The cold of the pavement clung to Marcus's skin. His head throbbed, his body stiff, and when he blinked awake, he realized he had fallen asleep right there on the corner of an empty street. A dull ache burned in his chest as yesterday's humiliation replayed in his mind: the rejection letter, the harsh words, the door closing on his dream.
For a few moments, he just lay there, staring up at the pale morning sky. The city had already come alive; footsteps, the rumble of bicycles, the chatter of vendors. He sat up slowly, brushing the dust off his jacket, trying to make sense of where he was. His backpack lay beside him, his old football halfway rolled across the narrow street.
And then he heard it, laughter.
He turned his head and spotted them: a group of street kids, maybe ten or twelve years old, barefoot, shirts worn and patched, playing on a patch of rough ground a few meters away. They weren't playing for trophies or scouts. They were playing for joy. Their kicks were clumsy, their passes wild, but the energy was infectious.
Marcus almost smiled. Almost.
Then he saw it.
One of the kids, small, wiry, no older than twelve, chased the ball down the side. With no hesitation, he swung his leg at an impossible angle, wrapping his foot around the ball and curling it with the outside of his boot. The ball bent sharply into the center. A perfect trivella.
Marcus froze.
The image burned into him. In that instant, something strange happened, his mind didn't just watch the move, it absorbed it. He felt the twist of the ankle, the shift of balance, the snap of the foot. His body remembered what his eyes had seen, like he had performed it himself a hundred times before.
The ball rolled to his feet a moment later, the kids gesturing for him to kick it back. Almost without thinking, Marcus stepped forward. His body moved on its own. He angled his foot outward, struck the ball…
The spin was awkward, not perfect, but the curve, the unmistakable curve, sent the ball bending back toward the group.
Gasps erupted from the kids.
Marcus staggered a step back."What… was that?" he whispered under his breath.
He'd never practiced that technique. He'd only ever seen professionals attempt it. And yet, his foot had remembered the motion as if it was part of him all along.
Shaking his head, Marcus quickly grabbed his ball back and mumbled a thanks to the kids before walking away. His heart was hammering. His mind raced. How did I do that?
But no matter how he tried to brush it aside, the moment clung to him like a shadow.
By the time he reached home, the weight of the rejection letter returned to him. The mail still lay on the table, accusing him with every word: "We regret to inform you… not selected." He crumpled it in his hands, then smoothed it out again, unable to let it go.
That night's humiliation, the rejection, and now this strange burst of skill, it all tangled inside him. He couldn't sit still. His heart pulled him back, not to his small rented room, not to the empty streets, but to where it all began.
THE SCHOOL GROUND
The field was quiet when he arrived. The paint lines had long faded, the nets torn at the edges. For Marcus, it was sacred ground. This was where he first touched a football, where he had once felt invincible.
He dropped his bag, placed the ball at his feet, and began to move. First simple passes against the wall. Then feints, step-overs, flicks. Sweat gathered quickly, his lungs burning. Every time he tried to recreate the trivella, he felt that strange sensation in his muscles, as if the memory of the move guided him, whispering corrections. By the fifth attempt, the curve of the ball looked almost intentional.
Marcus's chest rose and fell. "This isn't normal…"
But before he could think deeper, voices echoed across the ground. A group of kids from the neighborhood had gathered, drawn by the sight of someone training alone. They carried a ball and, after a bit of hesitant whispering, one of them jogged up.
"You wanna join us for a friendly?"
Marcus wiped his sweat and forced a smile. "Yeah. Sure."
The game began rough. The kids were fast, reckless, and loud. But Marcus found himself slipping into the rhythm, the ball like an extension of his body.
Halfway through, one of the boys pulled off a trick that made Marcus's eyes widen. A smooth nutmeg. With a cheeky grin, the kid pushed the ball right between his opponent's legs and sprinted past. The group roared with laughter and cheers.
And then, it happened again.
Marcus felt it. The trick replayed in his head, but not as memory, as instruction. His legs tingled with the how.
Minutes later, the same boy tried to press Marcus near the touchline.
Marcus didn't plan it. He just let his body go. The ball slipped perfectly between the boy's legs, Marcus darting around him to collect it on the other side.
The group erupted."No way!""Did you see that?""Show-off!"
The laughter was light, but some of them began nudging each other."He's too good, man.""Why's he humiliating us?"
Marcus held his hands up, shaking his head. "No, I... it's not like that..."
But they didn't believe him. To them, it was just a display of skill, maybe arrogance. To Marcus, it was something far stranger. Twice now. Once the trivella, now the nutmeg. I shouldn't know how to do these.
He finished the game quietly, avoiding more tricks. Inside, though, a storm raged.
A blessing in disguise. That was the only way he could think of it. Something had shifted in him, something he couldn't explain, but on the pitch, he felt alive again.
When Marcus finally made it home that evening, he collapsed on the bed, phone in hand. His feed was flooded with news, gossip, and match highlights. And then one headline caught his eye:
"Coach Davor Relieved of Duties by Management."
His heart sank. Coach Davor, the only man who had ever believed in him, who had pushed him beyond limits, who had told him he had something special. Gone. Just like that.
Marcus stared at the screen, numb. First him, now Coach. It felt like the whole world had turned its back.
The phone buzzed suddenly in his hand. An unknown number. He hesitated before answering.
"Marcus?" The voice was deep, familiar. His chest tightened. "…Coach?"
There was a pause, heavy but steady."Let's meet tomorrow. We need to talk."
Before Marcus could reply, the line clicked dead.
He sat there frozen, the phone pressed against his ear.
For the first time in days, his chest didn't feel hollow. His heart beat with nervous anticipation. Tomorrow… tomorrow might change everything.