Morning came earlier than usual for Lamii.
Not because the sun rose faster.
But because sleep had refused to stay longer.
The words from last night still echoed in his head. His mother's voice. The quiet strength in it. The reminder that dreams were not meant to be comfortable things.
Dreams had weight.
And today, that weight followed him as he walked toward the academy gates.
The air was cool. Thin clouds drifted across the Spanish sky, and the grass inside the academy fields shimmered with morning dew. Normally, players would be laughing, kicking balls casually, and stretching lazily before drills.
Today was different.
Nobody was laughing.
Groups of players whispered near the benches. Some stretched silently. Others looked toward the stands as if expecting someone important to appear at any moment.
The rumours had spread like wildfire overnight.
Scouts.
Two of them.
Maybe more.
Lamii tightened the straps of his training bag as he stepped onto the field.
He could feel the tension in the air.
Not fear.
Something sharper.
Ambition.
Across the field, Papii was already there.
The French striker stood near the goalpost, juggling the ball with effortless control. Tap. Tap. Tap. Every touch is confident. Every movement relaxed, like the pressure around him only made him stronger.
A few players watched him.
Admiring.
Maybe jealous.
Papii noticed Lamii approaching and grinned.
"Sleep well, maestro?"
Lamii shrugged. "Enough."
Papii flicked the ball onto his shoulder and balanced it there casually.
"Today will be interesting."
"You know something?"
Papii's grin widened.
"Maybe."
Before Lamii could answer, a whistle cut through the air.
Sharp.
Commanding.
Coach Salva walked onto the pitch.
Behind him stood two assistants carrying clipboards and a large tactical board. The moment the players saw them, the murmurs stopped instantly.
Coach Salva rarely gathered everyone like this unless something important was coming.
The players quickly formed a semicircle around him.
Salva looked at each face slowly.
His expression was unreadable.
Then he spoke.
"Today," he said calmly, "we stop playing academy football."
Silence fell.
A few players exchanged confused looks.
Salva continued.
"This afternoon, you will play an official youth match against Castilla Norte Academy."
The name hit the group like a sudden wind.
Castilla Norte was known across youth leagues.
Fast players.
Brutal defenders.
A team that treated every match like war.
Salva folded his arms behind his back.
"This will not be a friendly game."
He paused deliberately.
"Scouts will be present."
The words exploded through the players' minds.
Even if nobody spoke, Lamii could feel the shift immediately.
Heartbeat faster.
Eyes sharper.
Dreams are suddenly closer.
Salva's voice remained cold.
"Dreams don't matter here."
He tapped the tactical board once.
"Only performance does."
The team selections came thirty minutes later.
Players gathered around the board as Salva wrote the starting lineup.
One by one.
Names appeared.
When Papii's name appeared at striker, nobody was surprised.
He had been dominating in training for weeks.
But when Lamii saw his own name, he frowned slightly.
Central midfield.
Not attacking forward.
Not false nine.
Midfield.
Behind the attack.
A playmaker role.
Some players immediately started whispering.
"That skinny kid?"
"Coach wants him touching the ball?"
"He'll get crushed."
Lamii ignored them.
Instead, he studied the formation.
Three attackers.
Two midfielders behind them.
He understood immediately.
Coach Salva wasn't asking him to score.
He was asking him to control the game.
Across the board, Papii looked at the lineup and laughed quietly.
Then he walked over to Lamii.
"Looks like you're feeding me today."
Lamii raised an eyebrow.
"Maybe."
Papii smirked.
"Make sure the passes are good."
Lamii picked up a ball from the grass.
"Make sure the runs are."
Their eyes locked for a moment.
Rivalry.
But also respect.
Then the whistle blew again.
Match time.
The stadium was small compared to professional arenas.
But today it felt huge.
Two academy teams lined up on the pitch while coaches and staff filled the benches. A handful of spectators sat in the stands. Parents. Academy directors.
And somewhere among them…
The scouts.
Lamii tried not to look.
But curiosity pulled his eyes briefly toward the stands.
There.
Two men are sitting apart from everyone else.
One wore a dark jacket and wrote constantly in a small notebook.
The other sat calmly with his arms crossed.
Watching.
Lamii quickly turned back to the field.
This wasn't the time to think about that.
The referee blew the whistle.
Kickoff.
Castilla Norte started aggressively.
Their midfield pressed immediately, closing spaces and forcing mistakes. Within the first minute, one of Lamii's teammates lost possession under pressure.
The opponent striker charged forward and fired a shot.
Wide.
But close.
The message was clear.
This would not be easy.
Lamii received his first pass two minutes later.
The moment the ball touched his foot, a defender slammed into his shoulder.
Hard.
Lamii stumbled but kept control.
The defender grinned.
"Too small."
Lamii didn't answer.
Instead, he tapped the ball sideways and released a quick pass before the second defender arrived.
Move.
Pass.
Move again.
He remembered what his mother had said.
When the game becomes hard…
People look for number ten.
Lamii didn't wear that number yet.
But the responsibility felt the same.
Minutes passed.
Castilla Norte scored first.
A powerful header from a corner.
Their players celebrated loudly.
The academy crowd murmured nervously.
Lamii stood near the center circle watching the opponent team regroup.
This was the moment.
Pressure.
He inhaled slowly.
Then the whistle restarted play.
This time, Lamii dropped deeper.
He wanted more space to read the field.
The ball came again.
Two defenders rushed him instantly.
Instead of panicking, Lamii did something subtle.
He waited.
One extra second.
Just long enough for the defenders to commit.
Then he turned sharply with the outside of his left foot.
Both defenders overshot him.
Gasps from the sideline.
Lamii accelerated forward.
The field suddenly opened in front of him.
He saw everything.
Papii is sprinting between center backs.
A winger cutting inside.
A defender stepping up too late.
Lamii lifted his head.
Then delivered a perfect through-pass.
The ball split the defence like a blade.
Papii reached it.
One touch.
Shot.
GOAL.
The net exploded.
1–1.
Papii raised both arms as the academy bench erupted.
He pointed toward Lamii.
"Good pass!"
Lamii only nodded.
But inside, something burnt brighter.
In the stands, the mysterious scout finally moved.
He wrote a short line in his notebook.
Vision. Rare.
Next to him, another man wearing a discreet Monaco emblem leaned forward.
His eyes followed Papii, celebrating near the corner flag.
He smiled.
"Interesting striker."
Back on the field, the match intensified.
Castilla Norte defenders began targeting Lamii harder.
One tackle clipped his ankle.
Another slammed into his ribs.
Each time he got up.
Each time, he kept playing.
But the physical pressure was real.
At one moment, three defenders surrounded him near the sideline.
One pushed from behind.
Another blocked the passing lane.
The third waited to steal the ball.
Lamii's body screamed to pass quickly.
But his mind saw something else.
Space.
Tiny.
Barely enough for a move.
He tapped the ball forward slightly.
The nearest defender lunged.
Too early.
Lamii dragged the ball back with his sole, spun between the two players, and burst through the gap.
The crowd reacted instantly.
"Whoa!"
He sprinted forward.
Only one defender remained.
The defender spread his arms.
"No chance."
Lamii slowed.
He shifted his body left.
Then right.
Then left again.
The defender hesitated.
That was enough.
Lamii slipped past him and entered the final third.
Papii ran beside him.
"Pass!"
Lamii looked up.
For one second, time slowed.
He could shoot.
He could pass.
He could create something no one expected.
In that moment, Lamii understood something about football.
The best players don't follow the game.
They control it.
He lifted his foot—