The ball rolled toward Lamii like a challenge.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Deliberate.
The kind of pass that asked a question.
He didn't hesitate.
He stepped forward and took it with his left foot—clean, soft, and controlled—then lifted his head.
Three defenders.
One directly in front.
One closing from the side.
One tracking behind.
Old Lamii would have released the ball.
New Lamii stayed.
The defender lunged.
Lamii shifted his weight left—then snapped the ball back across his body with the inside of his foot.
The first defender slid past empty air.
Gasps rippled through the sidelines.
Lamii accelerated.
This was the match Coach Salva had promised.
Not a test.
A statement.
The rules were simple: full contact, no mercy, no explanations.
Prove influence—or disappear.
Lamii moved through the midfield like water slipping through cracks. Not flashy. Not desperate. Every touch had intention.
A shoulder slammed into him.
He absorbed it.
Stayed upright.
So this is what it means, he thought. To stop running.
The second defender stepped in hard.
Lamii dropped his shoulder first.
Contact.
Pain flared—but the ball stayed glued to his foot.
The defender stumbled.
The pitch seemed to widen.
"MARK HIM!" someone shouted.
Too late.
Lamii dragged the ball with the sole of his foot, paused for half a second—the same pause he had studied on the screen a hundred times—and let the defender commit.
Then he was gone.
A sudden burst.
Left foot. Outside touch. Inside cut.
The crowd of players broke.
For the first time, teammates looked toward him.
Not for reassurance.
For direction.
"LEFT!" Lamii shouted.
The ball moved.
Came back.
He was ready.
On the sideline, Coach Mateo leaned forward.
"That's it," he murmured. "He's stopped asking."
Papii watched from the opposite half.
His jaw tightened.
Lamii wasn't avoiding contact anymore.
He was inviting it.
The defenders adjusted.
They stopped chasing.
They hunted.
A heavy tackle crashed into Lamii's thigh.
He went down.
The ball rolled loose.
No whistle.
A moment of silence.
Lamii pushed himself up slowly, dirt streaked across his kit.
His leg burnt.
Good.
Pain meant he was still there.
The ball came again.
A teammate hesitated—then passed to Lamii anyway.
The trust was new.
Fragile.
Lamii couldn't waste it.
He received it under pressure, back to goal.
A defender pressed hard into his spine.
Lamii lowered his centre of gravity.
Rolled the ball across his body.
Spun.
The defender lost balance.
Lamii burst forward.
One touch.
Two.
Three.
The last defender charged.
Lamii didn't dodge.
He stepped in.
A sharp cut.
Nutmeg.
The defender froze.
Lamii slipped through like a ghost.
The penalty box loomed.
The keeper advanced.
Time slowed.
This is it.
Lamii didn't shoot.
He waited.
Then slid the ball across the face of the goal.
A teammate finished.
Goal.
The pitch erupted.
Lamii stood still.
Breathing hard.
Heart hammering.
The sound faded into a distant roar.
That's control, he thought. Not the goal. The moment before it.
He glanced toward the sideline.
Coach Salva's eyes were locked on him.
Unreadable.
Good.
The match restarted.
Now every defender stuck to Lamii.
Two. Sometimes three.
He welcomed it.
Dragged them out of position.
Created space.
Then took it back.
At one point, a defender whispered as he closed in.
"You think you're special?"
Lamii smiled faintly.
"No," he replied. "I think you're late."
The ball disappeared between his feet.
Another tackle.
This one is brutal.
Lamii hit the ground hard.
The air left his lungs.
For a split second, doubt flickered.
Then he remembered.
The living room.
The anthem.
The number.
Ten.
He stood again.
Slower.
But steadier.
Papii finally snapped.
He charged forward, demanding the ball, smashing through defenders with raw force.
A goal.
The score tightened.
The rivalry ignited.
Eyes locked across the pitch.
Power versus control.
Speed versus timing.
The academy held its breath.
Final minutes.
The score was level.
Everyone knew where the ball would go.
Lamii dropped deep.
Received.
Turned.
A defender lunged recklessly.
Lamii stepped over once.
Twice.
Then cut sharply.
The defender fell.
Another came.
Lamii slowed.
Waited.
Split the line with a pass so precise it felt inevitable.
He moved again.
Received the return.
The keeper rushed out.
Lamii chipped the ball gently.
It floated.
Kissed the net.
Goal.
Silence.
Then chaos.
Lamii stood still again, chest rising, eyes wide.
He didn't celebrate.
He didn't need to.
The game had answered.
After the whistle, players surrounded him.
Not cheering.
Listening.
Coach Salva approached last.
"You played selfishly," he said.
Lamii met his gaze.
"Yes."
Salva smiled.
"And you made everyone better," he added.
Lamii nodded.
"That's number ten," Salva said quietly. "Not kindness. Influence."
That night, Lamii sat alone, icing his leg.
It throbbed.
Bruised.
Earned.
He looked at the photo above his bed.
The boy.
The idol.
The dream.
"I'm not there yet," Lamii whispered. "But I'm closer."
Outside, the academy lights burnt.
Somewhere deep inside the system, something had shifted.
The curse hadn't broken.
But it had noticed him.
And next time—
It would strike back harder.