The tunnel beneath the academy's main stand was cooler than the afternoon sun outside, filled with the particular silence that precedes battle. Mahmoud stood in line behind Kareem, adjusting his captain's armband one final time, the weight of leadership sitting comfortably on his shoulders. The sound of studs clicking against concrete echoed in the narrow space, punctuated by deep breathing and whispered encouragements.
Through the tunnel opening ahead, he could see a slice of perfect green grass, the white lines stark against the emerald surface. The crowd was modest but engaged—perhaps eight hundred people scattered across the stands, their voices creating a steady hum that seemed to amplify in the concrete tunnel.
"Remember," Coach Muneer called from behind, "first fifteen minutes are crucial. They'll try to impose their tempo immediately. Stay compact, be patient, and wait for our moments."
The referee appeared, whistle hanging from his neck, and gestured both teams forward. Emil Gertsson emerged from the opposite tunnel, his team following in perfectly coordinated silence. Their warm-up gear looked expensive, professional—everything about them suggested superiority born from resources and expectation.
Mahmoud stepped onto the pitch and immediately felt the difference. The grass was firmer than training surfaces, the lines crisper, the goal nets taut with possibility. Scattered applause greeted both teams, but he tuned it out, focusing instead on the geometric precision of the field.
"Environmental scan complete," VALYS whispered. "Surface traction optimal. Wind minimal. All conditions favorable for technical play."
During the warm-up, Mahmoud kept one eye on his own preparation and another on Emil's movements. The European captain was loose, confident, comfortable in his skin. He joked, acknowledged the crowd, and executed every drill with effortless precision.
At kickoff, Mahmoud found himself directly across from Emil in the center circle. They were roughly the same height, but Emil's frame was leaner, more angular, built for the controlled chaos of top-level youth football.
Emil extended a hand. "May the best team win," he said, genuine in sportsmanship.
Mahmoud shook it firmly. "They will."
Emil's eyebrow lifted, but he smiled. "Looking forward to it."
The referee's whistle pierced the afternoon air.
The match began.
Emil received the opening touch, immediately looking for a forward pass—but Mahmoud had anticipated the movement, blocking the most obvious angle. The ball recycled sideways, then backward, as the Europeans probed for weaknesses in the academy's shape.
The opening minutes unfolded in cautious tension. Neither team risked much. The Europeans enjoyed longer spells of possession, their passing crisp, but the academy defended in a disciplined block.
Mahmoud tracked Emil like a shadow—not man-marking, but always aware, ready to step into passing lanes or apply pressure. It was a chess match played at full speed.
The first breakthrough moment came in the eighth minute. Emil dropped deep, collecting a pass from his center back and turning to face Mahmoud's midfield with time and space. Mahmoud read the movement, closing the gap without rushing, and forced Emil to recycle instead of driving forward.
A minute later, the academy turned defense into attack. Yasser sprinted into space, collecting a quick outlet from Mahmoud and squaring for the striker, whose shot glanced off the post.
The counter sent a message: the Europeans were not untouchable.
Emil returned to position, his expression unchanged but his focus sharper. Mahmoud just nodded, resetting, reading.
As play resumed, Mahmoud began to disrupt the Europeans' rhythm—not with wild tackles but with smart positioning, shutting off Emil's favorite spaces, forcing rushed passes. By the twentieth minute, Emil started dropping deeper and wider, looking for space—but in doing so, he moved himself further from danger.
The momentum shifted. The crowd sensed it—what began as polite support became genuine excitement as the academy started controlling phases of play.
Near halftime, the big chance arrived: Mahmoud intercepted a pass, pivoted smoothly, and whipped a precise through ball between two defenders. Yasser latched onto it, his shot forcing a brilliant save.
Halftime arrived goalless but full of promise.
As the teams went to the tunnel, Emil caught up with Mahmoud. "You read the game well. Who taught you?"
Mahmoud just smiled. "I had good teachers."
"And YouTube," he added with a wink.
Emil laughed. "Maybe I should study you."
Back in the locker room, Coach Muneer was concise: "They're frustrated. Stay disciplined—patience will break them. Play your game."
Mahmoud sat quietly, towel over his head, heart calm. The hardest part was over—belief. The rest was football. He whispered to himself, "Second half is ours."
As they lined up to return, Yasser leaned in. "Keep baiting Emil. He's starting to gamble."
Mahmoud nodded. He was ready—not just to play, but to take control, to prove that no matter the opponent's prestige, discipline, preparation, and belief could carry you into spaces no one expected you to reach.
This wasn't just a match. It was Mahmoud's statement to the world:
He truly belonged.
**End of Chapter 24.**