With a loud thud, the ball soared off his foot, but once more, the player with the number seven jersey couldn't connect.
Saki pressed his lips together tightly.
Another opportunity gone to waste. He had delivered the cross flawlessly, akin to what any forward dreams of—curling just past the last defender and dipping sharply into the penalty area.
Two of his teammates rushed forward, both unmarked… yet neither managed to score.
One anticipated too soon, while the other arrived just a moment too late.
It was unbelievable.
Saki-
He was just a special invitee hoping to showcase his skills. Just a few weeks ago, he had departed from his former club, burdened with both high expectations and his own sense of pride.
Now, as he observed chance after chance slip away on the pitch, doubts crept into his mind… Is Japanese soccer genuinely as extraordinary as claimed, or has it merely been exaggerated?
He always believed in his own capabilities, but if players like these were receiving invitations, perhaps it was time to reassess everything. Could it be that he had rushed his decision to leave his club?
As the team dressed in red lost control of the ball, it once again rolled to Saki's feet. Without hesitation, he pushed forward, lunging down the right wing with long, measured strides.
"Cut inside! Join me!" his fellow winger called out, completely unmarked on the opposite side.
Saki heard him.
However, that wasn't his style.
Even with his refined technical skills, his essence remained rooted in being a traditional winger—direct, explosive, and tireless.
And he possessed one ability he relied on more than any other—his burst of speed over short distances.
As the opponents scrambled to realign their defense, Saki's gaze darted up.
In that fleeting moment, he caught sight of it—the same winger still open, lying in wait behind the defenders, completely untracked.
An ideal choice.
Rather than passing, Saki tilted his body and charged forward.
For an instant, it seemed as if he would cut inside. This sudden maneuver attracted two defenders, both eager to shut him down.
That was precisely what he required.The first defender lunged for a tackle— Saki instantly halted his pace, anchoring his foot and pulling the ball across his body. The opponent skidded by, completely outmaneuvered. The second defender squared off for a confrontation.
Saki's feet sprang into action. Step-overs—first right, then left—repeatedly, each time gaining speed.
The defender faltered for the briefest moment.
An error.
Saki darted past like an arrow released from a bow, leaving him momentarily frozen—Arriving at the edge of the penalty area, he decelerated.
The winger he had noticed before was now boxed in—two defenders had completely surrounded him.
Saki's gaze shifted.
There he was again; the number seven.
Arm raised, signaling for the ball—for what felt like the tenth time.
Saki clicked his tongue in frustration.
Every cross he had sent his way had been spot on. And yet... none of them resulted in a clean touch. The player positioned himself like a true striker—constantly where he needed to be, always anticipating the next move.
But his finishing ability?
Far below standard. Still… Saki lifted the ball.
This time, it wasn't a powerful strike. Instead, it was a gentle, enticing lob, suspended in the air long enough to draw attention.
Number seven leaped. A precise, standing header.
The ball sailed beneath the crossbar and crashed into the net.
Goal.
"Tss—!"
The referee's sharp whistle sliced through the ambient noise of the small field.
1–1.
A surge of cheers erupted among the players.
"That was impressive, right?" the player wearing number seven exclaimed with a wide smile, pushing back his ash-colored hair as he made his way over.
Saki remained expressionless.
"Sure," he responded in a detached tone, his gaze unyielding. "If you consider luck a measure of skill."
The celebrations around them continued unabated.
"But—" the forward attempted to protest.
"Hey!" the referee interjected, interrupting him.
"What do you think you're doing? Quit wasting time!"
Without saying anything further, Saki turned away.
"Who's wasting time?" Saki muttered under his breath while jogging back into formation. "I already have what I need."
Tss!
The referee blew the whistle again. The match resumed, but before the opposing team could mount any significant attack—
Pip! Tss! Teeeep! Full time.
"What in the world?!" one of the players in red exclaimed, flailing his arms in frustration.
"Can't you at least add two more minutes?!"
"Two hours is more than sufficient," a voice from the sidelines retorted. All heads turned to see three men watching from the edge of the field, one clutching a clipboard, his face unreadable.
"One hundred and twenty minutes is ample time to evaluate your abilities," he stated coolly. "I will inform those selected for scouting later—rest assured that everyone present will have their chance. No one leaves here without being evaluated—it's a contractual agreement."
A wave of low murmurs spread across the pitch, rippling through both the white- and red-clad players—frustration and anxiety mixing in the air. They began dragging themselves off, some shaking their heads, others in silence.
"But not you, Mr. O'Ryan." Said a manly voice.
Saki stopped.
Slowly, he turned back.
"You already knew we'd call you, didn't you?" said the man in dark glasses, standing beside the large man and the one with clipboard who had spoken earlier.
"You tell me," Saki replied shortly.
"This is Mr. Ebenezer Richards," the bulky man said, gesturing to the man.
Saki—handsome, slightly sulky, with dark hair and steely blue eyes that didn't blink even once—glanced at the man briefly.
"Is he a scout?" he cut in.
"No, he isn't," the big man answered, a hint of surprise in his voice.
"Then I'd better get going," Saki said curtly. He turned to leave—
"You don't need a scout," Mr. Ebenezer Richards said calmly. "Not when the team manager himself is here to recruit you."
"Aah—!" Saki gasped, freezing mid-step. He slowly turned back, his sharp gaze locking onto the man.
"You…" he said, voice lower now, "you're the manager?"
"Not in the way you'd think—but yes, I am," said the man in dark glasses, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "My club doesn't usually believe in foreign talent. We focus on homegrown players. After all, Japan has the best players in the world… am I wrong, Saki O'Ryan?" he added with a smirk.
"Only if you had a World Cup—or any international trophy—to prove it," Saki replied defiantly.
"Mhh-hh…" The man chuckled softly.
"But tell me," he continued, his tone sharpening, "why would a fine player like you choose to shut himself out from FIFA by joining a league—"
"Leagues," Saki cut in.
"…Yes, leagues," Mr. Ebenezer corrected smoothly, a brief smile crossing his face. "The kind that, once you retire, no one will remember you for. I heard you left your club to come here… what was it again? That French club?"
"PSG," the big man beside him supplied.
"Yes—PSG. It has been a wealthy club for generations—and successful too," he remarked. "And yet you left them to play in the outlawed league, Mr. O'Ryan. I'd like to hear the secret behind that decision."
A brief silence followed.
"If that's all you have to say," Saki replied coldly, "then I'd like to get going."
He turned away, ready to leave.
"Why don't you come and play for my club, young man?" Mr. Ebenezer said calmly.
Saki paused—
"I must admit," Mr. Ebenezer continued, "not out of disrespect to my good friend Hans here, I didn't expect to find such a rare gem in this foreign scouting ground. But for the first time, I find myself proven wrong."
He smiled toward the bulky man—Hans—who stood slightly behind him. Hans stiffened, clearly irritated, but said nothing, looking away.
The Hans Foreign Youth Recruitment Centre was one of the facilities in the country that provided a pathway for diaspora players under the age of 21 to attend trials. Through it, young talents were scouted by various Japanese clubs—many of which struggled to secure quality domestic players, as the top clubs attracted the majority of talent.
At present, the most powerful clubs in New Japan were those with the greatest financial strength, not necessarily the hype and history.
"So what's the catch?" Saki asked.
"There are proper ways—and proper places—to handle these things, Mr. O'Ryan," the man replied with his usual smile. He slowly removed his dark glasses, revealing sharp, calculating eyes beneath them.
"But I can promise you between 5,000 and 10,000 JD per month. We'll also take care of your accommodation. So—what do you say?"
"You'll have to pay me first," the bulky man said with a subtle smile. "After all, you've only just decided to become my customer after years of ignoring my business."
"I'll take the deal," Saki replied without hesitation.
"Good," the bulky man said again. "Then you'll need to pay as well."
"What?" Saki exclaimed. "You're the ones who invited me—you even sent me a ticket—"
"And you thought all of that came for free?" the man snapped.
"But I don't have the money," Saki said, his voice rising with panic.
"Who said you needed money right now?" the man replied sharply. "Did you even read the contract?"
Only then did it hit Saki.
The piece of paper he had signed—he hadn't read it at all.
He had just signed his name and handed it back.
"Of course you didn't," the man continued coldly. "Most foreigners get caught in situations like this because of their carelessness."
Saki swallowed hard.
"So… how much?" he asked, his voice tense. "What exactly do I owe?"
"Just half of your signing fee—and fifty percent of your first season's salary," the bulky man said.
"That's too much," Saki muttered, though he didn't sound particularly bothered.
"Now that's exploitative," Mr. Ebenezer commented, his tone calm but firm.
"This is business, Richard," the bulky man replied.
"Just half of your signing fee—and fifty percent of your first season's salary," the bulky man said.
"That's too much," Saki muttered, though he didn't sound particularly bothered.
"Now that's exploitative," Mr. Ebenezer commented, his tone calm but firm.
"This is business, Richard," the bulky man replied.
Mr. Ebenezer checked his watch. "We don't have all day. My plane leaves for Hitsong in two hours. Yours has already been booked for tomorrow. Handle the legal matters and prepare accordingly—"
He paused, then added with quiet finality,
"You're now a Maverick player."
As he turned to leave, Saki's voice cut through the moment.
"What position would I be playing?" he asked.
"We need a fast, versatile winger—and you fit that role," Mr. Ebenezer replied. "However… there may be some adjustments. Your coach will handle the details. That's beyond my expertise."
The two men turned away, continuing their discussion in lowered tones. From a distance, it was clear Mr. Hans wanted a bigger share—but Mr. Ebenezer wasn't giving in so easily.
"What?" Saki muttered to himself. "I thought he was the manager… so what's the difference between a manager and a coach?"