The power was back on, but a different kind of darkness began to encroach on Armani's world. The initial, euphoric high following Ian Croft's interest curdled into a constant, low-grade anxiety. The scout's text message became a benchmark against which he measured every action, every touch, every breath on the football field.
*"I'm building a file on you for the club. Make it impressive."*
The words were a ghost over his shoulder, a silent critic in the stands of every match and practice. Every misplaced pass wasn't just a mistake; it was a black mark in a phantom dossier. Every successful dribble wasn't just a win for Cornwall; it was a line item in his application for a life he desperately craved.
The pressure was a parasite, feeding on his confidence. The effortless flow that had defined his play began to harden into something forced, calculated. He was no longer playing the game; he was performing it for an audience of one who was never there.
It started subtly. A hesitation where there was once instinct. He'd receive the ball and instead of driving forward, his mind would flash: *Is this the right choice? Is this what he wants to see?* The game, which had always been a language he spoke fluently, now felt like a test he was failing.
The next DaCosta Cup match was a home game at Cornwall's dusty, packed field. The air was thick with the smell of jerk chicken from roadside vendors and the roar of a passionate crowd. They were playing a team they were expected to beat comfortably.
From the first whistle, Armani was off. His first touch, usually so sure, betrayed him. A simple pass rolled under his foot and out for a throw-in. The crowd groaned good-naturedly. He forced a smile, shrugging it off as bad luck.
But the bad luck continued. In the 15th minute, Kofi won a towering header in defense, directing the ball perfectly into the path of Armani, who had already begun his signature explosive run into open space. It was a move they'd done a hundred times. It was a certain breakaway, a clear chance on goal.
The ball bounced once. Armani focused on it, but his mind was elsewhere. *Control it perfectly. Take a touch to set yourself. Show composure. For the file.* He overthought it. Instead of just running onto it, he tried to kill the ball dead with his instep. It was a needless bit of flair. The ball popped up, too far in front of him. The opposing goalkeeper, rushing out, smothered it easily.
The crowd fell silent for a beat before erupting in a chorus of frustrated shouts.
"Wilson! Wake up!" a voice yelled from the stands.
"Just run, yuh fool!"
On the sideline, Coach Reynolds's face was a granite mask of displeasure.
Marcus didn't bother hiding his contempt. "Yuh forget how to play?" he snarled as they jogged back. "Him did wide open!"
Armani said nothing, his cheeks burning with a mixture of shame and anger—mostly at himself.
The struggles were contagious. The team's rhythm, so dependent on his pace stretching defenses, became disjointed. They were pushing, but they were blunt. The frustration mounted. In the 35th minute, Marcus, starved of service, dropped deep to get the ball, turned his man, and unleashed a vicious, swerving shot from thirty yards out. It screamed past the keeper's fingertips and crashed against the crossbar. The woodwork shuddered.
It was the kind of moment of individual brilliance that should have ignited the team. Instead, it seemed to highlight their collective impotence. The half-time whistle blew with the score 0-0. It felt like a loss.
The locker room was a tense, silent place. Players gulped water, avoiding each other's eyes. Coach Reynolds stood in the center, letting the silence stretch, making them feel the weight of their poor performance.
His eyes found Armani. "Wilson. You're playing like you've never seen a football before. What is going on?"
All eyes turned to him. The weight of the crown he'd so recently coveted felt like it was crushing him. He couldn't say the truth. *I'm trying to impress a Premier League scout who texts me.* It sounded insane, even to him.
"Sorry, Coach," he mumbled, staring at his boots. "Just… off today."
"'Off' is not good enough," Reynolds said, his voice cold. "This is the DaCosta Cup. There are no 'off' days. You are a starter now. Start acting like one. Sort your head out. Now."
The second half was a grind. Armani tried too hard to force the moment, to create a highlight-reel play that would erase the first half. He attempted ambitious, low-percentage through balls that were easily intercepted. He took on one too many defenders and was routinely dispossessed. The crowd's encouragement turned to groans, then to scattered, impatient boos.
Each failed attempt was a needle in his confidence. He could feel the game slipping through his fingers, and with it, he was sure, his future.
The breakthrough, when it finally came, had nothing to do with him. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated grit from Kofi. Defending a corner, Kofi launched himself at a powerful header, clearing the ball to the edge of the box. It fell to Shemar Davis, who took one touch to control and launched a hopeful, looping ball toward Marcus, who had made a clever run in behind the tiring defense.
It was a fifty-fifty challenge. Marcus muscled off the last defender, controlled the ball with his chest, and with a stunning display of anger and technique, volleyed it past the onrushing keeper before the ball even hit the ground.
1-0.
The stadium exploded. Marcus wheeled away, screaming, releasing all his pent-up frustration, pointing to the badge on his chest. He was mobbed by his teammates. Armani ran to join the celebration, but the joy felt hollow. He was a spectator in his own team's success.
They held on to win. The final whistle brought relief, not celebration. As the team trudged off the field, the fans applauded, but the performance had been underwhelming.
Armani was the last to leave the pitch, his head down. He didn't see the disappointed looks from the fans. He only heard them. As he reached the tunnel, a local journalist stuck a microphone in his face.
"Armani, a tough game for you today. Looked like you were struggling to get into the rhythm. What was the problem out there?"
The question was like salt in a wound. He floundered, searching for an answer that wasn't the truth. "Uh… yeah. Just… one of those days. The pitch was a little bumpy. They defended well. We got the three points, that's the main thing."
It was a cliché-ridden, hollow answer. The journalist nodded, unconvinced, and moved on to interview the goal-scorer, Marcus.
The locker room was quieter than after a loss. The win was a reprieve, but everyone knew they'd played poorly. Armani showered quickly, avoiding everyone, the hot water doing nothing to wash away his feeling of failure.
He dressed and was about to slip out when his phone buzzed. His heart leaped into his throat. *Ian Croft.* He'd seen. He knew.
He fumbled for the phone, expecting a message of disappointment, a withdrawal of the precious interest.
The message was short.
> **IC:** Tough match. Every player has them. The great ones learn from them. Watch the footage. See where you held onto the ball too long. See where you could have released it earlier. This is the work. This is how you get better. I'll be in touch.
Armani stared at the screen. It wasn't condemnation. It was… coaching. It was understanding. The relief was so powerful it felt like a religious experience. He hadn't blown it. Croft saw the struggle, understood it, and was still investing in him. The validation was a drug, and he took a full, desperate hit.
He didn't see the manipulation. He didn't see that Croft was now positioning himself not just as a scout, but as his personal mentor, the only one who *truly* understood his journey and his struggles. He was isolating him.
As Armani walked out into the evening, his spirit momentarily lifted, he didn't notice Coach Reynolds watching him from his office window, a deep frown on his face. The coach had seen the look of desperate relief on Armani's face when he checked his phone. He'd seen the sudden shift in his demeanor.
Reynolds had been around football long enough to know that look. It was the look of a boy who was listening to the wrong voice.