Leon's eyes narrowed as he studied the players across from him during the final shadow match of the day. No bibs, no coaches barking instructions—just eight versus eight, the red squad against the white, set up to simulate match conditions without pushing to full intensity. A dry run. But to Leon, every second mattered.
Above their heads, the numbers hovered, faint and ghostly like whispers only he could hear.
Player 1 – Potential: 90.
Player 2 – Potential: 83.
Player 3 – Potential: 79.
The rest – scattered below 75.
Leon's gaze lingered on the one with 90 for just a second longer.
Byon, stretching beside Raphael. James.
James stuck out a hand casually.
"You're Leon Fischer, right? I heard about you during the last session… That shot off the crossbar? Crazy."
Leon turned to him and took the handshake.
"Thanks," he said. "I heard you left QPR."
James's expression barely shifted, but something flickered.
"Yeah," he said. "Felt like I was just another name on a spreadsheet. I want a new chance. A real one. This is it."
Leon nodded, something quiet passing between them.
"Then let's do it together."
For a moment, it was just two players exchanging belief—not in fate, but in each other.
After a light cooldown and some passing drills, the coach dismissed them with a simple wave.
"Rest. Hydrate. And don't overthink it," he said. "Your bodies already know what to do."
It was a short walk back toward the edge of the academy grounds, where the gravel path split into three directions—one toward the dorms, one toward the bus station, and the third toward the row of homes where a few of the players stayed during the program.
Byon jogged up beside Leon, pulling his hoodie over his head.
"You think the scouts will notice us?" he asked.
Leon looked up at the dusky sky. Faint streaks of orange still lingered behind the clouds, the kind that always reminded him of burnt paper. Of time slipping.
"We'll make sure they can't ignore us."
Byon glanced sideways, half-smiling. "You've changed a lot, Leon."
Leon turned toward him. "What do you mean?"
"You're more… I don't know. Confident. Focused. It's like you're not scared anymore."
Leon didn't answer right away.
Then, looking up at the deepening night sky, he whispered, "When you're given a second life… you have to live it without fear."
Byon stopped walking. Just for a second.
Then he caught up again, a quiet grin tugging at his face.
They reached the end of the road where they always split. A familiar crossroads.
Leon looked at his best friend. "Tomorrow… we make history."
Byon gave a mock salute. "See you, my partner in glory."
As Leon climbed the steps toward his front door, he turned once more.
Byon was still standing there, looking up at the sky.
-Inside, the house was still. His mother had left a small plate of pasta on the counter, covered in foil. A note sat beside it in careful handwriting:
"Eat well, sleep early. I believe in you. Love, Mom."
He smiled. That small smile that lives somewhere between comfort and determination. He warmed the food, ate quietly, then headed upstairs.
When he reached his room, he didn't turn the light on.
He walked to the window and opened it. The night air rolled in—cool, carrying the scent of damp grass and far-off rain.
He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, arms folded behind his head. He let his mind drift, but not aimlessly.
A match. A pass from James. A one-two with Byon. A sudden burst of space. The goalkeeper off his line. The shot—low and curling. Net.
The crowd roars. Not a real one. Not yet. But it was there. In his mind, it always had been.
And behind that roar, in the shadowed stands… a figure scribbling on a notepad.
One name.
"Fischer."
A name that will be remembered.
He drifted into sleep as the night deepened outside.