The night before the match, Lamii didn't train.
He sat on the edge of his bed, phone pressed to his ear, listening to a familiar voice that always sounded tired—but never weak.
"You eating well?" his mother asked.
"Yes," Lamii lied.
"And sleeping?"
"…Yes."
She didn't push.
She never did.
Outside the dorm window, the academy lights burnt like watchful eyes. Tomorrow would be the first official match. Not a drill. Not a test.
A judgement.
"You remember why you started, right?" his mother said softly.
Lamii closed his eyes.
"I do."
After the call ended, he stayed still for a long time.
Because remembering was dangerous.
Morning came fast.
The stands were empty, but the pressure was heavier than any crowd. Teams lined up on opposite sides of the pitch, numbers printed sharply against their backs.
TEAM C vs TEAM A
Lamii stood on the left wing.
Across the field, Papii stretched, bouncing on his toes like the game already belonged to him.
Their eyes met.
No smiles this time.
Coach Salva's voice cut through the tension.
"This is not a friendly," he said. "This is survival."
The whistle blew.
From the first minute, Lamii felt it.
The targeting.
A defender slammed into him the moment he touched the ball.
Hard.
No foul.
Another followed.
Shoulder to ribs.
Elbow to back.
They weren't trying to take the ball.
They were trying to erase him.
So this is it, Lamii thought as he staggered back to his feet. They want to break me.
He adjusted.
Dropped deeper.
Took fewer touches.
When the ball came again, a tall centre-back charged.
Lamii delayed.
Cut inside.
Slipped past—
—and was crushed from behind.
He hit the ground, breath exploding out of his lungs.
No whistle.
"Get up," someone spat.
Lamii pushed himself up, chest burning.
Papii scored minutes later.
A clean strike. Right foot. Net rippling.
"LET'S GO!" Papii roared.
Lamii didn't look.
He was busy breathing through pain.
Despite it all, Lamii played well.
He drew defenders. Opened space. Slipped passes between impossible gaps.
But every time he received the ball—
BAM.
Hit.
Dragged.
Thrown off balance.
His left thigh screamed.
His shoulder throbbed.
By halftime, his kit was streaked with grass and dirt.
Coach Salva watched without expression.
"Why don't they stop?" Lamii thought bitterly. "Why is this allowed?"
Then he remembered.
Weakness is judged.
The second half was worse.
They hunted him now.
One defender whispered as he closed in.
"Stay down, kid."
Lamii's legs felt heavy.
His vision blurred.
A pass came.
Lamii reached—
A knee smashed into his hip.
Pain flared white.
He collapsed.
The whistle finally blew.
Foul.
As Lamii sat on the grass, clutching his side, doubt crept in.
What if I really am too small?
The match ended in a narrow loss.
Lamii walked off slowly.
No cheers. No comfort.
The locker room was silent.
Ice packs. Tape. Bruised egos.
Lamii sat alone, staring at his hands.
They were shaking.
A knock echoed.
"Lamii?"
His mother stood at the doorway.
He froze.
She wasn't supposed to be here.
She smiled gently, eyes scanning the bruises he tried to hide.
"I brought something," she said.
She handed him a folded photo.
Lamii unfolded it.
His breath caught.
A picture of a small boy.
Him.
Barely taller than the ball at his feet.
And beside him—
Lionel.
Arm around his shoulder. Smiling. The No.10 glowing like destiny itself.
Lamii's throat tightened.
"I kept it," his mother said. "You used to sleep with it under your pillow."
His hands trembled.
"I was scared today," Lamii whispered.
She crouched in front of him.
"So was he," she said, tapping the photo. "Before the world knew his name."
Lamii stared at the image.
The pain didn't disappear.
But the doubt did.
That night, alone again, Lamii pinned the photo above his bed.
His body hurt.
His mind was clear.
"They can hit me," he said quietly. "They can crush me."
He clenched his left foot.
"But they can't take this."
Outside, the academy lights flickered.
Tomorrow, the system would tighten.
Defenders would come harder.
And Lamii would stand.
Because legends weren't born strong.
They were born stubborn.