The academy campus felt different the day before the final. Usually, there was music blaring from the gym, the buzz of players sprinting through drills, and the constant chatter in the dining hall. Today, there was a quiet hum beneath everything, like a collective breath held before something important. Players moved slower, voices dropped lower, and even the staff carried themselves with an unspoken reverence for what was coming.
Noah sat alone in his room, perched on the edge of his bed with his phone in his hand. He had watched the highlight reels from their semifinal three times already, rewinding the clip of that no-look pass into space until the screen blur felt burned into his memory. Online chatter was louder than ever; some posts called him "England's quiet maestro," others compared him to Iniesta, which made him grimace. It wasn't the comparison itself—it was the weight of it. "I'm not Iniesta," he muttered to himself. "I'm just me."
His phone buzzed suddenly, pulling him out of thought. He glanced down and saw his mom's name glowing on the screen. A smile spread across his face almost instinctively as he answered. "Hey, Mom."
"Noah!" Her voice carried warmth and energy even over the phone, wrapping around him like a blanket. "I saw the clips online. Everyone's talking about you! I even saw one with commentary in Spanish—'el joven maestro.' Do you know what that means?"
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Young maestro?"
"That's right! And it's true. That pass to Leo… Noah, it was beautiful. Your dad even said it reminded him of something out of a movie."
The words hit deeper than he expected, and for a moment he couldn't think of anything to say except, "Thanks, Mom. It was just one game, though. The final's tomorrow."
There was a pause, her voice softening slightly. "You sound nervous."
He hesitated, staring at the worn studs of his boots by the door. "I'm not nervous, I just… it's different. Bigger. Everyone's watching now."
"Noah," she said gently, but with the kind of firmness only a parent could muster. "Do you remember when you were little? You used to go to the park with that tiny ball your uncle bought you. You'd pass it against that brick wall for hours, pretending you were playing in a stadium full of people. Do you remember what I asked you back then?"
Noah smiled faintly at the memory. "You asked why I was smiling when I was just passing a ball against a wall."
"And what did you say?"
"I said… because I liked how it felt. It felt like magic."
"Exactly," she said, her voice warming further. "That's still you, Noah. Play like that tomorrow. Don't play safe, don't play scared, and don't play for the people watching. Play because you love how it feels."
His throat tightened a little, and he took a deep breath. "Thanks, Mom. I needed that."
"Proud of you, honey. No matter what happens tomorrow, you hear me? Proud of you."
"I hear you."
When the call ended, Noah stared at the screen for a long moment before putting the phone down on the nightstand. His chest felt heavier but steadier, like something inside had been realigned.
That evening, Harper gathered the entire squad in the lounge. He didn't bring out the tactical board or his usual stern presence; instead, he leaned casually against the wall, arms folded. "I won't give you some long speech—you know what tomorrow is. But I will tell you this: national scouts will be there. Not just club reps. England, Japan, maybe others. They're looking to see who can handle pressure. Don't worry about who they're watching or why. Worry about playing our game."
The room buzzed with quiet murmurs. A couple of younger players exchanged wide-eyed looks. Riku tilted his head slightly, glancing at Noah with a raised eyebrow. "National scouts, huh?"
"Yeah," Noah said softly, feeling his pulse quicken at the thought.
Riku smirked faintly. "Guess we'd better put on a show."
For once, it didn't feel like a dig. It felt like an agreement, an understanding between two players who were no longer simply rivals—they were partners tomorrow.
The rest of the evening slipped into something almost ordinary despite the stakes. Someone brought out an old deck of cards, and soon half the team was gathered around a table arguing over rules while others threw jokes across the room. The television in the corner played an old professional match, and someone quipped about how slow football looked ten years ago, earning a round of laughter. For an hour or two, the looming final faded, replaced by the kind of camaraderie that only forms in quiet before storms.
Later, Noah stepped outside alone, the cool night air brushing against his face. The campus was still, the pitch in the distance lit only by a single floodlight left on for security. He stared at it for a long time, imagining tomorrow's roar, the scouts watching, the cameras catching every move. For the first time, instead of fear or hesitation, he felt a kind of calm determination settle in. He could see the match unfolding in his head, feel the ball at his feet, hear his mom's voice: Don't play safe. Play because you love how it feels.
When he returned to his room, the others were already turning in, the laughter and card games giving way to the quiet rustle of players heading to bed. Noah placed his boots neatly by the door, sat on the edge of his bed, and stared at them one last time before lying down. Tomorrow, everything could change. But tonight, all he could do was breathe and wait.