The rejection from the Verhoevens left a quiet scar that Kellan carried without words. He returned to Grenn Academy the following week pretending nothing had happened, but inside, something fundamental had changed. His movements on the field were sharper, his expression more focused, his silence even deeper. Coaches saw the difference immediately — the boy who once played with curiosity now played with purpose.
In matches, he seemed to glide across the pitch with cold precision. His passes cut through defenses like fine threads, his positioning almost mathematical. Teammates began to rely on him instinctively, though few understood him. He rarely celebrated goals, rarely smiled, but his influence grew. Behind that calm exterior was a promise to himself — to never again let someone decide his worth.
Months passed. The season rolled on, and scouts came and went from the academy. Among them was a tall man in a dark coat who watched quietly from the stands during a youth league match. His name was Mr. Van Aerden, a representative from Garen Athletic, one of Beldora's most respected youth academies — a place known for shaping raw talent into professionals. He had heard rumors about the boy from Dronen who played like he was reading invisible lines on the pitch. That afternoon, he saw those rumors come alive.
In the seventy-fifth minute, Kellan received the ball deep in midfield. With one glance, he saw the entire field unfold — defenders shifting, spaces opening, angles forming. He took two touches and split the defense with a diagonal pass so perfect that it seemed to pause time. The striker ran onto it and scored easily. No celebration followed from Kellan. He simply jogged back, head down, ready for the restart.
After the match, Mr. Van Aerden spoke to the coach. "He doesn't play like a boy," he said. "He plays like someone who's already lived through something." Within weeks, Garen Athletic sent a formal offer.
When Henrik read the letter at the kitchen table, Kellan sat across from him, silent as always. Alena stood behind, her hands resting gently on his shoulders. "It's a big step," Henrik said softly. "A bigger city, stronger players, tougher expectations."
Kellan looked up. "That's what I want."
His parents exchanged a glance — pride mingled with the fear of watching their son take another step away from home. But they knew that Kellan's future couldn't fit inside the borders of Dronen anymore.
His first day at Garen Athletic felt different from any experience before. The academy was vast, its training facilities gleaming under the morning sun. Players came from across Beldora — taller, faster, more confident. Coaches spoke in brisk tones, emphasizing professionalism and discipline. From the moment he walked onto the field, Kellan understood that this was no longer youth football. This was a proving ground.
Training began with high-tempo passing drills. The ball moved faster than he was used to, players shouting names, timing runs, and shifting formations. Mistakes were punished with repetition. Kellan's first few touches were careful, cautious — and then instinct took over. His rhythm returned. Within minutes, he was dictating tempo again, not through words but through precision. Coaches began to notice the same thing Van Aerden had seen — a quiet control, a rare intelligence.
Life off the field was structured but isolating. He lived in dormitories again, surrounded by boys chasing the same dream. Many of them were louder, more outspoken, brimming with confidence that came from years of praise. Kellan watched and listened, speaking only when necessary. Some mistook his silence for arrogance, but he didn't mind. He had learned that being misunderstood was inevitable.
Every night, after training and dinner, he sat by his window overlooking the city lights. He wrote in his notebook: Let the work speak. Patience brings space. Anger builds discipline. The sentences grew more concise with time, more like equations than reflections. To him, football was a science — each movement a calculation, each decision a result of observation and timing.
Weeks turned into months, and his performances began to stand out. He moved up an age group again, facing players nearly two years older. The physical challenge was immense, but Kellan compensated with intelligence. He anticipated before he reacted, positioned himself where opponents wouldn't expect. Coaches praised his vision — how he seemed to see the game two steps ahead.
One afternoon, after a particularly grueling session, the academy's head coach, Mr. Brens, called him aside. "You're not the loudest player," Brens said, "but you control every match you're in. That's leadership, whether you realize it or not."
Kellan nodded, unsure how to respond. He wasn't thinking about leadership or praise. He was thinking about how much further he could go.
Outside, rain began to fall in steady sheets. The smell of wet grass filled the air, and the sound reminded him of home — of those early days striking the ball against the garden wall in Dronen. He smiled faintly for the first time in weeks. Every echo from his past, every rejection, every lonely night had led him here.
At fifteen, Kellan De Vries was no longer just a promising boy. He was becoming a name whispered in youth football circles — not for his personality, but for his mind. On the field, he was an architect, building plays that others could not even imagine. Off it, he remained the same quiet observer, still sketching patterns in his notebook, still chasing perfection in silence.
As the season ended, Garen Athletic advanced to the national youth finals. When Kellan walked out onto the pitch that day, the crowd noise swelled around him, but inside he felt calm. He remembered the kitchen table in the Verhoevens' house, the sting of their rejection, and the vow he had made to himself.
This was his answer to them — not in words, but in action.
And as the whistle blew, the boy from Dronen — the one once told he was too quiet, too cold, too strange — began to command the game like a conductor guiding an orchestra. Every pass, every touch carried the weight of his past and the promise of his future.
The world was beginning to take notice.