The soft thud of cleats meeting turf echoed through the training ground like a steady heartbeat. Early morning fog still clung to the grass in patches, curling like breath in the cold April air. Scott stood just outside the center circle, bouncing slightly on his heels. His warm-up jacket was zipped halfway up, revealing the Bastion Munich crest stitched neatly over his chest. It still felt surreal, like a dream stitched too tightly to real skin.
He had arrived in Munich barely two weeks ago, and already the Jugendzentrum routine had taken hold. Wake at 6:30. Stretch, eat, train. Tactical reviews in the afternoon, conditioning in the evening. Lights out by ten. Repeat. But no matter how structured the days became, every minute carried the weight of a ticking clock.
Three months. That was all he had.
From the far side of the pitch, Coach Voller barked instructions in quick, clipped tone. "Press here! Think quicker, move earlier—anticipation!"
Scott followed the drill like muscle memory. One-touch pass, receive on the turn, distribute again. The ball never stayed still. That was the rhythm here. Faster, sharper, colder. No space to hesitate, no time to overthink. At Suns Academy, the game had always felt creative. Here, it felt like calculus.
Across from him, Dominik Schäfer—tall, clean-shaven, textbook technician—moved with measured ease. Everything Schäfer did was controlled, safe, conservative. But that was exactly what made him reliable in the coaches' eyes. Scott had read him enough in these two weeks to know Schäfer didn't take risks unless forced.
And that's where Scott intended to force him.
The whistle blew. Small-sided games. Three minutes, rotating midfield control.
As Scott jogged into the middle, Schäfer was already positioned near the pivot. Their eyes met—neutral, but sharp. Neither one smiled.
Possession started with the reds. A sharp pass was driven into Schäfer's feet, and Scott closed in, pressure immediate. Schäfer turned left, passed right. Safe. Predictable. Scott adjusted. Next ball, same routine—touch, turn, layoff. He was the center of the rhythm, dictating tempo like a metronome.
Scott wanted to break that metronome.
On the next sequence, he anticipated the touch early, slid low and clean to intercept, and before Schäfer could recover, Scott had flicked the ball past another red shirt and darted into open space. The play unfolded in two sharp passes. Goal.
"Good press!" Voller called out, glancing at his clipboard. No praise. Just an observation. But it was enough. Notes meant data. Data meant opportunity.
As rotations reset, Scott jogged back into line, Schäfer brushing past him with a half-glance. No words exchanged. Just a subtle tension that hadn't been there before.
Later that afternoon, inside the tactical room, players sat in straight rows in front of two wide monitors. Voller tapped his pen against the screen as clips from that morning's session looped.
"Decision-making in final third—this is not optional. You either read the game, or the game eats you."
Scott leaned forward slightly as his clip came up—intercept, turn, switch pass, breakaway. Voller paused the frame.
"This is what we want," he said. "Aggression with purpose. Not chaos."
Schäfer didn't flinch, but Scott caught the edge of his jaw tightening.
Back in the corridor after the session, a voice called out behind him.
"You play differently."
Scott turned. It was Schäfer. He stood with his arms folded, not hostile, just… curious.
"How so?"
"You take risks," Schäfer said. "Even when they aren't necessary. You're going to lose the ball like that."
"Maybe," Scott replied. "Or maybe that's what gets noticed."
Schäfer gave a noncommittal shrug. "It's your time you're gambling with."
Scott smiled faintly. "Exactly."
He walked off, leaving the silence behind him.
That night, he sat on the edge of his bunk, watching the flicker of streetlights through the dorm window and silently activated the system
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SCOTT MASON
Overall: 75
Position: CM / CAM
Club: Bastion Munich (Jugendzentrum)
Nationality: French
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Pace: 72
Shooting: 66
Passing: 82
Dribbling: 74
Defending: 66
Physical: 69
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Still a long way to go.
Rain fell in whispering sheets the next morning, but the drills didn't stop. Bastion Munich's youth training ground ran like clockwork regardless of weather, and midfielders were expected to thrive in mud, cold, or fog. If anything, the miserable sky seemed to sharpen the tone of the session.
"Control the rhythm, not the chaos!" Coach Voller shouted, gesturing wildly. "Midfield is war—whoever dictates tempo, dictates the match!"
Scott stood between two cones, heart pacing at a slow drum. The warm-up had ended twenty minutes ago, but his muscles still burned from the previous day. He rolled his shoulders back and focused on the whistle. Schäfer was two groups down, expression unreadable. Lukas stood opposite Scott in the next drill rotation. Lukas was nimble, a right-footed box-to-box player with decent stamina, but he lacked the vision Scott carried in his bones.
The whistle blew.
Touch. Touch. Turn. Switch. Scott was flawless, his hips twisting with balance, left foot setting the tempo. The pass zipped to the edge of the cone. Coaches took notes behind clipboards. The drill ended, and players rotated. The coaches watched silently.
Fifteen minutes later, the scrimmage began.
Two sides. Eleven per team. Full-size pitch.
Scott lined up in a midfield three alongside Lukas and Schäfer, all red. Across them stood a blue formation with more physical midfielders—gritty, sharp-tackling types. This would be a test of resilience, not just flair.
Voller tossed the ball to the blue side. "Play."
Immediately, the blue team surged with a high press, closing down every pocket of space. Scott adapted quickly, adjusting his shape. Pass to Schäfer—recycled back to the defense. Sideways ball to Lukas—intercepted.
Midfield pressure mounted.
In the twelfth minute, the blue team struck on a counter—2-0. Voller said nothing. Just watched. That silence was heavier than yelling.
Schäfer looked rattled. Lukas was chasing shadows.
Then the ball rolled to Scott at the halfway line. A blue shirt approached, cleats skidding on wet grass. Scott glanced up once. There wasn't space—until he made it.
Quick drop of the shoulder. He burst inside. One touch, then another. A gap opened between two pressing midfielders, and Scott exploited it like a surgeon. He slid a through ball between defenders, and the forward broke through.
Goal.
"Better!" Voller barked.
Scott didn't smile. He just jogged back to position.
The game continued. Another ten minutes passed. Then twenty. He began seeing the shape of the game before it happened. Scott was reading patterns now—not just playing. That's what separated potential from progression.
Near the end of the scrimmage, the red team earned a free kick near the box. Schäfer jogged over the ball, placed it, then hesitated. He looked at Scott.
"You want it?"
Scott didn't answer. He walked over and took position.
The wall lined up. The keeper crouched low. The rain had eased into a light drizzle.
Scott stared at the ball. He saw it bending.
He struck with the instep. The ball curled just past the far post and dipped.
Off the crossbar.
The groan from the bench was loud, but Werner's eyes didn't leave him. Not for a second.
Back in the locker room, steam curled from the showers. Scott sat on the bench, towel around his neck. Schäfer dropped onto the bench beside him.
"You should've buried that," he said, half-joking.
"Next time," Scott replied.
Schäfer paused. "You play… like someone who doesn't expect to stay long."
Scott glanced sideways. "Because I don't."
"You think three months is enough?"
"I don't think," Scott said, tightening his shoelaces. "I just know I have to make it enough."
Before Schäfer could respond, Mira Lenz entered the locker room with a clipboard.
"Mason," she said.
Scott stood.
"You're on rotation for next week's scrimmage against Ingolstadt's U-19s. Squad sheet's already posted. You'll start on the bench."
Scott's pulse ticked upward, but he kept his face still. "Understood."
When she left, Schäfer gave him a nod.
"That's how it starts."
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SCOTT MASON
Overall: 75
Position: CM / CAM
Club: Bastion Munich (Jugendzentrum)
Nationality: French
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Pace: 73
Shooting: 66
Passing: 81
Dribbling: 74
Defending: 65
Physical: 69
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Progress wasn't a system.
It was a decision. Made every minute, every pass, every mistake.