Noah sank onto the nearest bench, jersey clinging to his body, hair damp and sticking to his forehead. His lungs still burned, every breath raw, but beneath the fatigue was something new—satisfaction. He'd felt sharper in that first half, more assertive than usual, and while Salzburg had pressed aggressively, forcing Ajax into uncomfortable moments, Noah hadn't shied away.
His weighted pass to Ali in the 21st minute still lingered in his mind, the way it curved around two defenders and put Ali in space. It hadn't led to a goal, but it was the kind of vision-driven pass that used to exist only in theory for him. Today, it had been instinct. For once, he didn't feel like he was clinging to safety.
Yet he knew something was missing. The first half had been good—not great. He had tasted growth, yes, but he also felt the edges of his ceiling. His passing angles were sharper, but still patterned. His decisions quicker, but still too readable. Salzburg hadn't broken him—they'd merely adjusted. And Noah could feel, deep in his chest, that there was more.
He wasn't frustrated. He was hungry. He just needed the right push—the kind of catalyst only a coach like Vermeer could provide.
The door swung open, and Vermeer walked in with his usual calm, carrying a presence that made the room instinctively quieter. Players who had been slouched against lockers straightened. Ali, always restless, stopped tapping his foot. Even the distant sound of the crowd seemed to fade as Vermeer set the tablet down on the central table with a deliberate clack.
"Sit," Vermeer said, voice low but firm.
Everyone obeyed without a word. The locker room smelled of sweat and grass, the familiar sting of halftime fatigue settling in—but beneath it all, Noah sensed something else: readiness.
Vermeer tapped the tablet, pulling up first-half clips on the monitor mounted on the far wall. "Look closely," he said, swiping through freeze frames. The image paused on Salzburg's front three pressing aggressively, with Lukas Kessler hovering just off Noah's right shoulder.
"This," Vermeer continued, "is their adjustment. Kessler isn't man-marking you—he's baiting. He leaves space, lures you into thinking you're free, then cuts your angle the second you commit. And it's working because you're giving him rhythm. One… two… pass. Always the same cadence. Always the same side preference."
Noah's head tilted slightly as he watched the replay. He had seen Kessler hesitate earlier, but he hadn't thought about how it shaped the entire press.
Vermeer switched to another clip—Noah threading a ball diagonally to Ali. "Here. Good execution. But notice Kessler's adjustment in real time. He anticipates the next one, steps early, and almost steals it. If he gets one interception like that in the wrong spot, we're running toward our own goal in transition."
Noah inhaled slowly, processing it. "So… variety?"
"Exactly," Vermeer replied, locking eyes with him. "Your passing is accurate, but accuracy without disguise is predictable. Passing lanes aren't just about where the ball goes—they're about what defenders think you're going to do. Right now, you're giving them clarity. I want ambiguity. Pass to invite pressure, then break it. Use rhythm changes. Sometimes hold a half-second longer—La Pausa. Sometimes release early, bait them into stepping too soon. Make them guess—and punish them when they guess wrong."
Noah's pulse quickened. Vermeer had mentioned La Pausa before, but this was the first time he'd said it with such sharpness.
"And don't forget your tools," Vermeer added, voice firmer now. "Powered passes when they collapse the middle, weighted passes for pockets between lines. You already have the mechanics—use them. And your spatial awareness? That's the edge here. Salzburg's biggest strength is chaos. You counter chaos by making them predictable. Use your vision to set bait. Show them an obvious lane, pull them out, then cut through them like a knife when they bite. They won't know what's coming if you're the one dictating where their eyes go."
Something shifted in Noah's chest. He wasn't being scolded—he was being trusted with more.
Vermeer crouched slightly so their eyes were level. His tone softened but carried more weight. "Carter, you see things most players don't. That's a gift. But gifts need intent. Don't play small. Don't wait for perfect. You came here to grow, right? Then grow now. And listen carefully…"
The coach's voice dipped lower, almost like he wanted every word etched into Noah's bones. "Believe in your teammates, yes—but more importantly, believe in yourself. You don't need permission to lead. You don't need to wait to be decisive. You are decisive. Trust your instincts. And if it feels right? Take the shot too. Passing is your foundation, but this team needs you to be more than safe. It needs you to dare."
The words were heavy, but in the best way. They pressed against Noah's chest and filled him with something that wasn't pressure—it was trust. It was belief.
"I…" Noah hesitated, feeling heat build behind his ears. "I'll show you, Coach."
Vermeer smiled faintly, the kind of smile that carried confidence but no softness. "Good. Because the second half isn't going to wait for you. Make Kessler react to you—not the other way around. This is your moment, Carter. Use every tool you've built so far. Powered pass, La Pausa, weighted pass, baiting angles, spatial awareness… blend them all. You're ready."
For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Then Ali clapped him on the shoulder. "Hey, maestro—don't think too much. You got this."
Leo nodded from across the room. "Whatever happens, keep your head up."
Noah nodded slowly, eyes fixed forward, but his chest felt different. Lighter somehow, like Vermeer's words had cracked something open.
The referee's assistant peeked into the locker room doorway. "Five minutes."
Vermeer clapped his hands sharply. "Hydrate, reset mentally, and get ready to dictate tempo. The second half bends to us."
As players stretched and refilled water bottles, Noah remained seated, elbows on his knees. His thoughts weren't stuck on Salzburg anymore; they were on the challenge Vermeer had thrown at him. This wasn't just about a passing adjustment—it was about who he wanted to be as a footballer.
Ali nudged him with an elbow. "You gonna stare into the floor all day or what?"
Noah smirked. "Just thinking about how to mess with Kessler."
Ali grinned. "That's the spirit. Give him something to hate."
From the doorway, Vermeer's voice came again, quieter now but aimed directly at him. "Remember: variety. And trust yourself."
Noah nodded, rising to his feet. He took one last swig of water, adjusted his jersey, and followed the team out.
The tunnel roared with sound as soon as they stepped in—drums, chants, the thrum of thousands of voices. Noah let it wash over him, steadying his breathing as they emerged into the light. He closed his eyes briefly, felt the grass under his cleats, then opened them again with focus sharpened to a single thought:
This is where I change the game.