Dreams were dangerous in this academy.
Lamii learned that the moment he spoke.
The pitch was quiet, soaked in early morning light. Players stood scattered in small groups, stretching, whispering, sizing each other up like predators in the same cage.
Coach Salva wasn't there yet.
That was why Lamii didn't think before opening his mouth.
"I want the number ten."
The words slipped out—soft but clear.
Silence followed.
Then laughter.
Not loud. Not cruel.
Worse.
Amused.
A midfielder scoffed.A defender shook his head.Someone muttered, "This kid's crazy."
Papii turned slowly.
"Are you serious?" he asked.
Lamii didn't smile.
"Yes."
The air shifted.
Papii studied him, eyes sharp, unreadable. Then he grinned—not mocking, not friendly.
"Then you better survive," he said. "Because everyone wants that number."
Before Lamii could answer, footsteps echoed.
Coach Salva arrived.
Salva didn't raise his voice.
He never needed to.
"I heard something interesting," he said calmly, eyes scanning the group. "Someone here wants to be number ten."
Lamii felt every gaze burn into him.
He stepped forward.
"I do," he said.
Salva walked closer.
"Do you know what ten means?" the coach asked.
Lamii nodded.
"It means responsibility," he said. "Creation. Pressure."
Salva smiled thinly.
"No," he said. "It means permission."
Lamii frowned.
"Permission to fail," Salva continued. "Permission to be blamed. Permission to carry others' mistakes."
He leaned closer.
"Tell me, Lamii—why should this system give you that permission?"
Lamii's heart pounded.
Because I love football?
Because it's my dream?
No.
Those answers were weak.
He remembered the photo.The anthem.The list in his notebook.
"Because," Lamii said slowly, "I won't disappear when the game gets ugly."
Salva straightened.
Interesting.
Training that day was different.
Salva split them into ego drills.
One-versus-two.One-versus-three.Limited space.
No fouls called.
Lamii was targeted immediately.
They came harder than before.
Elbows.Tugs.Shoulders.
He went down twice.
Got up twice.
The third time, he adapted.
Instead of forcing dribbles, he invited pressure.
A pause.A bait.A slip.
The ball was gone before contact came.
Salva watched closely.
"So that's your answer," he murmured. "Avoidance, not domination."
Papii, meanwhile, smashed through defenders.
Pure force.
Right foot shots.Explosive runs.
Two styles.
Two philosophies.
One future number.
After training, Salva called them together.
"Listen carefully," he said. "There will be no assigned number tens here."
Murmurs spread.
"You will earn it," he continued. "Through influence."
He pointed to Lamii.
"Vision."
Then to Papii.
"Power."
He turned back to the group.
"Only one can lead. And leaders don't ask for numbers. They make others depend on them."
Lamii clenched his fists.
This wasn't about skill.
It was about control.
That night, Lamii sat alone in the cafeteria.
His food was untouched.
"Thinking again?"
He looked up.
A man stood there—older, with sharper eyes and scars of a career long finished.
Coach Mateo.
Former playmaker. Former number ten.
"Sit," Mateo said.
Lamii did.
"You want the number," Mateo said. "But you don't understand the curse."
Lamii stiffened.
"The curse?" he asked.
Mateo nodded.
"Every number ten is hunted," he said. "By defenders. By teammates. By expectations."
He leaned in.
"If you hesitate, they eat you alive."
Lamii swallowed.
"What should I do?" he asked.
Mateo smiled.
"Stop dreaming about the shirt," he said. "Start dreaming about control."
That night, Lamii dreamed differently.
Not about trophies.
About moments.
A pass that changed momentum.A pause that froze defenders.A decision that broke systems.
He woke before sunrise.
Grabbed his boots.
And ran.
The next match came fast.
Scrimmage.
High intensity.
Lamii played deeper.
Directed traffic.
Spoke more.
Moved less—but smarter.
The ball listened to him.
Papii noticed.
So did everyone else.
When Lamii slipped a pass that led to a goal, silence followed.
Not laughter.
Respect.
Salva crossed his arms.
Mateo nodded.
After the match, Salva called Lamii aside.
"You're changing," he said.
Lamii met his eyes.
"I have to," he replied.
Salva smirked.
"Good," he said. "Because tomorrow, we test leaders."
Lamii's pulse quickened.
"How?" he asked.
Salva turned away.
"By taking something from you," he said. "And seeing if you still stand."
That night, Lamii stood in his room.
He looked at the photo above his bed.
The boy.
The idol.
The number.
"I'm not chasing you anymore," he whispered. "I'm chasing what comes after."
Outside, the academy lights burnt brighter than ever.
The war for number ten had begun.
And Lamii was no longer just dreaming.
He was declaring.