The week stretched before Armani like a marathon run on broken glass. Every hour was a negotiation, a triage of his crumbling priorities. Sleep was the first casualty, sacrificed on the altar of his double life.
His days became a grim cycle. Mornings were a bleary-eyed struggle through classes where teachers' voices sounded like they were underwater. Lunch hours were spent not with Kofi, but hidden in a dusty corner of the library, a textbook open in front of him, his pen scratching desperately at Mr. Davison's practice problems. The numbers swam on the page, concepts like kinetic energy and projectile motion feeling like personal insults.
After school, football practice was no longer a release; it was a third shift. His body, drained from lack of sleep and mental fatigue, betrayed him. His first touch was heavy, his passes underhit. The explosive pace that defined him was muted, a step slow. He was playing in a fog.
Coach Reynolds watched him with a furrowed brow, his instructions becoming terser, more frustrated. "Wake up, Wilson!" "You're playing in quicksand!" The criticism, once a tool for improvement, now felt like hammer blows.
Kofi tried to bridge the gap. "Baller, wha'appen? Yuh head still inna Clarendon? Davison still on yuh case? Mek we go get a patty, talk bout it."
But Armani would just shake his head, avoiding his friend's concerned gaze. "Just tired, Kofi. Got a lot on my mind. Gotta study after this." He'd pull out his phone, pretending to look at something, shutting down the conversation. He couldn't tell Kofi about the scout. He'd promised Coach. And a part of him was ashamed—ashamed of the struggle, ashamed that the dream was feeling more like a curse.
The only voice that offered any solace was the one on his phone.
> **IC:** Heard the Rusea's game is a big scout showcase. Lots of eyes will be on it. A big performance there puts you on the map in a serious way. How are you feeling?
Armani's fingers would fly across the screen, pouring out his anxieties, omitting only the academic troubles.
> **Armani:** Feeling the pressure, sir. Coach is on me. Trying to stay focused.
> **IC:** Pressure is a privilege. It means you have something people want. Block out the noise. The coach is doing his job. I'm looking at the bigger picture. Trust the process.
*Trust the process.* The phrase became a mantra. It justified the exhaustion, the distance from his friends, the white-knuckled desperation of his studying. It was all part of the process. A process designed by Ian Croft, for a club that remained nameless, for a future that was always one perfect game away.
The night before the Rusea's game, the breaking point neared. He was at the small kitchen table, the single overhead light casting a harsh glow on a textbook and a calculator. His mother had gone to bed hours ago. The equations blurred into meaningless symbols. He couldn't focus. All he could think about was the game. *Scout showcase. Big performance. On the map.*
His phone buzzed. A new message from Croft.
> **IC:** One last thing. Confidence is key tomorrow. It's not just about ability; it's about mentality. I need you to project an aura of a player who belongs on that bigger stage. Visualize it. Believe it. You're not just a schoolboy player. You're a future professional. Start carrying yourself like one.
The message was followed by a link. Armani clicked it. It was a online store selling high-end football gear—compression wear, elite-tier boots, GPS performance trackers. The kind of equipment Premier League academy kids wore. The kind of equipment that cost more than his mother's monthly paycheck.
Another message popped up.
> **IC:** Perception matters. Looking the part is part of believing it. Maybe invest in some proper kit. It sends a message to everyone watching. Think about it. Now get some rest. Big day tomorrow.
Armani stared at the screen. The prices were astronomical. A single pair of the recommended boots was JMD $25,000. It was an impossible sum. But the words echoed in his head. *Perception matters. Looking the part. Sends a message.*
He thought about his own scuffed, second-hand boots. He thought about the sleek, professional gear the St. George's players had worn. He thought about Ian Croft's "file" and the "eyes" that would be on him.
A cold certainty settled over him. This wasn't a suggestion. It was an instruction. A test. Part of "the process."
He got up and paced the small living room, his heart pounding. He had maybe JMD $5,000 saved from his old job at Mr. Henry's shop. It was meant for emergencies, for things like the light bill. He thought of Mr. Henry's kindness. The shame was acute, a physical burn.
But Croft's words were louder. *"A big performance there puts you on the map in a serious way."*
This was an investment. In his future. In his family's future. The boots were just a tool, like a textbook. A necessary cost for a guaranteed return.
The logic, twisted and desperate, felt flawless in his exhausted state. Before he could talk himself out of it, he went to his room, pulled the JMD $5,000 from his hiding spot, and then, his hand trembling, went to his mother's purse where she kept the household money for groceries. She'd just been paid. He counted out another JMD $20,000, the notes feeling like stolen goods in his hand. He promised himself he'd pay it back ten times over when he signed his professional contract.
The transaction on the website was a blur. A few clicks, the entering of Mr. Henry's address for delivery (he couldn't risk his mother seeing the package), and it was done. The money was gone.
He felt a immediate, nauseating wave of guilt, followed by a surge of manic hope. He'd done it. He'd taken a decisive step. He was all in.
He didn't sleep that night. He lay in bed, consumed by a toxic cocktail of terror and exhilaration. He'd crossed a line, and there was no going back.
The day of the Rusea's game dawned grey and oppressive, the air thick with the promise of rain. The bus ride to Lucea, where Rusea's was located, was silent and tense. This was the biggest game of the season so far.
Armani sat alone, headphones on, listening to nothing. He looked at his teammates. Kofi, a rock of steady confidence. Marcus, a coiled spring of intense focus. They were prepared. He was… something else. He was a fraud who had just stolen from his mother to buy a pair of boots to impress a ghost.
They arrived at the Rusea's field. It was legendary in Jamaican schoolboy football, a cauldron of noise and passion. The stands were already packed, the air electric with anticipation. This was what he had dreamed of.
As they warmed up, Armani's new boots, delivered to Mr. Henry's shop that morning and hastily retrieved, felt stiff and alien on his feet. They were too new, too perfect. Every touch felt awkward. He tried to "project an aura," as Croft had said, but he felt like a little boy playing dress-up.
Coach Reynolds gathered them for his final talk in the cramped, humid locker room.
"This is it!" he yelled, his voice raw with passion. "This is why we put in the work! Forget the crowd! Forget the occasion! Play for the man next to you! Play for Cornwall! Leave everything you have on that pitch!"
The team roared, pounding the wooden lockers. The energy was primal, real.
Armani tried to tap into it, but he felt disconnected. He was playing for a man in England, not for the man next to him.
As they lined up in the tunnel, waiting to walk out, the roar of the crowd was deafening. Marcus turned to him, his usual sneer replaced by a look of grim intensity.
"Listen, Wilson," he said, his voice low enough that only Armani could hear. "I don't like you. You don't like me. But that…" he jerked his head towards the roaring stadium, "…that is the enemy. For the next ninety minutes, we are brothers. Understood?"
It was the most honest thing Marcus had ever said to him. For a split second, the fog cleared. This was real. This was football.
Armani met his gaze and gave a sharp nod. "Understood."
They walked out into the wall of sound. The rain began to fall, a light drizzle that quickly slickened the pitch.
The game started at a furious pace. Rusea's was every bit as good as advertised—fast, technical, and physically brutal. Armani's first touch was a miscontrol that went straight to an opponent, leading to a dangerous counter-attack that Kofi had to desperately clear.
He tried to force it. He tried to make the "big performance" happen. He took on players when a simple pass was on. He shot from impossible angles, trying to be the hero, to justify the stolen money on his feet.
Nothing was working.
In the 25th minute, chasing a lost cause, he overstretched, his new, stiff boots providing no grip on the slick surface. His legs slid out from under him, and he crashed to the turf, landing hard on his hip. Pain, sharp and bright, lanced through his body.
The referee waved play on. Rusea's attacked. Armani tried to push himself up, but the pain was too intense. He collapsed back onto the wet grass.
He saw the move develop as if in slow motion. A Rusea's midfielder played a beautiful, dipping through ball. Their striker timed his run perfectly, beating the offside trap. He was clean through on goal. He coolly slotted the ball past the onrushing Cornwall keeper.
1-0 to Rusea's.
The stadium erupted. And as the goal scorer celebrated in the corner, Armani Wilson, lying injured in the center circle, knew with a sickening certainty that he was to blame. He had been caught trying to be something he wasn't, and his team was paying the price. The cliff he'd been walking on had finally given way.