold air, sweat clinging to his back, pulse steady.
For the first time since the injury, he wasn't chasing approval.
He was chasing readiness.
After the session, Mahmoud headed straight to the recovery room, where the cold tub awaited. He lowered himself into the ice slowly, jaw clenched, muscles tensing against the shock. The pain was sharp at first, then dulled into a numbing chill. He sat there silently, eyes closed, counting his breaths.
His mind wasn't on the pain anymore—it was on the field. Every drill from earlier played back in his thoughts like a movie reel. He replayed each step, each turn, analyzing the moments where he hesitated or shifted too early. He wasn't just rebuilding his body; he was rewiring his instincts.
VALYS remained quiet during the recovery. No instructions, no analysis—just silent presence.
After fifteen minutes, Mahmoud emerged, dried off, and changed into fresh clothes. As he laced up his sneakers, he glanced down at his ankle. No visible swelling. The brace had done its job. The ice had helped. But the real healing was happening in the way he moved. The trust was slowly returning.
Outside, the academy began to fill with life. Players arrived for their sessions, laughing, shouting, kicking balls around casually. Mahmoud passed them without drawing attention. He wasn't ready to rejoin the team just yet. He wanted to return without needing an introduction.
In the quiet hallway near the film room, he bumped into Kareem.
"You training early again?" Kareem asked.
Mahmoud nodded.
Kareem looked him over. "You look lighter."
Mahmoud half-smiled. "I feel sharper."
Kareem gave a small nod. "Good. We're going to need you soon. This next match isn't just a friendly. Some people are calling it a test."
"I know," Mahmoud replied.
Kareem studied him for a moment, then added, "Don't just come back. Come back better."
Mahmoud met his eyes. "That's the plan."
They walked off in separate directions, but the moment stayed with Mahmoud. He had never felt like he belonged before. Now, people were waiting for him—not with pity, but with expectation.
And that was the most powerful motivation of all.
Back in his room, Mahmoud sat cross-legged on the floor with the playbook spread open in front of him. VALYS projected holographic field models across the surface, showing real-time breakdowns of the upcoming opponent's strategy. The foreign youth team they were set to face was fast, unpredictable, and tactically sharp. They rotated midfielders aggressively and relied on diagonal overloads that would punish even a second of hesitation.
"Target their number eight," VALYS advised. "He is aggressive but inconsistent under pressure. Collapsing his lane forces disorganization."
Mahmoud watched the clips silently, eyes tracking every movement. He memorized the opponent's shifts, how they responded to sudden counters, which defenders broke shape when stretched wide. He imagined himself in the middle of it all, intercepting, reading, redirecting.
"Repeat simulation with defensive priority," he said.
The field adjusted. New markers appeared. He watched again, this time focusing on recovery runs, marking patterns, and how quickly space closed when mistakes were made. He ran the drill five more times before finally exhaling and shutting the projection off.
He stood, stretched his legs, and looked out the window. The sky was a dull orange now. He hadn't noticed how long he'd been studying.
On his desk, Yasser's old notebook still sat. Mahmoud reached for it and flipped through the pages until he found the one he'd marked earlier: a sketch of their formation with the caption: "Pressure kills mistakes."
Mahmoud added a new note under it.
"Only if your mind moves faster than your legs."
He stared at the sentence for a moment, then underlined it.
Everything he was doing—the drills, the analysis, the silence—wasn't just about healing. It was about preparing for a different version of himself. Not the injured kid trying to catch up, but the player who returned smarter, faster, and impossible to ignore.
And if he had to be quiet to make that happen, so be it.
The noise would come later. On the pitch. When it mattered.
The lights were dim in the academy gym by the time Mahmoud returned for his final session of the day. Most players had already gone home or were in their dorms, but he liked it that way—alone with the weights, the quiet rhythm of breath and movement, and the hum of determination in his chest.
He began with light strength training, focusing on stability and core endurance. Every rep was controlled, every breath timed. VALYS monitored his form silently, adjusting the count only when necessary. The ankle brace held firm as he pushed through each set, never rushing, never faltering.
Midway through his sets, he heard footsteps approach from the far side of the room. Yasser entered, tossing a towel over his shoulder, surprised to see Mahmoud still working.
"Still at it?" he asked, walking toward a bench.
Mahmoud nodded without stopping. "Last session of the day."
Yasser sat nearby, watching for a moment before speaking again. "People are talking, you know. Not about the injury. About how you're coming back."
Mahmoud finished his reps and set the weights down slowly. "Let them talk."
"They say you've changed," Yasser continued. "More serious. More... calculated."
Mahmoud wiped the sweat from his face. "I had time to think."
Yasser leaned forward. "You know what I think? You were always like this. We just didn't see it before."
Mahmoud looked at him, surprised by the honesty.
Then Yasser added, "Make sure they see it now."
Mahmoud didn't answer. He didn't need to.
As Yasser began his own set, Mahmoud returned to his, silence falling between them again—but this time, it was comfortable. Not the silence of distance, but of shared purpose.
When he finally left the gym, the sky outside was dark. He walked slowly, the night air cool on his skin, his body sore but stable.
Back in his room, he crossed out another day on the calendar.
Seven days until the match.
And every second until then belonged to him.
End of Chapter 14.