The locker room at halftime felt heavier than any first-half break Noah had ever experienced. The air was thick with sweat, the faint smell of liniment, and the muted scrape of cleats against the concrete floor. No one spoke for the first few seconds, players catching their breath, heads tilted toward the floor as they processed a half in which Ajax's second string had battled but failed to capitalize.
Coach Vermeer stood in front of the tactics board, hands clasped behind his back, eyes scanning each player one by one. He didn't raise his voice; he didn't need to. The authority in his tone was enough to straighten even the usually laid-back Mateo Silva.
"Good half," Vermeer said finally, and though his voice was even, there was a razor edge beneath it. "Vos barely touched the ball in dangerous areas. Klein's switches were anticipated and shut down. That's your work, your effort. That's why it's still level. But understand something—" he jabbed a finger toward the whiteboard, where red magnets representing PSV's front three clustered aggressively near the box. "They're going to press harder now. Faster, more compact, more desperate. That means you need to move quicker. Decide quicker. No hesitation."
His gaze shifted and landed on Noah, holding it there long enough that the room's background noise seemed to drop away.
"Carter, you need to stop being afraid to shoot."
Noah blinked. The words caught him off guard. Shooting wasn't something he thought about—it was something other people did. He had come to Ajax because of his vision, his passing, the way he could pull strings like a conductor in midfield. Shooting had always been someone else's job.
"S-Shoot?" Noah asked quietly.
Vermeer took two steps forward, tone sharpening. "You've put in weeks of work building power and control. I've seen it. We all have. A shot without control is just a loose ball, but a shot with control is a chance to change the game. You already see space better than most at your age, but now I need courage. If you have a chance, don't pass it off. Take it. Do you understand me?"
Noah nodded, throat dry. "I'll take it, coach."
Vermeer's expression softened slightly as he clapped a firm hand on Noah's shoulder. "Good. Believe in your teammates. And more importantly—believe in yourself."
The locker room atmosphere shifted. Ali Samatar gave Noah a grin and nudged him in the arm. "Hear that, maestro? You gonna finally take one instead of babysitting me all game?"
Mateo Silva chuckled as he tied his boots. "Yeah, maybe he'll surprise us before full-time."
Leo Jensen, calm and steady, interjected with a small smile. "Leave him be. You all know who starts half our attacks."
Even the normally stoic Thomas Van Loon muttered, "Just don't sky it into the parking lot."
The ripple of laughter released some of the tension. When the whistle sounded for the second half, Noah jogged out with his heart hammering and Vermeer's words repeating in his head.
The second half opened with PSV turning up their press. Their forwards closed passing lanes ruthlessly, forcing Ajax to play faster. Noah quickly realized they weren't just pressing as individuals—they were pressing in layers, Vos shadowing his movement while Klein anticipated wide outlets. Every touch felt pressured, every pass rushed.
Then, in the 52nd minute, the chance came.
A loose clearance landed at Noah's feet thirty yards from goal. Normally, he would have looked for Ali's diagonal run or played Mateo into space. Instead, he remembered Vermeer's voice: "With control, Noah!"
He stepped into the strike. The ball sailed over the bar, high and harmless. PSV fans behind the goal whistled mockingly, and Vos jogged past with a grin. "Nice try, maestro," he muttered.
But Noah didn't feel embarrassed—just determined. That strike hadn't felt wrong. His balance was there, his body position felt right. All he needed was another chance.
It came minutes later when Ali held up play at the edge of the box, dragging two defenders with him before slipping it back. Noah, unmarked, set his foot, exhaled, and drove through the ball. This time, his focus was on staying over it, driving with power but controlling the angle. The ball skimmed low, cutting through the air and sliding into the bottom corner beyond the keeper's dive.
For a moment, the stadium fell silent, processing what had just happened. Then it erupted into cheers. Ajax youth players in the academy section leapt from their seats, waving scarves and shouting his name—not because he was a star, but because he had just scored his first goal in Ajax colors.
Ali tackled him in a hug. Mateo shouted, "Finally!" and Thomas even grinned.
The Console flickered faintly in his vision:
[Goal Scored – Controlled Shot Success Rate: 74%]
Confidence Surge: +5%
From the sideline, Vermeer clapped his hands together sharply. "That's it, Carter! That's what belief looks like!"
The goal seemed to flip a switch for Noah. The tension eased, his movements sharper, his vision clearer. PSV pushed bodies forward searching for an equalizer, and space began to open up. In the 70th minute, he collected a pass from Ibi Diallo just inside his own half. Ahead of him, PSV's midfield was retreating in chaos.
He could have played it safe again, feeding Ali short and letting the attack build. Instead, Noah saw a gap forming between the right center-back and left-back—an opening that would only exist for a fraction of a second.
Trust it.
He drew back and struck, his foot making sweet contact with the ball. The pass tore through the defensive shape like a blade through silk, curling slightly with pace but weighted perfectly for Ali, who didn't need to break stride. The forward met it and chipped delicately over the rushing keeper.
The crowd gasped audibly at the speed and precision. Then came the explosion of noise as the ball hit the net. Fans stood, waving scarves and fists, some even shouting in disbelief at what they had just witnessed.
[Powered Weighted Pass – Velocity: 72 km/h | Lane Clearance: 0.32m | Optimal Arc Achieved]
On the sideline, Vermeer froze for a moment, eyes wide. He had expected Noah to eventually attempt riskier passes, but not like this—not one that combined raw muscle power with perfect vision. He glanced at his assistant. "Did you see that? He didn't just see the lane; he powered it." The assistant nodded slowly, a grin spreading on his face.
Ajax's bench players were on their feet, clapping and shouting Noah's name. Even some PSV supporters, despite themselves, nodded in appreciation. The announcer's voice cracked with excitement: "What an assist! Noah Carter with a slicing ball through the lines—Ali Samatar doubles the lead!"
The final twenty minutes were a controlled display. Noah settled deeper, protecting possession, absorbing fouls, and dictating rhythm as PSV chased shadows. The whistle blew, sealing a 2–0 win, and the second string celebrated like they had just won a trophy.
Ali grabbed Noah in another hug. "One goal, one assist—you've been hiding that, huh?"
Thomas clapped his shoulder. "Guess you're not just a pass merchant anymore."
Mateo offered a rare fist bump. "Not bad, maestro. Not bad at all."
Noah smiled faintly, scanning the crowd where academy kids were still chanting his name. He had never imagined such a sound directed at him.
Vermeer approached last, stopping in front of him, the faintest hint of pride in his eyes. "That's what happens when you trust yourself. Keep going like this, Carter, and you're not just going to fit in—you're going to stand out."
Noah, chest heaving, simply nodded, but deep down he felt something new take root—an understanding that he could change games, not just control them.