The Jamaican sun didn't just shine; it pressed. It pressed down on the cracked, baked earth of the Cornwall College field, on the rusted metal bleachers, and on the back of fourteen-year-old Armani Wilson's neck. Each droplet of sweat that traced a path through the dust on his temple felt like a tiny, personal rebellion against the heat.
But the heat inside him was a different kind of fire.
It was a nervous, churning inferno in the pit of his stomach that had little to do with the tropical climate. It was the fire of a dream that felt too big for his lanky frame, a dream whispered under his breath during maths lessons and shouted at the television screen every Saturday morning when the Premier League came on.
Today was the day he'd either fuel that fire or watch it sputter out. Tryouts.
He stood on the sideline, one of a swarm of maybe fifty boys, all jostling, stretching, and trying to look taller, faster, tougher than they were. The air smelled of cut grass, liniment oil, and the sharp, coppery scent of ambition. Armani's own boots, once white but now scuffed to a dull grey, felt alien on his feet. He'd saved for six months, doing odd jobs for Mr. Henry at the corner shop, stacking cans of bully beef and bags of rice until he had enough to buy them. They were the most expensive thing he owned.
"Wilson! Yuh ready to get yuh pants bruk?" a voice boomed beside him.
It was Kofi, his best friend since primary school. Where Armani was lean and wiry, all nervous energy and sharp angles, Kofi was already built like a tank, a broad-shouldered wall of confidence with a grin that could light up a room.
"Kofi, man, why yuh haffi say that?" Armani muttered, tugging at the too-large Cornwall College training jersey they'd been given. "Mi nerves bad enough already."
"Cha! Nuh worry bout it," Kofi said, clapping him on the back so hard he stumbled. "Jus' remember. Dem man deh cyaan run like you. Mi see yuh run from Miss Patterson dog down by Bottom Lane. Yuh faster than Usain Bolt!"
Armani managed a weak smile. It was true. His speed was his gift. It was the one thing he was sure of. When he ran, really ran, everything else fell away—the worries about school, the quiet struggles at home, the sheer vastness of his dream. It was just him, the wind in his ears, and the ground blurring beneath his feet.
His eyes drifted from the chattering boys to the far end of the field. There, under the shade of a spindly palm tree, stood Coach Reynolds. He was a legend at Cornwall. A former Reggae Boyz midfielder himself, he was a man carved from mahogany, with a stern, impassive face and eyes that missed nothing. He held a clipboard like it was a scepter, and beside him stood his assistant, a younger, leaner man with a stopwatch, barking orders for the first drill.
"Alright, listen up!" the assistant coach yelled, his voice cutting through the chatter. "We start with basics. Fifty-yard dash. Time. We look for pace. Form. Let's go! First ten!"
The tryouts had begun.
Armani's group wasn't first. He watched, heart hammering against his ribs, as the first wave of boys took off. Some were powerful, churning up the turf. Others were clumsy, all arms and legs. Coach Reynolds didn't write a thing. He just watched.
Then it was his turn. He lined up on the starting line, the sun glaring off the white chalk. Kofi was in the lane next to him, giving him a exaggerated wink.
"On your mark… Go!"
The world shrank to the patch of grass in front of him. The nervous fire in his gut exploded into pure, propulsive energy. He was off. It wasn't a run; it was a flight. His legs pistoned, his arms pumped, and the shouts from the sideline faded into a distant roar. He crossed the finish line a full stride ahead of Kofi, who came in a respectable second.
He bent over, hands on his knees, gulping air. He risked a glance at Coach Reynolds. The coach's eyes were on him. Not a smile, not a nod. Just a long, appraising look. Then, he made a single, small mark on his clipboard.
A mark. Was it good? Was it bad? The not-knowing was torture.
The next few hours were a grueling blur. Dribbling drills through cones, where Armani's natural feel for the ball let him weave with an instinctive grace that felt more like dance than sport. Passing drills, where his accuracy was decent but his weight of pass was sometimes too light—a finesse problem on a hard, bumpy pitch.
Then came the small-sided games. This was where you found out who could really play. This was where football happened.
They were split into teams of seven, playing on a shortened pitch. The moment the ball was at his feet, something clicked. The nervous Armani vanished. This was his language. The shouts of his teammates, the spin of the ball, the geometry of the open space—it all made perfect sense.
He got the ball on the right wing, took a touch to settle it, and saw a defender lunging in. Without a second thought, he nudged the ball forward with the outside of his boot and exploded past him. Pure pace. The defender was left grabbing at air. The touchline was his highway. He looked up and saw a sea of red jerseys in the box. For a split second, he hesitated. *Shoot? Cross?*
It was a second too long. A older, bigger player from the other team, a guy named Marcus with a reputation already built on the schoolboy circuit, came crashing in with a tackle that was more thunder than technique. It was clean, but just barely. The force of it sent Armani sprawling, skidding across the rough turf on his elbow.
A hot, stinging pain shot up his arm. The taste of dirt filled his mouth.
"Welcome to Cornwall, little youth," Marcus grunted, jogging away.
Humiliation burned hotter than the scrapes on his skin. He pushed himself up, anger flaring. He saw Kofi offering a hand, concern on his face, but Armani ignored it, brushing the dirt from his wound. He'd been too hesitant. He'd been thinking, not playing.
Coach Reynolds's voice carried across the field, calm but firm. "Get up, Wilson. The game doesn't stop for your feelings."
The words were a slap. And a lesson.
The game resumed. Armani's anger cooled into a hard, focused determination. He got the ball again, deeper this time. Marcus was on him in an instant, a smirk on his face, expecting to bully him off the ball.
But Armani was ready. As Marcus committed to the tackle, Armani didn't try to out-muscle him. Instead, he dragged the ball back with the sole of his boot, spinning away from the challenge in one fluid motion—a move he'd seen Paul Pogba do a hundred times on YouTube. He left Marcus stumbling and confused.
Now he was facing the goal. He saw a sliver of space opening up. He didn't hesitate this time. He took two touches to set himself and unleashed a shot. It wasn't the most powerful, but it was precise, curling away from the goalkeeper's desperate dive and rippling into the bottom corner of the net.
The sound was perfect. The *thwup* of the ball hitting the back of the net.
For a moment, there was silence, then a few whoops from his teammates. Kofi ran over and engulfed him in a bear hug. "Yuh see! Mi tell yuh! A dat mi a talk bout!"
Armani couldn't help the grin that split his face. He looked over at Coach Reynolds. The coach wasn't smiling. But he was writing. Writing a lot.
The final whistle blew, signaling the end of the torturous tryout. Every muscle in Armani's body ached. His elbow was raw and bleeding, his lungs burned, and he was drenched in sweat and dust.
Coach Reynolds called them all into a huddle in the center of the field. The sun was beginning to dip lower, casting long shadows across the pitch.
"Not bad," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Some of you have talent. Some of you have heart. Very few of you have both. The team list will be posted on the bulletin board outside my office tomorrow morning at seven."
A collective groan went up. Another night of torture.
"Dismissed."
The crowd of boys began to disperse, a river of exhausted, hopeful teenagers. Armani trudged towards the sideline to grab his water bottle and bag, his mind replaying every touch, every mistake, every moment of the last three hours.
"Wilson."
The voice stopped him cold. It was Coach Reynolds.
Armani turned, his heart instantly back in his throat. "Yes, Coach?"
Coach Reynolds looked down at him, his expression unreadable. "That move. The drag-back. You practice that?"
Armani nodded, suddenly unable to find his voice.
"Who do you support?"
"Manchester United, Coach," Armani said, the words coming out in a rush.
A flicker of something—was it amusement?—passed over Coach Reynolds's stern features. He gave a single, slow nod.
"Pogba," he said. "Flashy. Don't forget the fundamentals. Speed is a gift. Don't waste it just running in a straight line. Learn when to go, and when to pass. Understand?"
"Yes, Coach."
"Go home. Get some rest."
And with that, the coach turned and walked away, leaving Armani standing alone on the sideline, his mind racing faster than his feet ever could.
The walk home felt different. The evening air was cooler, the sounds of Montego Bay—the sputtering of taxis, the distant beat of dancehall music, the chatter of families on their verandas—felt sharper, more vivid. The doubt was still there, a cold knot in his stomach, but it was now tangled up with a fragile, defiant thread of hope.
He replayed Coach Reynolds's words over and over. *'Speed is a gift. Don't waste it.'* It wasn't a guarantee. It wasn't a promise.
But it was something.
He arrived at his small, clapboard house just as the last light of the day was fading. His mother was in the kitchen, the rich, spicy scent of curry goat and rice wafting through the screen door.
"Armani? Dat you? How it go?" she called out.
He stood on the front step, looking at the dusty yard, the world feeling both huge and incredibly small. He thought of the tryout, the tackle, the goal, the coach's inscrutable face.
He took a deep breath, pushed open the door, and prepared to answer.