The red team — Leon's squad — circled up just outside the halfway line, bouncing on their toes as they loosened up.
Across the pitch, the white team went through their drills with quiet intensity. A few of them were standouts: tall, sharp movers with high potential scores flickering behind Leon's eyes like a digital interface. Player 1: 90. Player 2: 83. The rest fell below 75, but that didn't make them any less dangerous.
Leon's gaze lingered on the central midfielder on the other side — lean frame, calculated footwork, the type who wouldn't dazzle but could grind a game into his tempo.
He turned back to his team.
"We need to play smart," Leon said, his tone calm but firm. "No flashy stuff. Just structure and focus. Let them make mistakes first."
James Roy nodded. "What's the game plan?"
Leon crouched and started drawing lines in the grass with his finger.
"I'll stay in midfield — shifting between our box and theirs. I want to control the transitions. Byon, you're wide right. Beat your man, stretch their backline. James — you're the tip. We'll funnel everything to you."
Mark raised his hand halfway. "I'm not great on defense. Where do you want me?"
Leon didn't hesitate. "You'll sit deep as fullback. Don't push forward unless it's clear. Play it safe."
Mark nodded, a little relieved.
"Sammy," Leon continued, "you're the anchor. Lock that backline. Read the game — you've got the best awareness on this pitch."
Then his eyes found a quiet figure standing near the goalpost. Joey. Potential: 74. Skinny, nervous, gloves hanging loose like they didn't quite fit.
"Joey."
Joey flinched slightly. "Y-yeah?"
Leon walked over and rested a hand on his shoulder.
"We need a goalkeeper. Someone we trust between the posts. That's you."
Joey blinked. "Me? Really?"
Leon looked him straight in the eye. "Yes. Without you, we won't last a minute."
There was a moment of silence between them, broken only by the wind rustling the net behind Joey.
Then the boy squared his shoulders, took a breath, and gave a tiny nod. "Alright… I'll do my best."
Leon smiled. "That's all I ask."
A whistle blew.
Coach stepped forward, eyes scanning the two teams as they faced each other across the field like chess pieces before the first move.
He clapped twice, voice cutting through the quiet.
"Everyone on this field has a dream… Tonight, prove you deserve it."
Then he stepped back. The whistle blew again — sharper this time.
The players began walking toward their positions. The pitch buzzed with energy.
Leon walked beside Byon, who rubbed his hands nervously.
"I'm nervous, Leon," he whispered. "Feels different now… knowing they're watching."
Leon followed his eyes to the three scouts in the stands. Still silent, still, taking notes before a single pass had been made.
Aston Villa's man sat with arms crossed, his expression unreadable. RB Leipzig's scout leaned forward slightly, already scanning movements. And the Crystal Palace rep? Sunglasses off, pen in hand, locked on the center circle.
Leon smiled.
"Nerves mean you care," he said softly. "I'm excited. This is the game we've trained for. Now let's show them who we are."
The players lined up. The ball was placed in the center. James stood over it, glancing at Leon, who gave a subtle nod.
Then — the whistle.
Kickoff!
The ball rolled gently to Leon. He met it with a soft touch on his right foot, then tapped it quickly forward to Byon on the wing.
Byon surged, one touch past his marker, and called out, "I'm open!"
The scouts immediately leaned forward. Notepads came up. Pens scribbled.
In the stands, a low buzz rippled through the parents, academy students, and a few youth coaches watching from the sideline. Everyone knew what this was. It wasn't just a match.
Leon backpedaled to his position, scanning everything.
The tempo was rising.