Noah stood on the edge of the second-string training pitch, his boots sinking slightly into the softer turf. It felt… different here. The main squad pitch had carried an air of surgical precision, where every pass echoed with intent and every player moved like clockwork. This place, though, was looser, warmer—less pressure, more noise. Mistakes were part of the rhythm here, not something to fear.
Coach Willem Vermeer walked alongside him, clipboard tucked under his arm as if it were an extension of his body. "This is where you learn courage, Carter," he said finally, breaking the silence. His voice was calm, steady, yet there was no mistaking the weight behind it. "Out there, in the first string, you were holding back. Here, I expect you to stop caring about looking perfect and start caring about taking responsibility. Pass, shoot, dribble—it doesn't matter if you fail. I want to see you take ownership of the pitch."
Noah nodded, unsure how to respond beyond the simple acknowledgment. A part of him bristled at being "demoted," but another part understood—this was a chance to rebuild, to grow.
The players of the second string were waiting, a mix of curiosity and mild amusement in their eyes. For them, Noah was the "first-team guy" sent down, which automatically made him both an outsider and someone to measure themselves against.
The first to step forward was Jens Dekker, a broad-shouldered midfielder who looked like he'd been built to win shoulder duels. "Jens," he said, offering a firm handshake and an easy smile. "We play fast here. If you screw up, don't worry—it means you're trying. We like that."
Next came Ali Moussa, a wiry forward who practically radiated cocky energy, his grin sharp and playful. "Pass me the ball and I'll score," he said with a wink. "Don't, and you better have a good reason."
Behind him was Lars Koopman, a tall center-back whose expression was neutral, bordering on intimidating. He gave a slight nod and said simply, "Lars. I break stuff." His tone was so dry that the entire group laughed.
Finally, Stefan, the goalkeeper, jogged up and clapped Noah on the back. "I'm Stefan. Don't worry, I let in goals sometimes. Builds character for the strikers."
The laughter eased the tension, and for the first time since Vermeer told him he was being moved down, Noah felt the smallest hint of relief.
Training started immediately. Warm-ups flowed into possession drills, and Noah quickly saw what Vermeer had meant about pace—this group didn't have the clean technical base of the first string, but they played with freedom, even recklessness. Passes zipped without hesitation, dribbles were attempted where safer options existed, and communication was constant, messy, but alive.
Halfway through, Vermeer blew his whistle. "Carter, with me."
They left the pitch and headed toward the performance gym connected to the indoor shooting hall. "You've been relying on vision and safe passes your entire career," Vermeer said as they walked. "That's fine for keeping possession, but it doesn't win games at this level. I need you to be a threat, Carter. That means shooting. Not just accuracy—power. You don't scare anyone right now, and a midfielder who doesn't scare the opponent is just decoration."
The performance gym smelled faintly of polish and steel. Professional-grade equipment filled the room, emblazoned with Ajax logos. Vermeer handed Noah a resistance band and pointed to the squat rack. "Lower body. Everything about a strike comes from your base—quads, glutes, hamstrings, core. You have the mechanics, but no explosiveness."
They started with weighted squats, Vermeer adjusting Noah's form, ensuring knees didn't collapse inward and hips engaged properly. Then came single-leg lunges with resistance bands, mimicking the motion of striking a ball. "Power is useless without stability," Vermeer said. "We build the foundation, then we add the shot."
By the time they moved to the shooting hall, Noah's legs already burned. The hall itself looked like something from a science-fiction movie: automatic ball feeders, motion-tracking nets displaying ball speed and trajectory in real time, and cameras recording every strike for analysis.
"Plant foot points where you want it to go," Vermeer instructed, placing a ball in position. "Strike with your laces, through the middle to three-quarters of the ball, and drive your hips. Don't baby it. Commit."
Noah lined up, swung hard, and sent the ball flying high, bouncing off the top of the net.
"Again."
Ball after ball came at him. Some strikes were weak, others wildly inaccurate, but each carried a little more force than the last. By the twentieth attempt, sweat clung to his neck and arms, and one shot finally cracked into the net at 73 km/h.
Ali, who had wandered in out of curiosity, whistled. "Seventy already? You're not just a passer anymore, Carter."
Vermeer recorded the speed on his tablet. "Every day: resistance work, thirty shots minimum, then core stability work. We'll add off-balance and one-touch finishes in a month. I don't want you just kicking the ball harder—I want you striking it like you mean to score."
Noah nodded, legs trembling but mind focused. It was grueling, but for the first time in months, he felt like he was building something new, something dangerous.
That night, after dinner with his new teammates—a meal filled with teasing from Ali and Jens about how "the golden boy can actually sweat"—Noah sat on his dorm bed, scrolling on his phone.
For the first time, he searched beyond highlight reels: Andrés Iniesta La Masia documentary. He had always liked Iniesta, admired his calmness and control, but never really understood what made him special. He found interviews describing how Iniesta trained balance obsessively, how he mastered the art of "La Pausa," delaying passes by fractions of a second to break defensive structures. He watched clips of Iniesta gliding past players, his small frame shifting direction effortlessly, before releasing perfect through-balls or finishing chances himself.
The deeper Noah went, the more he realized: Iniesta wasn't great because he avoided risk; he was great because he understood when to take it, and trusted his body and technique completely.
He froze on one clip: Iniesta, under pressure from two defenders, dropped his shoulder, let them bite, and then slipped a ball through that created a goal. It looked simple but carried layers of subtlety Noah had never noticed before.
"This is who you are supposed to be," Noah whispered. "Not a copy. Something that grows from it."
His phone buzzed: a text from Leo—Don't get lazy there, man. Another from Riku: Second string? Good. Makes you hungry. And from his mom: Proud of you. Keep going, Noah.
He smiled faintly, exhaustion pulling at him but replaced by something deeper: focus. Tomorrow, there would be more leg burn, more strikes, more failures—but now, for the first time, it felt like he was stepping toward something real, something permanent.
Coach Vermeer's expectations echoed in his head as he drifted toward sleep:
Stop playing safe. Own the game. Take risks.
And Noah swore to himself he would.