It started with a sleek black car.
It rolled up slowly during a Reserve Team vs. First Team scrimmage on the far pitch of the training complex. Windows tinted. Black-on-black wheels. Quiet luxury.
Inside, KJ was doing what he did best—finding space where there shouldn't be any, dragging defenders out with clever runs, and making finishing look like instinct.
Even though he was still only 17, KJ had earned his spot with the reserves—training daily with grown men, many of whom were fighting for contracts, minutes, careers. His name was starting to get whispered around the club now. The kind of whispers that traveled.
The man in the car knew that.
Marcus Langston stepped out, sunglasses on despite the gray skies, and watched from a distance. He didn't need to be close. He already knew what he was seeing.
⸻
Later that week, during a U19 league match that KJ had been sent down for—just to get a few more touches—Marcus made his move.
Not directly, of course. That would've been too obvious.
He watched from the sidelines, arms folded, nodding quietly to himself when KJ slalomed through two defenders and curled in a left-footed goal like it was nothing.
KJ saw him. Everyone saw him. The tension was thick.
⸻
"You see the dude in the shades?" Kyle asked Kareem later that day, walking out of the U16 field after training.
"He was watching KJ," Kareem said. "I think I saw him last week too."
"He said something to Coach after the game," Kyle added.
Kareem narrowed his eyes.
"He's not a scout," he said. "He's something else."
⸻
That evening, KJ left the locker room to find Marcus leaning against that same car, arms casually crossed.
"You ever think about how many pro clubs use the word 'project' when they talk about you?" Marcus asked without introduction.
KJ didn't say anything.
"Project means you're not there yet. Potential. But I've seen what you are. You're not a project. You're the finished product—just wrapped in the wrong packaging."
KJ raised an eyebrow. "You following me?"
Marcus chuckled. "No, no. I'm just here to watch good football. You just happen to be on my playlist."
He handed KJ a card. All-black. No name. No number. Just a silver emblem in the center. Elegant. Mysterious.
"I'll be around," Marcus said, sliding back into the driver's seat. "Call when you're tired of being a maybe."
⸻
Marcus didn't stop there.
He showed up two days later at Kyle's U16 training match. Quiet. Watching.
Afterwards, as Kyle left the field, Marcus passed him like they were strangers and casually said:
"Three nutmegs in one half? Someone should've warned those defenders. You're a problem."
Kyle looked at him sideways. "You're the guy that talked to my brother."
"I talk to talent," Marcus said, smiling. "And you, my guy? You speak fluent disrespect."
⸻
That night, the three brothers sat on the couch.
Kareem picked up the black card from the table and spun it between his fingers. "You know what this means, right?"
"That we're making noise," KJ said.
"No," Kareem corrected. "That the game behind the game just kicked off."
"They think they're scouting us," Kyle added, "but we're watching them too."
The three sat in silence for a moment, each one quietly knowing: the real challenge was only beginning.