The morning broke clear and cool, the kind of air that felt like it could sharpen a thought. Mahmoud arrived at the main pitch ahead of the first unit, laces double‑knotted, ankle taped in the now-familiar figure‑eight that had become both ritual and reminder. He paused at the touchline, head tilted toward the stands. Three scouts again—one in a navy jacket, one in gray with a tablet, one older with a notebook and a habit of chewing the end of his pen. Noted. Background noise.
"Controlled contact today," Coach Muneer called as players filtered out. "Situational scrimmage. We rehearse what we want the Europeans to see—and what we don't let them see."
Mahmoud joined the midfield group. Yasser bumped his shoulder lightly in passing. "Tempo voice," he said, just loud enough. Their shorthand now: when Mahmoud spoke, it would be to set the rhythm, not to narrate.
Warm-ups spilled into a high-precision rondo, two-touch limit, press triggers on a coach's clap. Mahmoud anchored the outer ring, scanning hips, not feet. He didn't lunge for steals; he angled them. Twice he let a pass travel across his body to sell left before clipping right. The ankle held—present but obedient.
"Good disguise," the assistant coach murmured as he walked by. Mahmoud pretended not to hear. Compliments had a way of dulling edges he needed sharp.
Coach whistled them into the first scenario. "Down a goal, twelve minutes on the clock. Opponent in a mid-block. Build with purpose; don't force the final ball." Blue bibs (first unit) against orange (press unit). Mahmoud in the left half-space of a 4‑3‑3, Yasser wide right, Kareem at right center back.
They built with napkin-sketched patience. Kareem to fullback, back to Kareem, into Mahmoud between lines—one touch to bounce out, then pivot to receive the third-man return. The press unit bit on the first rhythm and over-committed. Mahmoud stepped forward, drew the six, and slipped a blind, weight-perfect feed into Yasser's underlap. The shot skidded inches wide. No applause. Reset. The scouts' pens scratched.
Next cue: "Protect a lead with intelligent possession." This was harder in practice than on a whiteboard; players wanted to kill games with hero passes. Mahmoud killed it with boredom. He showed central and returned the ball at the pace his teammate could handle. He turned bodies with the geometry of patience. Twice he shaped for a progressive dart, saw the lane close a heartbeat before release, and ate the pass, recycling backward. He felt the tiny frustration from the forwards like heat on his neck—and accepted it. Winning often sounded like groans.
"Now chaos," Coach barked. "Ten v ten, transition heavy. Orange ball." The press unit kicked off and immediately ballooned a cross-field switch. Mahmoud had already cheated two paces toward the danger zone, intercepting on his toe, cushioning it into stride. A runner snapped at his shoulder. He didn't accelerate; he decelerated into the tackle, let the defender overrun, and opened his hips to the opposite channel. Release, recover, point. Calm in a thunderclap.
VALYS thrummed at the edge of his awareness. "Decision latency reduced. Energy expenditure optimal. Ankle load distribution even."
He stored the data and kept moving.
Halfway through the block, a miscontrol from the left back turned into a fifty-fifty. Mahmoud cut across to shield and took contact that rattled him shin to shoulder. Instinct screamed to plant and contest with force; discipline made him ride the challenge and spin off, using the opponent's momentum to draw a soft foul.
Kareem jogged by, smirking. "You're annoying to tackle."
"That's the idea," Mahmoud said, breath steady.
A water break cut the rhythm. Yasser slid beside him on the touchline. "They're baiting central switches. Next one, skip the corridor. Hit the shallow chip to the winger's chest."
Mahmoud rolled the picture in his mind. "If their six tracks, near‑post cutback is on."
"Exactly."
Coach's whistle. "Set pieces."
They ran corners until legs hummed. Mahmoud's role: edge-of-box sentry, second-ball predator, and emergency breaker if the counter sparked. On the third rep the clearance popped high and ugly. He timed the drop, met it with a controlled volley—no fireworks, just a laser-guided pass back into the mixer. The ball pinballed and died at the striker's feet for a tap-in. Training goal, but the principle mattered: violence through control.
Toward the end, Coach called the session's spine. "Scenario four: The Europeans press in a 4‑1‑4‑1. Their eight—Gertsson—jumps inside on a cue. Beat him with pre-movement, not dribbling."
The name tightened something in Mahmoud's chest—not fear, recognition. He pictured Emil's tape: shoulders turned a fraction early, recovery step long, pride in the press leaving a soft back pocket. He floated a yard deeper on the next build, pulled Emil's analog (today's stand‑in) out by showing for the ball—then ghosted into the space he left, receiving the return on the half-turn.
Two touches later, the orange unit's shape folded like a paper fan. "Again," Coach said, but softer.
The scrimmage closed with a full-field, two-minute drill: golden goal. Stakes invented, intensity real. Orange won the toss and tried to throttle. Mahmoud tracked a runner, then peeled away at the exact second a square ball telegraphed through the grass. Interception. He didn't hit the home-run ball; he clipped a diagonal to Yasser's back foot, then burst forward to occupy a center back. The decoy run opened the lane for a late arriving midfielder to finish near post.
Whistle. Session over. Noise condensed into breath and the soft rip of velcro as players peeled off GPS vests.
Coach gathered them. "Better. We're close to the tempo I want. Close isn't enough by Saturday." His eyes settled on Mahmoud for a single beat, unreadable but present. "Recovery. Film at sixteen hundred."
As the group dispersed, the older scout with the chewed pen approached Coach at midfield. Mahmoud didn't listen; he watched their posture. Pen‑Chewer gestured toward the midfield zone, made a small circle with his finger—the universal sign for pivot—then shrugged like he'd found something he didn't expect. Coach's response was a half‑smile that didn't reach his eyes.
In the locker room, ice hissed against Mahmoud's skin. The ankle wasn't yelling; it was conversing. Progress. He toweled off and found a folded paper in his cubby—Yasser's handwriting on the outside: "Triggers."
Inside: bullet points.
- When the six is pinned, you're the emergency outlet.
- If Emil jumps you, bait and bounce. Don't carry.
- Final third: trust Kareem's diagonal. Arrive late, not first.
Mahmoud read it twice, then wrote his own at the bottom:
- If we're drowning, make the game small.
He slid the paper back to Yasser's space without comment.
Afternoon film felt less like school and more like reconnaissance. Clips of the Europeans looped: immaculate first touches, disciplined fullbacks, greedy wingers who loved the blind‑side run. Coach froze a frame: their right back overcommitted on a touchline trap, leaving the far half‑space yawning. "That's where we win if we win at all," he said. No one argued.
After film, the building emptied into its evening lull. Mahmoud stayed. He stood alone on the near touchline and let the stadium settle into its nighttime voice—distant traffic, a flicker from the maintenance lights, the murmur of wind through the open concourse. He rolled a ball under his foot, stopping it at subtle angles, teaching muscle and tendon the vocabulary of trust again.
VALYS spoke softly, as if respectful of the quiet. "You are operating at ninety‑five percent of pre‑injury load under match-sim pressure. Cognitive map building: advanced. Sleep target: eight hours, minimum."
He nudged the ball forward, then stopped it dead with the inside of his left. "What's the thing I can do that they won't plan for?"
"Create boredom," VALYS answered. "Then break it before they are ready."
He smiled at that—mean and private.
On the walk out, he passed Kareem at the exit. "Big one," Kareem said.
"Just another ninety," Mahmoud replied.
Kareem snorted. "Liar."
"Yeah," Mahmoud admitted, "big one."
Night wrapped the academy in concrete hush. At home, he iced, ate, and lay flat with the ceiling fan slicing the dark into neat, moving shapes. He replayed the day in half‑dreams: Emil's ghost stepping too soon; the chip to Yasser's chest; the way patience could feel like a lever capable of moving the field itself.
Before sleep dragged him under, he whispered to the room, to the idea of Saturday, to the boy he had been on a frozen morning:
"When the game tilts, I'll be the hinge."
And for the first time all week, he slept without waking.
End of Chapter 19.