It had been a week and a half since they watched the match between A1 and C1. The league had resumed, and the Year One division was still in full swing, with many fixtures already played and a fair share of surprises along the way—particularly on Matchdays 3 and 4.
For B-7, Matchday 3 came fast. Against D15, a team rough at the edges but stubborn in the middle. The game wasn't pretty. Passes slipped. Chances vanished. But one ball broke through—Daren blasting it in after Felix's clearance turned counterattack. A 1–0 win. Nothing shiny, but enough.
Rumors spread: "B-7 can grind. They don't just rely on luck."
Matchday 4 told a different story. Against C11, a side disciplined, compact, like walls of stone. Ninety minutes passed with sweat and frustration. Bram struck once, only for the keeper's fingertips to deny him. Jory headed wide. Percy missed by inches. Whistle. 0–0.
The dome buzzed with divided voices. "See? They're stuck already." "No—they're learning to hold, not just fight."
Outside those two games, other teams carved their own trails:
A1 rolled past another opponent, ruthless.
A2's defense stayed unbroken, two clean sheets in a row.
D14 bullied their way to wins, raw power grinding technique.
A3 wobbled again, a draw slipping points away.
And so, by the close of Matchday 4, the table shifted, numbers reshaping like a puzzle the whole academy tried to solve.
League Standings After Matchday 4
A1 – 12 pts, +7 goals
A2 – 10 pts, +3 goals
D14 – 9 pts, +3 goals
A3 – 8 pts, +3 goals
B7 – 8 pts, +2 goals
C9 – 7 pts, +1 goal
C12 – 5 pts, +1 goal
A4 – 4 pts, 0 goals
B8 – 3 pts, –2 goals
C11 – 2 pts, –1 goal
D16 – 2 pts, –3 goals
B5 – 1 pt, –2 goals
B6 – 0 pts, –3 goals
C10 – 0 pts, –5 goals
D13 – 0 pts, –5 goals
D15 – 0 pts, –4 goals
But talk was no longer just about standings. Whispers turned sharp.
"B-7… tied with A3's points? Already?" "Wait till they face A2. That'll crush their little dream." "Or maybe… maybe not. That Ashcroft kid. Something about him."
Eyes turned sharper now, wherever B-7 walked.
The cafeteria smelled of steam and spice that night. Trays clattered, spoons scraped bowls, voices tangled into a hundred conversations.
B-7 sat squeezed together at their usual corner table. Plates piled. Rice, stews, bread stacked like it was war supplies.
Daren tore into his food like he hadn't eaten in weeks. "Two goals in four games," he said with his mouth full, pointing his fork at himself. "This is what we call form, boys."
Jory groaned, leaning back. "It's what we call gluttony. Slow down before you choke."
"Choke?" Daren smirked, swallowing hard. "Never. My throat's as strong as my shot."
The table burst out laughing—except Felix, who just shook his head, focused on cutting his meat in neat, exact pieces.
Percy wiped broth from his lips, voice calm as always. "If your throat's as strong as your shot, then no wonder the keeper still caught half of them."
"Ooooh!" Jory slapped the table, nearly spilling his drink. "Percy roasted you!"
Even Bram chuckled, quiet but real.
The laughter died down slowly, replaced by the usual chewing, the scraping of forks. For a moment, the noise of the cafeteria felt far away. Bram leaned his elbows on the table, eyes half on his teammates, half drifting.
Callen noticed. "What's with the stare?"
Bram blinked, then shrugged, voice light. "Just thinking. We've played four matches already."
Felix glanced up, eyes sharp. "And?"
"And…" Bram poked a piece of bread with his fork, rolling it across the plate. "Feels like we're carrying something now. People expect things. They watch."
Jory whistled. "Listen to Mister Poetic. 'They watch.'"
Bram smirked, shaking his head. "You know what I mean. Before, nobody cared if we won or lost. Now every step feels heavier."
The words hung for a second. Even Daren slowed his chewing.
Felix set his fork down, arms crossing. "Good. That's how it should feel."
Callen leaned back, stretching lazily. "Pressure, expectation, fear… same thing. Just don't let it choke you."
Bram tilted his head, considering that. "Yeah… maybe it's fuel. Depends how we burn it."
The table went quiet, then Daren slapped Bram's back so hard his plate jumped. "Look at Ashcroft, sounding like a captain already!"
Jory laughed until he nearly spat his drink. Percy just smiled faintly.
Bram rubbed his shoulder, wincing, but the smile stayed on his lips.
Later, back at the dorm, the noise faded. Beds creaked, lamps flickered, the smell of old books and leather boots filled the air.
Bram lay on his mattress, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. His teammates' voices drifted—Jory muttering about sore legs, Daren bragging about imaginary hat-tricks, Felix telling them to sleep already.
Bram closed his eyes.
The System hummed at the edges of his thoughts, silent but present, like a shadow watching. Not pressing. Not demanding. Just waiting.
He whispered into the quiet: "We're not done, are we?"
No answer came this time. Just the faint echo of numbers burned into his mind. Stamina. Vision. Determination. Locked potential.
Bram breathed out slow. A faint smile touched his lips again, freer this time.
"Good," he whispered. "Because neither am I."
The common lounge smelled faintly of fried dough.
Jory clutched his roll protectively. "Mock me all you want. A round face hides sharper talent."
"Sharp?" Callen snorted. "You tripped over your own boot yesterday."
Bram leaned against the armrest of the sofa, chewing slow, eyes shining with quiet amusement. "He did. I saw the mark on the grass."
Jory pointed at Bram, betrayed. "Ahh, Ashcroft? I thought you were free-spirited, not a backstabber!"
That broke everyone. Even Felix, who usually stayed stone-faced, gave a short grunt of laughter before quickly coughing it away.
The teasing rolled on, light and easy. Someone dared Daren to balance three rolls on his head while drinking from a jug. He tried, failed spectacularly, and nearly choked while the others collapsed in hysterics.
The next morning broke sharp with cold air.
They gathered on the training field—dull cones set up, ladders stretched across the grass. Trials for points. Nothing official, but every drill added to their squad's reputation.
Feine barked the rhythm. "Quick feet. Tight turns. No slacking."
They went one by one.
Callen danced through the ladder, hair whipping as his boots tapped in a blur. Jory tried to match the pace, tripped halfway, and sprawled into the grass. Groans and laughter echoed.
"Shut up!" Jory spat grass from his mouth.
Daren sprinted the cones like a bull, all power, zero elegance. He finished breathless, grinning, shouting, "Fastest time! Mark it!"
Percy shook his head, calm. "Fast doesn't mean clean." His run was smooth, balanced, every step measured, arms moving like lines of poetry. Same as the rest of the squad.
Then Bram's turn.
He stepped in slow. Breath steady. Boots touched the ladder squares—tap, tap, tap. Not the fastest. Not the cleanest. But his rhythm never broke.
Replay Vision, faint as a hum, traced the path before him. His body followed, not perfectly, but enough.
Felix watched with arms crossed. "Not bad," he muttered.
Bram finished, sweat running down his temple, chest rising. He didn't say anything. But inside, the faint glow of rhythm felt alive.
They moved to shooting drills after.
Daren blasted one over the bar so high it nearly hit the dorm windows. Jory yelled, "That's a field goal, not football!"
Bram's shot curved wide the first time. Second attempt—better. Third—clean strike, low, fast. The thud against the net made him grin despite himself.
Feine's voice carried across the pitch. "Again. Until it's natural."
And so they went. Over and over. Sweat soaking through shirts, laughter breaking the monotony.
For all the pressure building outside, this—sweat, struggle, banter—was their world.
Bram lay back on his bunk, chest still warm from the day's drills. His breath eased. Silence filled the dorm, broken only by soft snores from the others.
System… stat panel.
The familiar light shimmered before his eyes.
[ Player Status Bram Ashcroft ]
Age: 12
Position: Midfielder (Undeclared Specialty)
Overall Potential: ??? (Locked)
Stamina: 62 (+4)
Agility: 55
Strength: 48
Passing: 70
Dribbling: 54
Shooting: 45
Vision: 57
Composure: 50
Determination: 77
Bram stared. The numbers weren't just numbers. He could feel them in his legs, in the way his lungs no longer burned so quickly, in the steadier touch of his passes. His shooting—still flawed, but sharper. His vision—clearer, like he was a half-step ahead now.
He closed the panel. His lips curled, just slightly. Not pride. Not arrogance. Something quieter.
I'm moving. I'm not stuck anymore.
He rolled to his side, letting sleep pull him under. Tomorrow, the fire would rise again.
**
**
*"Thanks for reading! If you're enjoying the story, please **add this novel to your library** — it really helps me grow and ensures you don't miss the next chapter! *