Noah sat on the bench long after most players had already left the pitch, watching a pair of goalkeepers run finishing drills in the distance. The first scrimmage at Ajax had ended in a win, but it didn't feel like a victory—not for him. He had passed safely, moved the ball, avoided errors… and disappeared in the process.
The wind was sharper now, pulling at his training jacket. He kept staring at his boots, mud barely clinging to the pristine studs, when a voice broke through the quiet.
"Carter. Walk with me."
He turned to see Coach Willem Vermeer, the man who had watched every minute of the scrimmage without so much as a flicker of emotion. Vermeer was an Ajax institution—he'd spent a decade as a midfielder in their golden youth era before coaching stints in Belgium and Germany. He wasn't known for fiery speeches or loud outbursts; he was known for results, for turning raw talent into intelligent professionals.
Vermeer's reputation preceded him: analytical, demanding, and brutally honest. Players often said he could see everything—one misstep, one bad decision, and he'd remember it weeks later. Noah stood, nerves knotting tighter.
The walk to Vermeer's office was silent, save for the hum of air conditioning and the distant echo of showers from the locker room. The office itself was a reflection of the man: clean, precise, everything in its place. Tactical magnets still formed Ajax's signature 4-3-3 shape on the wallboard. A single framed photo sat on the shelf—a younger Vermeer in Ajax white, mid-tackle.
He gestured for Noah to sit. "First of all," Vermeer began, folding his hands, "welcome to Ajax. You've had a week to settle, and today was your first real test."
Noah nodded slowly. "Yes, coach."
Vermeer's eyes didn't blink. "You passed. Barely. But you also failed."
The words stung, but Vermeer's tone wasn't cruel; it was clinical. "You can pass safely. That's obvious. Your spatial reading is above average for your age, and your weighted passes… they remind me of something." He leaned back, studying Noah with a faint squint. "You're an Iniesta fan, aren't you?"
Noah blinked, startled by the guess but quickly nodded. "Yeah… he's my favorite."
Vermeer gave a small shrug. "Figures. We've seen plenty of kids come in idolizing Iniesta—trying to copy the pauses, the angles. But listen, Carter, copying someone isn't enough. Those moves have to be yours, not just echoes of a highlight reel. Right now, you're imitating instead of owning it."
Noah shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether to argue or just listen.
"You're afraid of risk," Vermeer continued. "You don't dribble because you're scared to lose the ball. You don't shoot because you're scared to miss. That fear keeps you tidy but invisible. Do you know what Ajax looks for in a midfielder?"
"Control? Vision?" Noah offered weakly.
"Courage," Vermeer corrected. "We teach control and vision. Courage? That's on you."
Noah looked down, the weight of the truth pressing on him. He had always played safe. In high school, coaches praised him for 'never losing possession,' for being reliable. But here, reliable wasn't enough.
Vermeer leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I'm demoting you to the second string for now."
The words hit like a punch. "Coach, I—"
"This isn't punishment." Vermeer's voice cut him off cleanly. "It's development. Right now, you're freezing under pressure, and that's natural. New city, new culture, faster pace—it's a shock to the system. But we don't fix that in the main team. We fix it where the pressure's lower, where you can take risks without destroying team rhythm."
"But… I thought you wanted me to—"
Vermeer raised a hand. "I want you to fail, Carter. Do you understand? Fail with intention. Lose the ball because you tried something creative, not because you panicked. Take a shot and send it over the fence, fine—but at least you took it. Your ceiling isn't safe passing. It's controlling matches. But to control, you have to step into the spotlight."
Vermeer walked to the tactics board and adjusted a few magnets. "Your passing vision is good. Elite, even, once you stop hesitating. But when I watch you, I see a midfielder afraid to take responsibility beyond that. Do you know who we played today?"
"Jong Utrecht," Noah answered quietly.
"Correct. Their captain, Daan Verhoeven, is two years older than you but plays like a man already pushing for senior minutes. Koen van Dijk? He hunts players like you because he smells fear. Emil Sørensen? If you'd taken one risk forward early, he'd have been running behind their press in an instant." Vermeer turned back, eyes locking on Noah. "Those three will be in the Eredivisie within two years. Where will you be?"
The question lingered like a blade in the air.
Noah finally nodded. "So… second string. Where do I play?"
"Still midfield," Vermeer said. "But you'll have space to experiment. We'll run you with players still finding their shape. You'll lead. That's where your confidence comes back."
Noah's shoulders slumped. "It feels like going backwards."
Vermeer's voice softened. "It's not. It's recalibration. You came here to grow, yes? Then don't cling to comfort. You'll call home tonight, you'll hate me for a week, and then you'll thank me later."
That night, Noah sat on his dorm bed, phone in hand. He called home. His mother's warm voice answered almost instantly.
"Noah? How was the match?"
"We won," he said, voice heavy. "But… I'm being moved down. Second string. Coach says I'm playing too safe."
There was silence on the other end, then her gentle laugh. "You? Playing safe? Never thought I'd hear that."
"It's not funny," he muttered, tears threatening but staying hidden. "I don't want to go backward."
"You left home because you wanted to change, right?" his mom said softly. "Change hurts, Noah. If this is what it takes, do it. You have people believing in you there. Believe in yourself a little too."
He hung up later and lay back, staring at the ceiling. He wasn't happy, but he was steadier now. Tomorrow, the second string awaited. A new team. A new start. A chance to stop disappearing.