The whistle cut through the roar of the crowd, sharp and commanding, and Noah Carter stepped back onto the pitch feeling lighter than he had in weeks. Vermeer's halftime words echoed in his head, not as instructions to memorize but as permission—permission to play. To trust himself. To trust that all the work, all the repetitions, all the frustrations and doubts, had brought him here.
Salzburg lined up the same way as the first half, their press already coiled like a spring. Lukas Kessler, still hovering in that deceptive half-space, gave him a look as if to say: You're mine again this half. Noah only smiled, the faintest curve of his lips, and positioned himself a little deeper, inviting the press.
The ball rolled to him almost immediately after kickoff. In the past, this would've been an easy one-touch pass back to reset. Not today. Today he shifted his weight differently, half-pausing—La Pausa—long enough to freeze Kessler for a half-second before stabbing a powered pass through to Ali, bypassing three Salzburg midfielders.
The crowd gasped, the ball slicing through space like a guided missile. Ali received, pivoted into open grass, and though the move didn't lead directly to a shot, the message was clear: Noah Carter was done being predictable.
Console Notification:
[Spatial Awareness Lv2 Activated]
[La Pausa Execution Success]
[Powered Pass Efficiency: 92%]
Kessler frowned, visibly irritated now, and Noah knew he had him where he wanted him—not with speed or power, but with rhythm. Every pass now had intention: sometimes early, sometimes delayed, sometimes floated, sometimes drilled. Salzburg's organized chaos was crumbling because Noah was dictating tempo instead of reacting to it.
In the 55th minute, he received a quick feed from Leo just outside their own box. Salzburg's midfield pressed hard, closing every obvious lane. Old Noah would've taken the safe option back. New Noah baited them instead—looked one way, leaned slightly left, then executed a disguised weighted pass through the middle. Ali sprinted into the pocket, turning quickly, and the transition was on.
Ali carried it thirty yards before releasing to Matthis, who cut inside. Noah didn't chase forward recklessly; he slowed, reading the shifting lines. Salzburg's back line pinched inward, bracing for Matthis' shot—until Noah arrived late at the top of the box, received the return ball, and shot.
It wasn't perfect; the ball rose slightly, clipping the top of the bar before sailing out. But it wasn't a panicked shot. It was intentional. Controlled. A shot with meaning.
Vermeer clapped from the sideline, his voice sharp but approving: "That's it, Carter! Do it again!"
The 60th minute brought Noah's first assist. Salzburg had switched to a tighter press, cutting off his usual short connections. Instead of forcing it, he drifted wider, pulling Kessler with him. The movement opened a tiny gap, and Noah pounced—slipping a perfectly timed through-ball between two defenders with powered precision. Ali didn't waste it, burying it near post.
The stadium erupted. Ali pointed straight at Noah, grinning. "That's your goal, maestro!"
Console Notification:
[Assist #1 Registered]
[Powered Pass Synergy Detected]
Salzburg looked shaken now. Their midfielders exchanged glances, debating whether to double-mark Noah or tighten their press elsewhere. Every time they hesitated, Noah noticed. His eyes were alive, scanning, calculating, trusting.
By the 70th minute, Ajax earned a corner. The delivery came low toward the edge of the box—Noah's zone. He didn't rush a shot; instead, he feinted one way, drawing two defenders, then reversed quickly and sent a perfectly weighted cross back into the six-yard box. Matthis rose above everyone, heading it home.
Second assist. Second moment where Noah's fingerprints were all over the goal without needing to be the finisher.
Console Notification:
[Assist #2 Registered]
[Weighted Pass Execution: Advanced]
Salzburg tried to reset, dropping one of their wingers deeper to cut Noah's influence. But he was already in full flow. Every touch carried a rhythm they couldn't time. In the 78th minute, he produced his masterpiece.
Ali received wide left, Salzburg's defense sliding to cover. Noah drifted centrally, looking for space. Salzburg's captain shouted an adjustment—mark the lanes, don't let Carter thread anything through. Noah smiled. That was the bait. He stepped forward like he was going to hit another short pass… and then unleashed it: a powered weighted pass so sharp it sliced between two defenders, curving perfectly into Leo's path.
Leo didn't waste it—one touch and finish, bottom corner.
The crowd exploded, the Ajax bench jumping as if it were a final-winning goal. Vermeer didn't move much, but the satisfied tilt of his head said enough.
Console Notification:
[Assist #3 Registered]
[New Playstyle Recognition: Dynamic Tempo Control]
The final twelve minutes were controlled chaos. Salzburg tried to claw back, but every time they pressed, Noah punished them—sometimes with quick releases, sometimes holding the ball just long enough to bait, then escaping like water through fingers. He even attempted two more shots, one blocked and one saved, but both had intent. Each was a statement: I'm not afraid to take responsibility anymore.
When the whistle finally blew, Ajax had won 3–0. Noah had three assists and two near goals, his fingerprints on every rhythm of the match. The crowd, which had started the game curious about him, ended it chanting his name: "Carter! Carter! Carter!"
In the locker room, players mobbed him. Ali draped an arm around his shoulder. "Three assists? That's not normal, maestro. That's elite."
Noah laughed, shaking his head. "Just good timing."
Leo nudged him. "Good timing doesn't slice defenses like that. Don't downplay it."
Across the room, Vermeer approached. His eyes were calm but proud. "Carter. That's what I wanted to see. Passing variety, tempo control, spatial manipulation… and you took your shots. That's growth. But—" his tone sharpened just slightly— "don't think this is the end. This is the start. That second half? That's who you are when you trust yourself."
Noah nodded, jaw set. "I won't go back, Coach."
Vermeer's expression softened into the smallest smile. "Good. Because from now on, defenders won't see Noah Carter the safe passer. They'll see Noah Carter, the playmaker who punishes mistakes."
Noah sat there for a moment after Vermeer left, replaying every pass in his mind. Not just the assists, but the rhythm, the subtle hesitation, the baiting angles. It had felt right. Like everything had clicked.
He pulled out his phone later that night, checking messages. His mom had sent one: Proud of you, Noah. We watched from home. You looked… happy out there.
He smiled softly at the screen. She was right. He was happy.
For the first time since arriving in Amsterdam, Noah didn't just feel like a talented academy kid trying to fit in. He felt like a player building his identity—one forged not by fear or imitation, but by belief.