The quiet hum of the Jugendzentrum's waking life drifted in—the distant thud of balls hitting the net, shouts of players rehearsing drills, the occasional bark of a coach's voice.
Scott felt the familiar knot of anticipation twist low in his stomach. Today was another test, another chance to show that he belonged—not just in the youth ranks, but in Bastion Munich's future.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, boots already polished and waiting on the floor. The weight of the day pressed on him, but he welcomed it. The grind was what made the climb worthwhile.
By the time he reached the pitch, a cold breeze nipped at his skin, the grass still slick from last night's rain. The sun was breaking through clouds now, casting a pale light over the rows of players warming up.
Scott joined the group, nodding curtly at familiar faces. Lukas was already there, stretching his legs with the easy confidence of someone who knew the rhythm of this place. Tom crews was there too, a few yards away, quietly juggling the ball with practiced precision, his face calm and unreadable.
Scott's heart skipped a beat.
That was the man he would someday replace — or at least fill the role he left behind. A daunting thought, but also a motivator.
Coach Voller arrived, clipboard in hand, his steely eyes scanning the group like a hawk. "Today's session will focus on midfield control and passing under pressure," he announced crisply. "If you can't think two moves ahead, you'll get steamrolled."
Scott tightened his grip on the ball as the drills began.
The first exercise was brutal—fast-paced, relentless passing through tight cones, weaving around teammates while maintaining vision on the coach's signals. Every misstep was met with a sharp whistle or a frustrated grunt.
Sweat dripped down Scott's forehead, but he pushed harder, refusing to let fatigue dull his focus. Each pass had to be precise, each touch calculated. The system's stats echoed faintly in his mind—not as commands but as reminders.
He felt his pace wasn't quite where it needed to be yet, his shooting lagging behind more polished teammates. But his passing and vision, he hoped, could buy him the extra seconds to make a difference.
As the drills continued, Scott's mind briefly flickered to his family in England. His father's quiet encouragement, his mother's worry, Manny's last note urging him to keep his spark. They were the unseen hands guiding him through the loneliness.
The coach's voice cut sharply. "Positions! Formations!"
A tactical session began. The squad broke into groups, rehearsing transitions from defense to attack. Scott found himself alongside Dominik Schäfer, the current midfield depth leader. Dominik's eyes were sharp, calculating, every movement precise.
Scott tried to read Dominik's cues, anticipating his passes and moves. The competition was fierce, but there was an unspoken respect growing between them.
During a simulated match, Scott pushed forward, threading a pass through a narrow gap. The ball found Lukas sprinting on the wing, who crossed it crisply into the box. The striker struck cleanly, and the goal was met with a roar.
Coach Voller nodded approvingly. "That's the kind of thinking that wins games."
Later, Scott caught his breath on the sidelines, wiping sweat from his brow. The Player System stats floated briefly in his vision:
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Scott Mason
Overall: 76
Position: CM / CAM
Club: Bastion Munich (Jugendzentrum)
Nationality: French
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Pace: 73
Shooting: 66
Passing: 83
Dribbling: 75
Defending: 66
Physical: 70
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
An incremental rise—proof the grind was working. But it wasn't enough yet.
Scott's phone buzzed quietly—a message from John: "Keep your head. One day at a time." He smiled, pocketing the phone.
The afternoon passed in a blur of sprints, passing drills, and scrimmages. Each moment was a battle for attention, a plea to be noticed.
At the end of the day, exhausted and soaked with sweat, Scott lingered on the pitch, watching the last light fall behind the Bavarian hills.
His mind was already racing ahead—toward next week's assessment, the looming promotion decisions, the battles to come.
He had come a long way from London, from Suns Academy. But this was only the beginning.
He glanced up toward the dormitories, their sterile windows reflecting the fading light. The walls held so many stories—boys who'd made it and boys who hadn't.
His phone vibrated again. This time, a message from Mira Lenz: "Dinner at 7. Don't be late. We need to talk about the trial match with the subs."
He tossed his towel over his shoulder and headed back to the dorms, replaying the day's session in his mind. The drills had been tougher than last week, the pace relentless, and the scrutiny from Coach Voller unyielding. Scott knew he was close to breaking through, but the cracks in his game still showed.
Passing was his strongest suit; his vision sharp, he could spot runs and openings others missed. But his pace lagged behind the fleet-footed youngsters—Lukas and Dominik were faster, more explosive. His shooting was serviceable but not yet lethal. And defending? He had to work harder to anticipate and press without losing stamina.
He entered the small common room, where a handful of players lounged, half-focused on the muted television. Lukas was there, tossing a football in one hand, nodding a quick greeting.
"You're improving," Lukas said with a grin. "Coach's favorite phrase, right?"
Scott chuckled. "Better than 'get lost,' I guess."
The room felt less like a dorm and more like a waiting room for the uncertain. Everyone was chasing the same dream, but only a few would reach the A team. The pressure was a constant shadow.
Dinner was a brief affair, eaten quickly in the mess hall with other Jugendzentrum players. Mira Lenz joined him at the table, her tone direct.
"We've got a trial match against Bastion's subs. Big opportunity," she said, eyes sharp. "Voller will be watching closely. They'll assess not just skills but mentality under pressure."
Scott nodded. "I'm ready."
"Good. But remember, it's not just about the ball. You have to show leadership. Control the tempo, command your midfield. You're not just playing for yourself anymore."
Her words settled in his chest, a mix of challenge and encouragement.
Later that night, Scott sat by the window, the city lights of Munich flickering below like distant stars. His phone buzzed again—a video message of the legends he studied at Suns from John showing clips of past matches and encouraging words.
He studied the footage carefully: Tom crews weaving through defenders, Antony Timechuck's unyielding midfield presence, Dante packing's tireless runs along the flanks. These were the players he would one day be measured against, the men whose roles he was expected to imitate, even surpass.