The locker room of Silvercrest Youth Football Academy was thick with the scent of sweat and damp turf, the muffled echoes of the recently concluded training session still lingering.
Leo, 17 years old, had always dreamed of becoming a professional footballer. A natural striker, with an athletic build that was still slightly lean, his dark brown hair was still messy from training. His deep blue eyes, sharp with determination, scanned the room as he tried to steady his nerves as he sat on the bench, his jersey clinging to his skin, his breathing was still heavy but that wasn't what made his heart race. Something was off. He could feel it. A tension in the air that wasn't there before.
The door swung open with a sharp creak. Coach Reynolds, broad-shouldered man in his late forties, with a grizzled jawline and piercing blue eyes, stepped in, his expression as cold as ever, his presence commanded silence.
Then with a deep voice, he called out, "Foster! In my office. Now."
Murmurs rippled through the locker room. Lucas Brown, an arrogant 18 years old with platinum blonde hair, cold gray eyes and lean, muscular build , the academy's star striker and the coach's golden boy, smirked.
"Tough luck, Foster. Guess hard work isn't enough, huh?" Lucas sneered, his voice dripping with mockery.
Leo ignored him, he had more important things to worry about. He stood up his heart hammering, he could feel the weight of his teammates' stares. Ray Watson, his closest friend and Silvercrest's most promising midfielder, gave him a concerned look but said nothing. Ray had been with him since their early days, a solid midfielder with a tactical mind. His sandy brown hair was damp from sweat, and his usually composed hazel eyes held a hint of unease.
Each step toward Reynolds' office felt like a march to execution.
…
Inside, the air was suffocating. The room was small, lined with trophies and framed photos of past academy legends. Coach Reynolds sat behind his desk, arms crossed.
"Foster, you're out."
The words hit like a hammer to Leo's chest. "…What?"
Coach Reynolds leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable. "You're not good enough. You lack speed, strength, and instinct. You're just… a talentless benchwarmer. And in this academy, 'average' doesn't make the cut."
Leo's fists clenched. "But I was top scorer last season. You told me I had potential!"
"Potential means nothing if you can't deliver. You had chances, and you wasted them." The coach's tone was final, dismissive.
Leo took a deep breath, he had fought tooth and nail for his place at the Silvercrest Youth Academy of Football, the dream of playing professionally burning in his chest since childhood. And now… it was over?
I…" His voice cracked. "Coach, please. I just need more time."
Coach Reynolds sneered. "Time? You've had three years, and what have you done? You're an average and a benchwarmer at best with no defining skills. You're not academy material, Foster. Go do something else, Foster."
The words hit harder than any tackle. Silvercrest Academy was one of the best in the country, players here were scouted for national teams and for Europe's elite clubs. He had sacrificed everything for this chance. Now, it was slipping through his fingers like sand.
Coach Reynolds stood. " Go clean out your locker. Now ! And take off the team kit, you won't need it anymore."
Leo swallowed hard. This wasn't just losing a spot on the team. This was losing his future. He stood frozen and his body refused to move. His mind screamed for him to fight back, but what could he say? The decision had already been made. He turned and left, shoulders stiff, feeling the weight of unseen eyes trailing him.
…
Back in the locker room, silence fell as he approached his locker. The final walk of shame.
Reynolds followed, his voice cutting through the tense air. "Take your things and leave, Foster. You don't belong here."
Leo's gaze darted around, catching sight of a few teammates whispering. None of them looked surprised and none of them defended him. Not even Ray, whose expression was unreadable.
He yanked open his locker, and began stuffing his belongings into his bag. Ray shifted awkwardly but still said nothing. The unspoken truth burned, Leo was alone in this.
With one last glance at the place he had called home for three years, he slammed the locker shut and pulled off the Silvercrest kit, throwing it onto the bench.
Lucas was watching, arms crossed, a smug grin tugging at his lips. Then chuckled. "Guess you won't be needing that anymore, told you, Foster. Football is not for everyone."
Leo's fists tightened, he wanted to punch something, punch him. But what would that change? Nothing. He forced himself to breathe, his heart hammering in his chest.
He swallowed hard, staring up at the academy's grand façade. The field where he had once celebrated victories, the dormitory halls filled with midnight laughter, the locker room that had become a second home, all of it was now closed to him. He had fought so hard to be here, pushed through injuries, sleepless nights, and self-doubt, all for this moment… to be cast out like garbage.
Lucas Brown leaned lazily his arms crossed, then with a smirk , "Still here, Foster?" he called out mockingly. "What?... hoping they'll change their minds? Hate to break it to you, but there's no fairytale comeback."
Leo inhaled deeply, forcing himself to stay calm. Reacting would only give them what they wanted, he turned on his heel to leave but then…a voice called.
"Hey, Leo,"
Ray Watson. His best friend or at least, he had thought so. He had been silent throughout the entire ordeal, not speaking up, not defending him. But now, at the last moment, he decided to talk.
Leo stopped but didn't turn around. "What?" His voice was flat and cold.
Ray hesitated. "You know it's not fair, right?"
Leo let out a short, bitter laugh. "Yeah? Then why didn't you say anything back there?"
Ray looked away, guilt flickering across his face. "It wouldn't have changed anything."
"No," Leo muttered. "Guess not."
Silence stretched between them, heavy and unspoken. Leo wanted to say more, to scream, to demand answers, why? Why did no one stand up for him? Why did Ray, his closest friend, just watch? But the words never came. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore.
Another voice piped up, this time from Mark, a defender Leo had once thought he could trust. "Look, Leo… It's just how things are. Silvercrest only keeps the best. You worked hard, but…"
"But I wasn't good enough," Leo finished for him, his voice hollow.
No one corrected him. That silence hurt more than any insult ever could.
Leo's grip tightened around the strap of his duffel bag. He forced himself to walk forward, minutes later, he was outside, he stood at the Academy's gate for some minutes, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. The wind was sharp against his face, but he barely felt it. The towering iron gates of Silvercrest Academy loomed before him, this place had been his home, his battleground, his everything and now, it was all over.
He walked aimlessly , past the gates, past the life that had just crumbled beneath him, and through the streets, passing by neighborhood kids playing barefoot football on a dusty field.
…
That evening, he trudged home through the rough streets of Eastwood, his cleats slung over his shoulder. His mother, Olivia Foster, had sacrificed everything to support his dream, working endless shifts as a nurse to pay for his academy fees. How would he face her?
When he stepped inside their tiny apartment, she was already waiting at the kitchen table, her eyes searching his face.
"Leo?"
He hesitated. What was he now? A failed academy player? A washed-up seventeen-year-old? He was nothing.
His throat tightened. "They… kicked me out."
Olivia's expression faltered, but she forced a smile, standing to embrace him. "It's okay, sweetheart. We'll figure something out."
But Leo didn't see a way forward. His dream was over. He was nothing but another failed talent discarded by the ruthless world of football.
That night, as he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, a single thought consumed him, 'is this really the end?' He clenched his fists. Three years. Three years of blood, sweat, and sacrifice, and they had thrown him away like he was nothing. A talentless benchwarmer.
His mind replayed Coach Reynolds' words like a cruel echo.
"You're not good enough."
"Average doesn't make the cut."
"Go do something else, Foster."