Chapter 3 – The Average Boy
Weeks turned into months at La Masia.
David woke before dawn with the others, laced his boots, ate bland cafeteria breakfasts, and trained under the watchful eyes of coaches who had once sculpted stars.
Every drill was the same.
Pass. Move. Receive. Pass again.
He blended in perfectly—too perfectly.
His dribbles were neat but uninspired. His pace was decent, nothing explosive. His vision? Serviceable at best.
When matches were played, Messi danced through defenders like light slipping through cracks. Andrés Iniesta carried the ball like it was stitched to his foot. Even Gerard Piqué, lanky and raw, showed promise that coaches whispered about.
David? He was just… there.
"Hard worker," they wrote.
"Disciplined."
"Reliable."
But never "special."
David could hear them sometimes, when they thought he was too far to notice.
"Ajayi is… solid. But La Masia isn't for solid. We need brilliance."
He smiled on the outside, but inside, fire gnawed at him.
If only you knew.
At night, after lights-out, he would sneak into the empty training pitch. Just him, a ball, and the moon.
That's when he allowed himself to test it—just a little.
He lined up a shot, focused, and swung his foot.
The ball screamed through the air like a bullet, smacking the top corner of the net so hard the frame rattled.
Again.
And again.
Every shot, perfect. Both feet, identical.
He stood there in the quiet, chest heaving, watching the net quiver. It was beautiful. Terrifying. Addictive.
But no one could know. Not yet.
The next morning, his teammates teased him about yawning during warm-ups.
"Stayed up playing video games, Ajayi?" one laughed.
David chuckled. "Something like that."
He kept his secret hidden.
Because the god had told him: "You will be sold before they discover your talent."
And deep down, David believed it.