The first time Lamii was told to quit football, he was nine years old.
"Too small."
Those two words crushed harder than any tackle.
Lamii stood on the cracked concrete pitch behind his neighbourhood, rain soaking through his oversized shirt, while the coach's whistle echoed like a verdict. Around him, boys his age were laughing, shoving, and dreaming loudly. Lamii said nothing. He only looked down at his feet—barefoot, muddy, shaking.
Too small.
He went home that night and watched highlights on his old phone, the screen cracked like his confidence. A left-footed genius danced past defenders, the crowd roaring with every touch. Lamii leaned closer, heart pounding.
If he can do it… why can't I?
That question never left him.
Seven years later.
The gates of La Forja Academy loomed over Lamii like a judgement day.
Steel. Cold. Merciless.
One hundred boys stood outside, all wearing clean boots and fresh kits, eyes burning with ambition. Some had private trainers. Some had scouts whispering their names already.
Lamii had none of that.
His boots were second-hand. His shirt was two sizes too big. His mother's words echoed in his head as he stepped forward:
"If this doesn't work, you find something else."
This was his last chance.
"Yami."
A familiar voice snapped him back.
Papii stood beside him, tall, loud, smiling like the world owed him success. The French accent is sharp, and the confidence is sharper.
"First day," Papii said. "You nervous?"
Lamii shook his head.
That was a lie.
"You should be," Papii laughed. "Only the best survive here."
Lamii glanced at him. "Then why are you smiling?"
Papii's grin widened. "Because I know I'm one of them."
Lamii didn't reply.
He was busy breathing.
The whistle blew.
"INSIDE."
No welcome speech. No introductions.
They were thrown straight onto the pitch.
Coach Salva stood at midfield, arms crossed, eyes dead calm. He didn't look impressed. He didn't look interested.
"You're not here to learn football," he said. "You're here to prove you deserve it."
Balls were launched onto the field without warning.
"Free play. Ten minutes."
Chaos exploded.
Lamii moved instinctively.
He didn't sprint forward. He drifted. Slipped between shadows. Watched.
Football is space, his old street coach once said. Find it before others see it.
The ball bounced loose near the sideline.
Lamii stepped in.
First touch—clean.
A defender rushed him.
Too fast.
Lamii dropped his shoulder, rolled the ball across his body, slipped past by inches. Gasps followed. He felt it—the familiar tightening in his chest.
This is my place.
A second defender came in hard.
Lamii didn't fight.
He invited.
He slowed, eyes down, baiting the tackle.
The defender lunged.
Lamii dragged the ball backward, spun, and exploded forward.
Two gone.
Someone shouted his name.
"LAMII!"
Papii was wide open, sprinting like a bullet.
Lamii saw him.
Lamii ignored him.
A third defender blocked the lane.
Too close.
Lamii chipped the ball slightly, slipped under the defender's reach, and landed running.
The goal was there.
The keeper rushed out.
For a split second, fear crept in.
Too small.
Lamii struck anyway.
Low. Left.
The post screamed.
Out.
Silence swallowed the pitch.
Lamii froze.
Missed.
"AGAIN!" Coach Salva barked.
No reaction. No praise. No comfort.
Papii grabbed the rebound and blasted it in.
Goal.
Cheers erupted.
Papii raised his arms, laughing, feeding off the noise.
Lamii didn't look at him.
He stared at the goal.
At the space he almost owned.
Minutes later, the drill ended.
Bodies dropped to the ground. Sweat soaked the grass.
Coach Salva walked slowly among them.
"Some of you chase the ball," he said. "Some of you chase attention."
His eyes landed on Lamii.
"And some of you… chase control."
Lamii's heart skipped.
"You," Salva pointed. "Name."
"Lamii."
"How old?"
"Sixteen."
Salva raised an eyebrow. "Young."
Lamii swallowed. "Young doesn't mean weak."
The field went quiet.
Papii smirked.
Salva stared at Lamii for a long moment.
"Prove it," he said.
He turned away.
"Dorm assignments up in ten."
That night, Lamii lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling.
Around him, boys talked about contracts, fame, and numbers.
Lamii thought about the night he almost quit.
About his mother's tired eyes.
About the legend he watched on a broken phone screen.
They say only one No. 10 exists.
Lamii clenched his fist.
Then I'll take it.
Across the room, Papii laughed loudly, surrounded by attention.
Lamii didn't envy him.
Because Lamii knew something others didn't.
Talent wasn't enough.
Speed wasn't enough.
Ego wasn't enough.
To survive this place…
You had to be willing to lose everything.
Outside, the academy lights burnt through the darkness.
Tomorrow, the real test would begin.
And Lamii swore—
This time, he wouldn't be too small.