The next two weeks were a baptism by fire. Armani's life condensed into a grueling cycle: school, practice, homework, sleep, repeat. His body, which he'd always thought was resilient, constantly ached in new and surprising places. Coach Reynolds's practices were legendary for their brutality, designed to separate the committed from the merely talented.
They ran suicides until legs turned to jelly, drilled tactical formations until they were etched behind their eyelids, and lifted weights in the musty, poorly-equipped school gym. Armani embraced it all. Every burning lung, every sore muscle, was a badge of honor. He was paying his rent.
He also learned the hierarchy of the team. Marcus was the undisputed alpha, the star striker from last season whose talent was only matched by his ego. He led the drills with a sneering competence, always quick to point out a mistake from one of the "new boys." Kofi, with his natural strength and surprising agility for his size, had slotted in as a starting central defender, earning a grudging respect. Armani, however, was firmly with the second string, a reserve learning the system.
He took Coach Reynolds's words to heart. He didn't just run. He watched. He listened. He studied Marcus's movement off the ball, how he created half a yard of space with a simple feint. He began to understand the team's rhythm, the language of their play.
The big test was the first pre-season friendly against their arch-rivals from Kingston: St. George's College. The "Georgians." It was more than a game; it was a statement of intent for the season.
The bus ride to Kingston was a raucous, nerve-filled journey of three hours. The team sang rowdy choruses of popular dancehall songs, the veterans loud and confident, the new boys like Armani mostly watching, absorbing the energy. Marcus held court at the back of the bus, predicting a hat-trick.
Armani sat by the window, watching the lush Jamaican landscape roll by, the blue mountains rising in the distance. His headphones were on, but no music was playing. He was running plays in his head.
The sight of the stadium in Kingston sent a fresh jolt of nerves through him. It was bigger than their home field, and despite being a friendly, a sizable, noisy crowd had gathered, a sea of blue and white for St. George's and maroon and gold for Cornwall. The air crackled with a competitive energy that was absent from practice.
Coach Reynolds gathered them in the cramped, unfamiliar locker room. "This is not a friendly," he stated, his voice cutting through the pre-game chatter. "This is a measuring stick. St. George's plays a fast, technical game. They will try to outthink you. Do not let them. Play our game. Play physical. Play smart. The team that makes the fewest mistakes wins. Starters, let's go."
Armani took his spot on the bench, a familiar feeling of restless energy buzzing in his veins. He was a spectator again, but this time, he was on the inside.
The game was a frantic, brutal affair from the first whistle. St. George's was everything Coach had said—technical, quick, and ruthlessly organized. They passed the ball around Cornwall's hustling players with infuriating ease. Kofi and the defense were under constant siege.
Cornwall's strategy was simple: win the ball and get it to Marcus. But Marcus was having a nightmare. Frustrated by the tight marking, he grew increasingly selfish, taking wild shots from impossible angles and ignoring better-placed teammates. The Georgian defenders, savvy and experienced, began to double-team him, knowing he wouldn't pass.
In the 35th minute, the inevitable happened. A quick turnover in midfield led to a lightning-fast Georgian counter-attack. Their left-winger, a blur of speed, flew past Cornwall's tired right-back and sent a perfect, low cross into the box. Their striker arrived with a clinical finish. 1-0.
The Cornwall section of the crowd fell silent. On the bench, Armani felt a surge of frustration. He saw the openings Marcus was missing, the runs that were being ignored.
Halftime was a storm. Coach Reynolds didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. His quiet, seething disappointment was worse than any scream.
"They are playing as a team. We are playing as one man and ten others," he said, his eyes boring into Marcus. "You are not a one-man army, Grant. Look up. See the field. Or I will find someone who will."
Marcus stared at the floor, his jaw clenched, saying nothing.
The second half was more of the same. Cornwall fought harder, but their attacks broke down on Marcus's stubbornness. In the 70th minute, St. George's scored again from a set-piece, a powerful header that gave the keeper no chance. 2-0. The game was slipping away.
Coach Reynolds finally snapped. "Grant! Off. Now." He turned to the bench. His eyes scanned the anxious faces before landing squarely on Armani. "Wilson. Warm up. You have twenty minutes. Show me you were listening."
Armani's heart leaped into his throat. This was it. His first real test. He ripped off his training bib and started jogging along the touchline, his legs feeling both heavy and electrified.
The whistle blew. Marcus stormed off the field, refusing to look at Armani or acknowledge the coach, and slammed himself down on the bench.
Armani ran onto the pitch. The noise of the crowd became a distant hum. Kofi gave him a grim nod of encouragement from the back. The game resumed.
For the first few minutes, he was a ghost, just trying to touch the ball, to get a feel for the pace. The Georgian defenders looked at him, this skinny new kid, and seemed to relax. They focused their attention elsewhere.
It was their first mistake.
In the 85th minute, the ball broke loose in midfield. Shemar Davis, the hustling central midfielder, won a tough tackle and looked up. He saw Armani already on the move, making a diagonal run behind the defender who had momentarily switched off.
It wasn't about pure speed this time. It was about timing.
Shemar played a perfect through ball, slicing the defense open. Armani was gone. He exploded onto the pass, his first touch taking him toward the goal. The crowd roared. It was just him and the goalkeeper.
The Georgian keeper rushed out. Time slowed down. Armani saw the angle narrowing. He remembered Marcus's wild, frustrated shots. He remembered Coach's voice: *"Think. Listen."*
He didn't blast it. He didn't try to be a hero. He saw Kofi, of all people, charging into the box like a freight train, unmarked. With a calmness he didn't know he possessed, Armani feigned a shot, drawing the keeper, and then slid a simple, square pass across the face of the goal.
Kofi arrived and smashed the ball into the empty net. 2-1.
The Cornwall side of the stadium erupted. Kofi let out a roar, grabbing Armani and pulling him into a bone-crushing hug. "Yes, baller! Yes! See it deh!"
It was just a consolation goal. But it was a moment of pure, intelligent teamwork. They didn't have time to celebrate. They grabbed the ball and ran back to the center circle, wanting more.
For the final few minutes, Armani was a live wire. Energized by the assist, he buzzed around, pressing defenders, making smart runs. He didn't get another clear chance, but he'd changed the energy of the team. The final whistle blew. 2-1 to St. George's. A loss, but not a disgrace.
The team trudged off the field, dejected but with a flicker of fight still alive. Coach Reynolds was waiting for them.
"Better," he said simply, his eyes finding Armani. "We lost because we didn't play as a team for seventy minutes. We looked like a team for the last twenty. That is what we build on."
As the players began to head toward the locker room, soaked in sweat and disappointment, a man approached Coach Reynolds. He was unfamiliar. He was dressed in smart casual clothes—khaki trousers and a polo shirt—and carried a digital tablet under his arm. He looked completely out of place.
"Coach Reynolds?" the man said, his accent crisp, British. "Ian Croft. Sorry to bother you after a match. Do you have a moment?"
Coach Reynolds eyed him warily, then nodded. "A quick moment."
Armani, lagging behind to retie his boot, couldn't help but overhear.
"I'm a scout with the Premier League," the man said, his voice lower now.
Armani's head snapped up. His heart stopped. *A Premier League scout? Here?*
"I'm actually here to watch a few of the St. George's lads," Croft continued, and Armani's hopes dipped slightly. "But I have to say, I was impressed by the response from your number… 24? In the second half. The quick one. Composed assist."
Coach Reynolds followed the scout's gaze, which had landed directly on Armani, who was frozen, pretending to be fascinated by his bootlaces.
"Wilson," Coach Reynolds said, his voice neutral.
"Right. Armani Wilson," the scout said, as if confirming a fact he already knew. He looked back at Coach Reynolds. "He's raw. Very raw. But that pace… that's a rare commodity. We're always looking for profile players. Keep me updated on his progress, would you? I'll be keeping an eye on the DaCosta Cup results."
He handed Coach Reynolds a business card, shook his hand, and walked away, melting into the departing crowd.
Armani stood up, his legs weak. His eyes met Coach Reynolds's. The coach looked at him for a long, hard moment. The air had been sucked out of the evening. The loss no longer mattered. The aching muscles no longer mattered.
A Premier League scout knew his name.
Coach Reynolds walked over to him, the business card held between his fingers. He didn't smile. His expression was deadly serious.
"You heard?" Coach asked.
Armani could only nod, his mouth dry as dust.
Coach Reynolds leaned in close, his voice low and intense. "This changes nothing, Wilson. This is noise. This is the worst thing that can happen to a young player. It makes you think you've arrived when you haven't even started the journey." He tapped Armani hard in the chest with the business card. "You forget this man exists. You focus on the next drill, the next practice, the next game. You have just drawn a shark to the water. Now you have to prove you're not just a minnow. Understood?"
"Yes, Coach," Armani whispered, the words barely audible.
"Good. Now go shower."
As Armani walked toward the locker room, his mind was reeling. The world had just expanded exponentially. The dream wasn't just a dream anymore. It had a face, a name, and a business card. And as terrifying as Coach's warning was, a new, fierce determination ignited within him.
He had drawn a shark. Now he had to become a shark himself.