Finally at 18 with five weeks left to make his mark before the season began, Scott knew every session counted. The stakes were clear. Bastion Munich didn't tolerate delay or complacency. To earn his spot on the A team bench, and later the pitch, he had to prove he was not just another hopeful youth prospect but a real contender.
The Player System blinked softly in his vision as he walked.
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Scott Mason
Overall: 77
Position: CM / CAM
Club: Bastion Munich (Jugendzentrum)
Nationality: French
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Pace: 73
Shooting: 67
Passing: 84
Dribbling: 75
Defending: 67
Physical: 70
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His stats had climbed steadily over the weeks, but the increments were becoming smaller, harder earned. Coaches expected consistency now, not raw potential. The midfield was crowded with hungry talents — Dominik Schäfer, Lukas, and others who all had eyes on the same prize.
As Scott approached the training pitch, he spotted Dominik already stretching near the cones, his light brown hair damp with early sweat. They exchanged a nod — not quite friendly, but not hostile either. Competition was silent but fierce.
Coach Voller appeared, clipboard in hand, his expression unreadable. "Today, we work on transition. Speed up your thinking. Game is won and lost in the blink."
Scott felt the weight of every word. Transition — the very moment he needed to sharpen most. Against Bastion's A team subs, the season opener was looming, and every second mattered.
The drills began — quick passes, tight spaces, pressing shadows of teammates mimicking Bastion's sharp attackers. Scott moved fluidly, his mind reading passes before they arrived. Still, Voller's sharp eyes caught hesitation — a fraction too slow here, a touch too heavy there.
After an intense hour, the squad gathered for a brief water break. Dominik caught Scott's gaze, a flicker of respect visible behind the usual guarded stance.
"You're pushing," Dominik said quietly.
Scott offered a tight smile. "Trying to keep up."
"No, you're ahead. Just don't slow down."
Scott knew the warning well. Bastion's ladder was unforgiving. One slip could mean months, even years, on the sidelines or worse — the exit door.
The afternoon training session focused on set-pieces, where Scott had been improving his vision and positioning. The coaches were already talking quietly about potential lineups. Rumors circulated that Tom Crews might shift to the senior team soon, possibly opening space in midfield. Scott's heart beat faster at the thought — the real opportunity he was waiting for.
But until then, patience was the order of the day.
As the sun dipped low behind the tall Bavarian trees, Scott lingered for a moment, practicing free kicks alone. The ball sailed with increasing precision, curving just as he wanted. The season's pressure hadn't broken him; it was sharpening him.
The Player System flickered again, confirming his stats:
Scott stayed behind after training, lingering near the empty pitch as the sun dipped low over Munich. The faint hum of the city mixed with the rustling leaves and the distant laughter of his teammates in the locker room.
His boots pressed softly into the grass, worn from weeks of endless drills. He pulled a ball close, dribbling slowly, feeling the weight of the moment. The Jugendzentrum was unforgiving—every touch counted, every decision weighed.
No dramatic fanfare—just cold facts. Stats that mirrored his progress but also underscored how much work remained.
A shadow crossed the pitch—the familiar figure of Dominik Schäfer, still in training gear. "You still here?" Dominik asked, voice low but not unfriendly.
Scott grinned but kept his pace steady. "Someone's got to push you. Can't let you get too comfortable."
Dominik laughed, the tension easing just a bit between them. "Fair enough. But remember, this isn't a playground. Every inch you gain is fought for. And the coaches? They watch everything. No mistakes, especially not from new guys."
Scott nodded, absorbing the reminder. It wasn't just about raw talent; it was about consistency, mentality, grit—the invisible traits that separated those who stayed from those who fell away.
Dominik smirked. "Keep working. Crews barely missed a beat. You want that spot? Better sharpen every skill."
The mention of Crews stung—he was the benchmark, the player Scott needed to emulate or outshine.
"You think I'm ready?" Scott asked quietly.
"Ready?" Dominik shrugged. "Maybe. But Munich doesn't hand out favors. You'll need to prove it in the next few weeks. Coach will watch, scouts too."
Scott exhaled, muscles tense but resolve firm. "I've got Five weeks."
"Five weeks and no room for mistakes," Dominik said, stepping back. "Let's see what you've got."
As the sun disappeared behind the rooftops, Scott took a deep breath and lined up for another free kick. The ball curved cleanly, sailing over the wall and dipping just under the crossbar.
For a moment, nothing else existed
He rolled onto his side, staring at the ceiling. The Player System stats lingered faintly in his mind, the numbers a cold reflection of what he was and what he still needed to become.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Scott Mason
Overall: 77
Position: CM / CAM
Club: Bastion Munich (Jugendzentrum)
Nationality: French
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Pace: 73
Shooting: 66
Passing: 81
Dribbling: 75
Defending: 66
Physical: 69
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An improvement, yes, but the progress was incremental. Every day brought new challenges—both on and off the pitch.
A new sun shone upon Jugendzentrum's sprawling grounds stretched out as usual, alive with the distant thud of balls and shouted instructions. Scott's footsteps carried him toward the main training pitch, where the youth team was gathering for a tactical session led by Coach Voller.
"Good morning, Mason," came a familiar voice. Dominik Schäfer was already stretching by the sidelines, a wry smile on his face. "Not much of a morning person, are you?"
Scott grinned, the banter easing some of the tension. I don't do mornings well."
Dominik laughed. "Touché."
The session began with a detailed video analysis of Bastion Munich's first team midfielders—Tom Crews, Antony Timechuck, Dante Packing. Scott watched intently as Voller dissected their movements, positional discipline, and decision-making in real matches.
"Learn from them," Voller said, voice low but firm. "Crews is the brain. Timechuck the shield. Packing the link. You're not just here to play; you're here to understand the game at its highest level. If you want that A-Team spot, you have to think like they do."
Scott's mind absorbed every detail. Crews's precision passing. Timechuck's relentless positioning. Packing's timing and vision. They were the pillars he needed to emulate and eventually surpass.
After the video, the group moved to the pitch for drills that tested spatial awareness and quick transitions. Scott found himself working alongside some of the Jugendzentrum's best prospects—young players hungry to make the leap.
Midway through the session, Scott found himself matched up against Dominik in a tight rondo drill. The pace was fierce; one mistake could mean losing possession and restarting the sequence.
Scott felt his heart hammering but his movements sharp and confident. When he intercepted a pass from Dominik, a flash of satisfaction surged through him. It wasn't just about physical skill—it was the mental edge, the understanding of timing and space.
Coach Voller clapped sharply. "Good, Mason! Keep that intensity."
Later, during a break, Scott leaned against the fence, catching his breath. He pulled out his phone .
A shadow fell over him, and he looked up to see Mira Lenz approaching, clipboard in hand.
"You're improving, Mason. But don't get comfortable," she said, eyes sharp beneath her dark brows. "The A-Team coaches are watching. Just reminding your next test is a friendly match against the Munich Subs. Show them you can perform under pressure."
Scott nodded, understanding the gravity.
Mira's gaze lingered a moment longer, then she turned and walked away, the clip of her heels fading.
Scott exhaled and looked out across the pitch, the future both daunting and filled with possibility.