The morning of the final training session before the big match arrived with an unseasonable chill that made the academy's grounds feel sharper, more defined. Mahmoud laced his boots with deliberate care, each eyelet threaded with the precision of a surgeon preparing for a critical operation. Around him in the locker room, his teammates moved with similar focus—the casual chatter of previous days replaced by heavy silence.
Coach Muneer's instructions for today were clear:
"Light technical work only. Keep your legs fresh, keep your minds engaged. This is about rhythm, not intensity."
But as Mahmoud stepped onto the main pitch, he saw that the Europeans had other ideas. Their warm-up was razor-sharp—passing drills that looked like synchronized ballet, shooting patterns where every ball kissed the corner of the net, defensive shifts like a single living organism moving.
Emil Gertsson, their captain, was the calm at the center of it all—organizing his teammates with just a tilt of the head or a flick of two fingers. Every touch looked effortless, every movement deliberate.
"They make it look easy," Yasser murmured beside him.
"That's the point," Mahmoud replied. "They want us to think it's easy for them."
VALYS chimed in softly: *"Technical execution at 94% success rate. Decision-making speed: above your squad's baseline. Physical metrics: peak for this age group."*
But Mahmoud had noticed something—across all their slick patterns, the Europeans hadn't been pressed. Not once. No adversity. No chaos.
The academy's own session was modest in intensity but full of mental pairing. Passing sequences with strict two-touch limits, angled drills forcing unnatural passing lanes, mini rondos designed to punish lazy movement.
Halfway through, Coach Muneer announced something unexpected:
"They've requested a short joint possession drill. Fifteen minutes. Mixed teams."
It was an unusual gesture, but it had been agreed upon for "spirit of competition." Mahmoud found himself wearing an orange bib and lining up with two Europeans, one of them Emil.
"Academy six, right?" Emil said, nodding toward him. "Patience in your play. Unusual here."
"I play what the game needs," Mahmoud replied.
The drill began. Tight space, quick passes, two defenders hunting possession. Emil's every touch was immaculate. Mahmoud didn't try to match him stride for stride—he kept the ball crisp, offered passing lanes, recycled under pressure rather than forcing play.
Twice Emil pressed him directly. Twice Mahmoud let the press commit, shielding with his frame before releasing safely a half-second before the tackle.
When it was over, Emil extended a gloved hand. "You see the whole pitch. Very… Germanic efficiency."
Mahmoud met his eyes. "And you press like someone who's never been truly pressed back."
There was the briefest pause before Emil smiled—a fraction tighter than earlier.
***
Back in the locker room, there was a current in the air. Whether it was tension or anticipation, Mahmoud couldn't tell. He sat on the bench, unwinding his laces slowly.
Tomorrow was the real test.
The match that would decide if half the continent's best youth scouts saw Mahmoud Hassan as just another trialist—
—or as someone who couldn't be ignored.
**End of Chapter 23**