Leo stepped cautiously into the passing grid, eyes scanning the setup.
The rest of the players moved in that effortless rhythm born of repetition and familiarity.
But before he could get lost in the swarm of bodies and movement, a hand shot out beside him.
"Ezra," the boy said with a grin, tall and wiry with a streak of dyed blond in his curls.
"Left-wing. Sometimes ten, if Nolan’s feeling generous."
Leo shook his hand firmly. "Leo."
Ezra looked him over, curious. "How old are you, man?"
"Just turned seventeen."
"Seventeen?" Ezra blinked, impressed.
"Damn. I thought you were older because of the way Dawson was talking about you. Welcome to the jungle."
Before Leo could respond, a shrill blast from Nolan’s whistle cracked the moment.
"Warm-up drills. Passing through the cones, follow it with a first-touch dribble. Clean touches, sharp turns. Let’s go!"
The group scattered into formation, and Leo followed suit.
He lined up behind Ezra and another midfielder, watching them closely.
Ezra’s touch was smooth, and fluid—he bounced the ball between the cones like it was stitched to his laces.
The ball came to him, and he tapped it lightly into the first cone gate.
One touch, then another.
The footwork came naturally, but he could feel it again—that tight, coiled edge in his stomach.
Nerves. Like little weights tugging at the precision of every move.
He clipped a cone with his right foot.
Not hard, just a graze—but enough to draw a whistle from the assistant and a low mutter from someone in line behind him.
Leo kept going, jaw set, finishing the drill.
By the third set, his breathing steadied.
The ball began to obey. His touches grew cleaner.
There was still the occasional stumble—especially when his mind wandered ahead to how he should be impressing—but each time he regrouped quicker.
On the far side of the grid, two players jogged to reset their cones, whispering under their breath.
"I thought he was gonna be a baller," one of them said, "like Dawson brought him in and everything. I expected him to slice through those cones like vrrr-vrrr—" he mimicked slicing the air with rapid zig-zags.
His teammate laughed. "Yeah, like zooming through those agility sticks like he’s got cheat codes or something."
Leo heard them. He didn’t turn.
Just adjusted his socks and stepped back into line.
His cheeks were flushed, but not from the sprinting.
Ezra nudged him lightly.
"Ignore ’em. Half the lads talk like they’re in the first team already."
The whistle blew again.
This time, Leo’s first touch angled the ball perfectly through the cones.
His hips dropped, feet churning.
He weaved through tight gaps—not explosive, but smooth, focused.
Not exceptional—but quietly solid.
Nolan, from the sidelines, said nothing.
But his arms were folded across his chest, and his eyes didn’t leave Leo once.
One of the staff assistants leaned in toward him. "Still raw."
"Yeah," Nolan said, "but he’s clean. His head’s switched on. Could grow into something."
Leo finished his run and glanced sideways.
Ezra gave him a thumbs up, then gestured toward the next station.
Passing into angled goals. Timing. Weight. Precision.
Leo stepped up again.
The group shuffled toward the next drill—a tactical passing circuit designed to simulate in-game pressure.
Angled goals were placed across the pitch in staggered formations, each color-coded.
The players had to receive a pass, scan quickly, and thread it through the correct mini-goal according to the coach’s shout.
It wasn’t just technical—it was cognitive. Speed of thought. Awareness.
Leo took his place in line, eyes forward, breath steady.
"NEXT!" barked Nolan.
The ball zipped toward him.
One glance. One beat. He struck.
The ball whipped cleanly through the far-right goal, perfectly timed between the shifting cones.
One of the assistants gave a small nod.
Another pass. Another clean hit. The tempo picked up, and Leo matched it—his movements tight, functional.
No wasted steps. There were moments where he tensed slightly, a beat of hesitation here and there, but nothing dramatic.
He moved like someone solving a puzzle—not improvising wildly, but recognizing familiar shapes as they fell into place.
Behind the group, Malachi leaned against the railings beside Dawson.
Nolan walked over, hands on hips, eyes narrowed.
"He’s neat," Nolan said, voice low. "No doubt. Composed. But this is still just academy-level stuff. And not even top-end."
Malachi said nothing, just folded his arms.
Nolan continued, "You really think this kid’s ready for League One? Come on, Mal. He doesn’t look like he’s got the weight for it. The pace, maybe. But physically? He’ll get bullied."
Dawson didn’t flinch. "Have a little patience."
Nolan turned to him. "Mate, I’m being realistic. This isn’t the age group for gentle transitions. If he hesitates in a match, he’ll be coughing up possession before he even gets to take a second touch."
Dawson kept his eyes on Leo.
"I’m not asking you to throw him into a league match tomorrow. I’m saying... give the kid a chance to breathe before you judge. Watch."
Nolan didn’t reply at once. Leo had just completed another round, this time striking the yellow gate with a clean, measured hit.
It wasn’t flashy. But it was efficient.
"He’s got timing, I’ll give you that," Nolan said eventually.
"Still. He’ll need more than timing to survive what’s coming."
Dawson gave a small nod. "We’ll see."
Nolan turned and walked off, clipboard in hand, already prepping the next set.
Dawson stayed a moment longer, watching Leo jog to the water station, quiet as ever.
He wasn’t drawing attention. Wasn’t asking for it. But sooner or later, the spotlight would find him. He Knew it would.
Just as Nolan called for the end of the drills, he turned to the players, voice loud and curt.
"Half of you go hydrate. Other half, grab bibs for a short scrimmage. We’ll rotate."
As the group dispersed, Leo began walking toward the bench—until Nolan’s voice called out again.
"You—new lad. Stay behind."
Leo froze, turning slightly.
The others gave curious glances but moved along.
Nolan walked over with a short whistle around his neck, Malachi not far behind.
"Since you’re a special delivery," Nolan said, crossing his arms, "let’s see how well you take instructions."
He gestured toward the far end of the pitch, where a few mannequins had been set up in a narrow zig-zag between cones.
There were no other players there.
"I want you to simulate a match scenario. You’ll have to scan and switch from defensive midfield to attacking buildup in one flow. No one’s going to guide you. No script. Just do what you think the team would need from you. And make sure your positioning reflects that."
Leo blinked. "You mean now?"
Nolan smirked. "Now. Let’s see what instincts you’ve really got."
Dawson narrowed his eyes but didn’t interrupt.
Leo took a breath and jogged toward the setup.
The field suddenly felt wide—empty, exposed. No teammates.
No defenders. Just cones, mannequins, and two coaches watching every move like hawks.
He received a ball at his feet, pivoted with his first touch, and scanned.
The mannequins represented pressing players—he’d seen enough of these in training back at United.
The challenge here was subtle: if he moved wrong, he’d trap himself.
First, he dropped into the pivot role, playing it safe.
A turn, a sideways touch, a short split-pass between two mannequins.
But as he shifted into the "buildup" phase, he hesitated.
There were no teammates to read. No passing lanes to feed into.
The space felt hypothetical.
He bit his lip, and started again—this time quicker, trying to imagine opponents collapsing in.
He burst through the middle, shifted left, then snapped a low drive toward an empty goal.
Not power, but precision.
It wasn’t perfect. But it was smart. And it was him thinking.
Back by the sidelines, Nolan gave the smallest of nods.
"You throw a kid in the deep end," Dawson muttered under his breath, "he either drowns or swims."
Malachi added, "Or builds a raft while you’re watching."
Nolan turned. "Still not sold. But I’m watching."