Training resumed with a cold wind sweeping across the pitch, but Femi barely felt it. His mind was still replaying the moment from the hostel—the wordless confrontation with Josip Van der Berg. It hadn't been a fight, not exactly. But something had passed between them, a kind of tension that hadn't gone away since.
Monday morning brought another twist.
Coach Bakker stood before the assembled squad, clipboard in hand, his voice sharp as ever.
"We've got two weeks until our next league fixture," he announced. "And we'll be increasing intensity from today. Also—Van der Berg is back."
Heads turned as Josip jogged onto the pitch, fully kitted, his hair slicked back, the usual fire in his eyes. The defender had returned from injury in what could only be called record time. There were whispers about how quickly he'd healed, but Josip never explained. He didn't need to.
His return sent a ripple through the squad. Some were excited to see him back. Others, like Femi, felt the weight of what it meant.
Femi's spot was no longer just about development. Now, it was about competition.
Josip didn't acknowledge Femi as he passed him in the warm-up circle. Not a nod, not a glance. It was as if the other night had never happened. But Femi felt the chill behind that silence, the rivalry simmering just beneath the surface.
Inside the medical wing, Liam Janssen sat on the bench, gently rolling a resistance band over his ankle. His left leg was still wrapped, but he was moving better than before.
Femi popped in during break, the sound of tape tearing and water bottles clinking filling the room.
"Hey," Liam said with a smile, nodding toward the door. "Saw Josip back out there. Bet that's fun for you."
Femi smirked. "Yeah. He looked like he wanted to bury me with his eyes."
"He probably does," Liam replied, grinning. "But don't worry about him. He's always been like that. Stubborn. Intense. You just focus on your game."
There was a pause.
"You ever think about that night again?" Liam asked.
Femi nodded slowly. "All the time."
Liam adjusted the ice pack on his leg. "I was watching, you know. That second half—you held it down. I don't care what the scoreboard said. That was a proper shift."
"Thanks," Femi said, his voice quieter. "When'd you pick up the injury again?"
Liam shrugged. "Two weeks ago. Scrimmage against the senior reserves. I went in too hard on a challenge, landed wrong. Typical winger stuff. I'll be back in full training soon, though."
Femi glanced at the physio room clock. "It's not the same without you out there."
"Yeah, well… maybe the pitch isn't where I'm most useful right now," Liam said, clapping Femi on the shoulder. "Go win that left-back spot. You've earned a shot."
Femi left the room with a renewed calm. Josip was back. The competition was real. But he wasn't going to shy away from it.
Not now.
The week's training sessions were intense. Every sprint, every duel, every defensive drill felt charged with a new kind of energy. Josip was back, and he was relentless—pressing high, barking orders, throwing himself into challenges with the sort of edge that had made him a starter in the first place.
But Femi didn't shrink.
He kept showing up. Kept listening to Lars's advice on positioning. Kept replaying clips of his second-half performance from the friendly. Kept working.
Coach Bakker noticed. He didn't say much—he rarely did—but on Thursday, after a particularly grueling defensive transition drill, he paused beside Femi.
"Better spacing today," he said simply, then walked off.
It wasn't much. But it was something.
That same afternoon, the squad split into two sides for a tactical scrimmage—4-3-3 versus 3-4-3. Josip started with the first group, running left wing-back in Bakker's favored shape. Femi was on the other side, playing as a traditional left-back again.
It was clear what was happening. A quiet battle for the same position.
And to everyone's surprise, the younger left-back was holding his own.
Midway through the scrimmage, Femi shut down an overlapping run from the right winger, cleanly dispossessing him and launching a quick outlet pass to the central midfielder. Lars clapped twice from the sidelines.
By the end, both sides had scored once. Nothing spectacular. But to Femi, the real victory was staying in the fight.
Later that night, Femi sat on the edge of his bed, boots by his side, muscles aching.
Josip walked in. The silence was back—but different now. Not heavy. Not threatening. Just… there.
As Josip passed, he paused for the briefest of moments.
"You played well today."
Femi looked up, surprised.
Josip didn't wait for a reply. He kept walking toward his bed, pulled his hoodie over his head, and lay back.
It wasn't praise. Not exactly.
But it was a beginning.
And for Femi Adeleye, beginnings were everything.
To be continued…