The locker room buzzed with low voices and the occasional burst of laughter as players filtered in and out, preparing for the evening's tactical meeting. Mahmoud sat on the end of the bench, headphones on, a blank notebook page in his lap, pen resting in his fingers. He wasn't listening to music. VALYS was feeding him match scenarios—silent flashes of positioning diagrams, opponent shifts, and decision trees. He studied them the way a chess master studies openings, waiting for just one predictable move to exploit.
He didn't need to prove anything with noise. He had learned the quiet was where real work happened. The others noticed. They glanced his way more often now, some with curiosity, others with a hint of respect. Mahmoud hadn't said much since returning to light training, but he hadn't missed a session, a film review, or a tactical huddle.
When Coach Muneer entered the room, everyone settled.
"Seven days," he said simply, dropping a stack of printed analysis reports on the table. "Seven days until they arrive. Top youth team from Europe. Speed, discipline, hunger."
He looked around the room. "Scouts will be watching. Not just for them—for you."
Mahmoud's pen tapped the page once.
Coach continued. "We're rotating the lineup. No one's guaranteed minutes. Show me who wants it."
That was all he said. He walked out, leaving the pressure thick behind him.
As the players picked up their reports and began murmuring about formations and potential matchups, Mahmoud quietly rose and headed toward the exit.
Yasser caught up with him near the hallway. "You in the lineup?"
"Not yet," Mahmoud replied.
Yasser looked him over. "But you will be."
Mahmoud didn't reply. He didn't need to. His eyes said enough.
Later that night, back in his room, he turned the blank notebook page into a war map. Key players. Weak links. Spaces that collapsed under pressure. One week. One chance.
And he didn't plan on wasting a second of it.
The following morning started before the sun. Mahmoud slipped into the weight room as the night cleaning crew was just finishing. He greeted no one, stretched in silence, and began his programmed routine. VALYS guided him through low-impact compound exercises—nothing flashy, everything efficient. Every movement was measured, every rep controlled. His body was responding better now; the limp had disappeared, the ankle was holding under stress, and his center of gravity was sharper.
In the background, a newsfeed streamed silently on one of the wall-mounted screens—sports headlines flashing across it in quick bursts. Mahmoud glanced at it once, long enough to catch a headline about the European youth team's arrival. They were coming early, setting up camp in the capital for acclimatization. Word had it their midfielders were exceptional—technically flawless, tactically lethal.
Mahmoud watched the name of their captain appear across the ticker: Emil Gertsson.
He filed the name away.
As he moved through the rest of the workout, VALYS began feeding comparative data between the European side's formation and Mahmoud's academy squad. Overload zones. Press triggers. Transition weaknesses. The more Mahmoud studied, the more he realized this wasn't just a test of recovery—it was a mental game. One mistake against a team like this, and the match would be over before it started.
After training, he limped slightly toward the ice bath, not out of pain but out of accumulated effort. There, he submerged without hesitation. His muscles screamed at first, then went silent. He focused on his breathing, slow and steady, blocking everything else out.
This was the rhythm now: work, review, recover, repeat. He had no distractions, no desire for praise, no interest in shortcuts.
Once the pain numbed, he opened his eyes and whispered, "Emil Gertsson. Number eight. Cuts in with the left."
VALYS responded immediately. "Correct. Preferred passing angle is sixty-two degrees left from center. Defensive weakness: late tracking on switch plays."
Mahmoud smiled faintly.
He wasn't just coming back to play.
He was coming back to dominate.
The tactical board in the team room glowed under the overhead lights as Coach Muneer paced in front of the assembled players. Diagrams of their next opponent covered the screen—pressing triggers, defensive lines, midfield rotations. Everyone watched, notebooks in hand, but Mahmoud's eyes didn't waver once. He had already memorized this. Every movement on the screen had played in his mind a dozen times.
Coach pointed to a zone between the opponent's center back and right fullback. "This is their soft point. They press high, but they leave space behind when their right wing pushes up. We hit that with pace."
Yasser leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing at the screen. Mahmoud spoke for the first time in the entire meeting. "Only if we draw their number six out of position. Otherwise, it closes too fast."
Coach turned slowly to face him, surprised.
"You studied them?"
Mahmoud nodded once. "Watched six of their last matches. When number six commits forward, the right center back hesitates. That's where we go."
The room was quiet. A few players exchanged glances. Coach studied him a moment longer, then turned back to the board.
"He's right."
A brief pause.
"Mahmoud," Coach said, not looking at him, "you'll start training with the second unit tomorrow. Shadow midfield. No contact."
Mahmoud accepted the information without emotion. It wasn't full reintegration—but it was a step. And a big one.
When the meeting ended, Kareem caught up to him in the hallway.
"Where did that come from?"
Mahmoud shrugged. "You watch enough tape, patterns show up."
Kareem laughed. "Man, you're a machine now."
"No," Mahmoud said quietly. "I'm awake now."
That night, Mahmoud stayed up in bed longer than usual, the lights off, the shadows of streetlamps casting faint lines across the ceiling. His body was exhausted, his mind still alive with scenarios. He whispered one last note to VALYS before sleeping.
"Run full-team simulation with me on the left center mid."
"Confirmed," the voice replied.
And as his eyes closed, the pitch lit up again in his mind.
Morning fog clung to the academy grounds as Mahmoud stepped onto the pitch for his first group session since the injury. The second unit gathered on one side, already stretching and preparing for the non-contact drills. Mahmoud's heart pounded—not from nerves, but from the weight of everything that had led to this moment. Every day of rehab, every silent hour of film study, every internal war fought alone—it all led here.
Coach Muneer gave a brief nod as Mahmoud jogged toward the midfield cone. No speech, no welcome back. Just business. That was exactly how Mahmoud preferred it.
The drill began: possession play with tight spacing and limited touches. Movement was key. Awareness, timing, anticipation. Mahmoud fell into rhythm faster than expected. He didn't overextend or hesitate. He kept the ball moving, switched play when needed, and floated into the spaces that gave his teammates options. He didn't call out much. He let his positioning speak.
Yasser noticed.
Kareem noticed.
Even the assistant coach scribbled notes, glancing up every few seconds.
Then came the transition drill—quick turnovers, defensive recovery, mental switching. Mahmoud tracked the opposing midfielder without touching him, matching pace, closing lanes, predicting movements two steps ahead. His brain was a second faster than the rest of the field.
Coach Muneer called the session to a stop and signaled Mahmoud over. They stood in silence for a second.
"You're reading the game better than before," the coach said.
Mahmoud wiped his forehead. "I had time to study."
Coach gave a slow nod. "Tomorrow, join the first unit. Controlled contact."
Mahmoud didn't react outwardly. Just nodded.
As he walked back to the dorm, VALYS buzzed lightly in his earpiece.
"Performance exceeded pre-injury baseline. Progress optimal."
Mahmoud didn't reply. He was focused on the next step.
Because now, the real return had begun.
End of Chapter 15.