The train ride to the airport felt longer than it really was. Noah sat near the window, watching the landscape blur past in streaks of green and gray, his duffel bag resting by his feet. His farewell at the station replayed over and over in his mind—the hugs from his parents, the sharp but proud nod from Coach Harper, Leo's grin and promise to face him one day on the pitch, and Riku's words, "Don't start hiding again." He gripped the strap of his bag tighter as if holding onto those moments would keep him steady.
He hadn't cried at the station, though his throat had felt raw and heavy, but now, alone in the quiet hum of the train, a subtle ache spread through him. Every corner of his life had been shifted in a single decision: to leave the comfort of familiarity for something uncertain, something that scared him. A younger Noah, the one who had once avoided eye contact in practice and always played the safest pass possible, wouldn't have done this. He would've stayed, clinging to the comfort of routine, even if it meant never growing. But that version of him had been slowly chipped away over months of sweat, mistakes, victories, and friendships.
As the train slowed into the airport station, he exhaled deeply and stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. The automated voice announced the final stop, and he stepped onto the platform feeling as if he was walking into another life.
The airport terminal buzzed with activity—rolling luggage wheels, distant announcements, and the murmur of hundreds of travelers speaking in dozens of different languages. For a second, he froze, overwhelmed. This wasn't like leaving home for a match in another city; this was leaving his country for who knew how long. He spotted his gate and made his way through security, his fingers fidgeting with the strap of his bag the entire time.
When he finally sat at the gate, waiting for boarding, he pulled out his phone. There were unread messages: one from Leo with a ridiculous selfie captioned "Don't forget us when you're famous, Maestro"; another from Riku, simple but pointed: "Prove me right about you." And one from his mom, short and heartfelt: "We love you. Always." He stared at that one the longest, then put the phone away and leaned back in the seat.
The airplane smelled faintly of recycled air and something vaguely metallic. Noah found his seat by the window, dropped into it, and buckled his belt. He watched people file in, some looking calm, others hurried, and he wondered briefly if they were all as nervous about where they were going as he was. When the plane began to taxi, he pressed his forehead lightly to the cold window and closed his eyes.
It was a strange feeling: being in motion and yet still, physically trapped in his seat while his entire life shifted underneath him. He thought about that first day at the academy when he could barely meet Harper's eyes, about the times Leo had dragged him out of his shell, about Riku's constant prodding to take more responsibility. If they hadn't been there, would he even have said yes to Ajax's offer? Probably not. He was still the same Noah who hesitated at risk, who hated leaving his comfort zone—but they had changed him, pushed him into the uncomfortable, and he hadn't broken.
The flight attendant offered drinks; he took water and murmured a thanks, then turned back to the view. The engines roared, and the plane lifted off. As the ground fell away, so did something else inside him, like he was peeling away from his old life piece by piece. It wasn't sadness exactly—it was weight. The safe version of Noah Carter was staying behind on that runway, while the version strapped into this seat had no choice but to grow.
Somewhere over the clouds, he pulled out his notebook. It wasn't something many teammates knew he kept, but he used it to jot down passing patterns and ideas. He sketched a simple diamond midfield with arrows pointing outward, a habit he had started after Harper once told him, "Write down what you see. A game isn't just played with feet, but with your head first." As the pen moved, he thought of Ajax's style: total football, fluid positional play, fast transitions. He had watched them on television plenty of times, studying how their midfielders were never static, how every movement seemed to open space for another. He was about to step into that environment, and for the first time since boarding, a spark of excitement cut through the anxiety.
The pilot's voice eventually announced their descent, and Noah braced himself as the city of Amsterdam came into view. Canals like ribbons of silver glinted in the late morning light, and streets lined with neat rows of houses looked like something out of a storybook. He exhaled slowly. This was home now—or at least, it would have to be.
Schiphol Airport was busy, a swirl of travelers and voices in Dutch, English, and languages Noah couldn't even place. He followed the signs through customs and into arrivals where a tall man in his thirties stood with a sign that read: Noah Carter – Ajax.
"You must be Noah," the man said, his Dutch accent mild but noticeable. "I'm Jeroen, player liaison. Welcome to Amsterdam."
Noah nodded quickly, shaking his hand. "Thanks. Nice to meet you."
"Long flight?"
"Yeah, a little."
"You'll get used to it. Come on, I'll take you to the academy residence."
The car ride was quiet at first, Noah staring out the window at the rows of bicycles and picturesque buildings sliding by. Amsterdam was different—clean, calm, and oddly peaceful despite the movement everywhere. It felt foreign in the way a dream does: slightly unreal, slightly intimidating.
Jeroen glanced at him. "You look nervous. That's normal. Everyone is on their first day. But listen, Ajax doesn't pick players who don't belong. You'll see."
Noah managed a small smile. "Thanks. I guess it's just… a lot."
"It should feel like a lot," Jeroen said with a grin. "If it didn't, it wouldn't be worth it."
When they arrived, the academy complex took Noah's breath away. Modern training facilities stretched across immaculate grounds, with pitches so pristine they looked almost artificial. Young players were already training, their crisp passing drills echoing faintly in the air. This was it—the place where legends were molded.
Jeroen led him to his room in the player residence: clean, simple, a bed, a desk, and a large window overlooking one of the training pitches. Noah dropped his bag on the floor and stood at the window for a long time, watching the players below. They were sharp, fast, and purposeful in a way that made his stomach tighten. He had been one of the best at his old academy, but here, he might be just another name on a list.
That evening, he was introduced to some teammates. Most were polite, though one in particular, a tall midfielder named Sjoerd, gave him a firm handshake and a look that bordered on challenging. "We'll see what you can do tomorrow," he said simply.
"Looking forward to it," Noah replied, though part of him wondered if he actually was.
Dinner felt strange—new foods, new faces, and conversations in Dutch that he couldn't quite follow. He kept mostly to himself, offering smiles where appropriate, but inside, anxiety gnawed at him. Was he ready for this? Could he handle a place like Ajax?
That night, lying in bed, the events of the past two days washed over him—the goodbyes, the train ride, the plane, the new city, the unfamiliar faces. He thought of Riku and Leo, of Harper's steady hand on his shoulder, of his parents' proud but teary smiles. Every one of them had believed he could do this. Maybe he needed to believe it too.
He turned to the window, where the training pitch was dimly lit under tall floodlights. Tomorrow he would step onto that field as an Ajax player, not just some timid boy from his home academy. And tomorrow, for better or worse, he would begin to find out what kind of player—and what kind of person—he really was.