They came on a Tuesday, three buses with tinted windows rolling through the academy gates like storm clouds gathering. Mahmoud watched from the upper-floor window of the physio room, ice pack pressed to his ankle, as European players stepped onto academy turf with the practiced confidence of tourists who owned the map.
Emil Gertsson emerged from the second bus, blonde hair catching morning light, cleats slung over one shoulder. Even from forty meters up, Mahmoud could read his body language: loose, unbothered, scanning the facilities with the detached interest of someone who'd seen better. The other players followed his lead—stretching casually, talking in tight groups, claiming space without asking permission.
"Threat assessment?" VALYS whispered in Mahmoud's mind.
"Real," Mahmoud replied. "Very real."
He pressed the ice pack firmer and watched Emil point toward the main pitch, probably counting flaws in the surface, noting wind patterns, cataloging advantages they could exploit. The European coaching staff emerged last—sharp tracksuits, tablets instead of clipboards, the quiet intensity of people who expected to win.
Twenty minutes later, Mahmoud was on the practice pitch running through light technical work when the Europeans took the field. Their warm-up unfolded like choreography: synchronized passing patterns, coordinated movement, touch-pass-run sequences that flowed like music. No wasted motion. No casual laughter. Just ruthless preparation.
Coach Muneer stood at midfield, arms crossed, watching. His expression gave nothing away, but Mahmoud caught the slight tightening around his eyes. This wasn't going to be friendly.
"They're good," Yasser muttered, jogging past with a ball at his feet.
"Good enough," Mahmoud agreed, never breaking rhythm in his own drills.
But as he watched Emil orchestrate their possession work—calling switches with subtle hand signals, dropping into pockets of space that materialized around him like magic—Mahmoud felt something sharpen inside his chest. Not fear. Recognition. This was the level. The real level. Everything else had been preparation.
During lunch, the academy buzzed with nervous energy. Players picked at their food, stole glances at the European table, whispered assessments that grew more pessimistic with each retelling.
"Did you see their striker?" someone asked. "Built like a machine."
"Their keeper's six-foot-four, easy."
"Emil's got twelve caps for youth national team. Twelve."
Mahmoud ate in silence, turning over what he'd observed. Yes, they were technically superior. Yes, they moved with the fluidity of players raised on perfect pitches. But he'd also noticed things others missed: how their right back stayed narrow during build-up phases, how Emil's perfect positioning sometimes left him isolated when teammates deviated from script, how their press, for all its coordination, relied on triggers they might not see coming.
That afternoon, Coach gathered the academy squad in the film room. The lights dimmed, and footage of the Europeans' last three matches flickered to life.
"Study everything," Coach said. "Their shapes, their habits, their tells. Friday's not just a match—it's an education. For them and for us."
Frame by frame, they dissected European possession. Mahmoud made mental notes: Emil's tendency to drift right when pressured, their fullbacks' aggressive overlaps that occasionally left gaps, the way their center backs split wide during goal kicks, creating a diamond that could be collapsed with the right diagonal run.
"Questions?" Coach asked when the footage ended.
Silence.
"Good. Because I only have one: are we here to admire them, or are we here to learn from beating them?"
The room stirred. Shoulders straightened. Chins lifted.
"Training tomorrow. Double session. Light contact, heavy thinking. Dismissed."
As players filed out, Mahmoud lingered. On the frozen screen, Emil stood in a pocket of space, ball at his feet, surveying options like a general reviewing battle plans.
"Worthy opponent," VALYS observed.
"The best kind," Mahmoud replied.
That evening, instead of his usual recovery routine, Mahmoud found himself on the rooftop again. The city spread below him, lights beginning to twinkle as darkness gathered. He held a ball in his hands, rolling it between his palms, feeling its familiar weight and texture.
His phone buzzed. A message from his younger cousin: "Saw the news about the Europeans. You nervous?"
Mahmoud stared at the question for a long moment. Nervous? No. Something else. Something harder to name.
He typed back: "Ready."
Then he set the phone aside and began juggling the ball in the diminishing light. Left foot, right foot, thigh, chest, head. Simple touches, perfect control. He wasn't practicing tricks or trying to impress invisible crowds. He was having a conversation with the game itself, reminding his body and mind that football was still football, regardless of accents or reputations.
A breeze picked up, carrying the scent of jasmine and distant cooking. Somewhere in the city, Emil Gertsson was probably reviewing their academy footage, making his own assessments, preparing his own strategy. The thought didn't intimidate Mahmoud. It excited him.
After thirty minutes, he caught the ball and held it still. His breathing was even, his ankle felt strong, and his mind was quiet in the way that preceded clarity.
"VALYS," he said. "Run tomorrow's scenarios. I want to see every way this could go."
"Processing," came the response. "Beginning with their most predictable setup."
As holographic projections danced across his vision—players moving like chess pieces, passes threading through defensive lines, counters breaking at the speed of thought—Mahmoud smiled.
Friday couldn't come fast enough.
**End of Chapter 21.**