Dortmund – Two Weeks Later
The whistle blew sharp and cold across the field, cutting through the morning mist. Leo Brenner stood on the halfway line, tugging his sleeves over his frozen hands. The youth tournament was in full swing, and FC Linden's under-13s were clinging to a fragile 1–0 lead against a much stronger Essen side.
Leo didn't care about the scouts. Or the parents shouting from the sidelines. Or the kid across from him who stood a full head taller.
He only cared about the ball.
"Middle, Leo!" his teammate shouted.
Leo darted into space, receiving a quick pass on the turn. With a touch as smooth as silk, he split two defenders and bolted forward. He didn't have the power others had, but he had something they didn't—vision. Timing. The ability to disappear into pockets of space no one else even noticed.
He played a perfect through ball into the box.
Goal.
The crowd on the sideline erupted, but Leo didn't smile. He just turned back to his position, eyes scanning, always looking ahead.
Across the field, near the far corner, a man in a dark coat and flat cap scribbled something in a notebook. He said nothing. He never clapped. But he had been watching Leo all morning, every move, every decision.
After the match, Leo jogged over to his father, who had brought warm cocoa in a thermos and a bag of pastries. His mother was working late again.
"You played well," his father said, trying to sound casual.
Leo shrugged. "I could've finished that last chance."
"Maybe. But you made the team better. That's rarer."
Leo sipped the cocoa and glanced around the field. Teams were packing up. Parents waved. Some kids were already arguing over who would ride in which car. Just another tournament.
He didn't know he'd been noticed.
That evening, at the offices of Rot-Weiss Ahlen, the man in the flat cap sat across from the club's youth director.
"Name?" the director asked, flipping open a folder.
"Leo Brenner. FC Linden. Midfielder. Twelve years old," the scout replied.
"Another short one?"
"Yes."
"Technique?"
"Exceptional. Reads the game like he's twenty. But light. Fragile."
The director leaned back. "So what are you saying?"
"I'm saying," the scout replied, "that if we don't call him first, someone else will. And soon."
Back in Dortmund, Leo lay in bed, watching raindrops race down the window. He could still hear the sound of the crowd, the thud of the ball against his boot, the slice of his pass through the wet grass.
His heart beat a little faster than usual.
He didn't know why.
He didn't know that his name had just be
en written into a notebook that would change everything.