The locker room buzzed with quiet tension as Coach Bakker paced in front of the whiteboard. Femi sat at his usual spot by the far end, lacing his boots tighter than usual. The final friendly before the National U-23 Championship wasn't just another game—it was the game. The last chance to convince the coaches who deserved to start when the real lights came on.
"Starting XI," Bakker announced, clicking his marker open. One by one, he scribbled the names.
Ajax U-23 Starting Lineup
GK – Daan Visser
RB – Noah Willems
CB – Kenji Okoro
CB – Ramon Dekker
LB – Josip Van der Berg
CM – Yassine Bouali
CM – Timo van Loon
CAM – Diego Silva
RW – Sander Veenstra
LW – Jacek Kowalski
ST – Souleymane Traoré
Femi's name wasn't on the board. Again.
He exhaled slowly, trying not to let the frustration show. He'd known Josip was back—recovered in record time, in fact. But a small part of him had still hoped.
From across the room, Liam caught his eye. Still in rehab gear, the crutches leaned beside his seat.
"You ready?" he asked softly.
Femi gave a tight nod.
Liam smiled. "Then be ready to burn the pitch when it's time."
The game kicked off under grey skies. The opponents—Utrecht U-23—were compact and aggressive. Josip started well, sharp on the ball, barking orders like he never left. But in the 30th minute, he suddenly pulled up near the touchline, grimacing as his hamstring flared again.
The physios rushed over.
Coach Bakker turned immediately. "Femi. Warm up."
Femi's heart jumped into his throat. He jogged to the touchline, blood roaring in his ears. Josip limped toward him, muttering through gritted teeth.
"Don't embarrass us."
Femi said nothing. He just crossed himself out of habit, then stepped onto the pitch.
His first duel came within seconds. Utrecht's right winger—a smug, lightning-fast forward named Said—drove straight at him. Femi squared up, trying to anticipate the move. Said feinted inside, then darted out. Before Femi could recover, the ball was gone and so was Said.
The Utrecht bench roared.
"You sure he's not a ball boy?" Said called over his shoulder.
Femi burned. But this time, he didn't retreat into his shell.
Alright, he thought. Let's dance.
The next time Said came at him, Femi dropped lower, watched his hips instead of the ball, and timed his step perfectly. He didn't just win the tackle—he crushed it, taking ball and man cleanly, sparking a counterattack.
Bakker applauded. "Good, Femi! Stay alert!"
With the score 1-1 at halftime, Bakker made a subtle tactical shift. "Femi, invert on buildup. Tuck in. Think midfield when we've got the ball."
It'was a new wrinkle—he hadn't played that role much. But as the second half wore on, instincts kicked in. He began sliding centrally during attacks, helping with overloads, and offering angles for Van Loon and Bouali. Utrecht struggled to adjust.
Then came the 88th minute.
The ball bobbled loose from a half-cleared Utrecht attack. Femi stepped up, chest tight with adrenaline, eyes wide and locked on the spinning ball. No hesitation. He pounced, stealing it before Utrecht's midfielder could react.
This is it. Go.
He surged forward, head up, field opening in front of him. Van Loon peeled wide, calling for it. Jacek sprinted down the left channel. Traoré dragged both center-backs with a diagonal run.
Space. They've given me space.
A yard became five. Then ten.
The Utrecht right-back stepped toward him. Femi feinted a touch left, then cut sharply inside on his right foot—clean, instinctive. The defender slipped. Now the edge of the box was his.
Don't rush. Pick your spot.
He didn't overhit the ball. One soft touch. The keeper moved left.
Femi angled his body as if to shoot near post—then curved the ball across his body, his right foot slicing through it with precision.
It lifted, bent—rising just above the outstretched glove, then dipping beautifully.
Time slowed.
Please go in. Please go in.
The net rippled.
A heartbeat of stillness passed before the stadium erupted in a thunderous cheer.
Femi stood frozen for a moment, watching the ball nestle into the bottom corner. The roar of the crowd was muffled in his ears—everything slowed down as the magnitude of the goal settled in. His body was still moving, instinctively, but his mind was elsewhere, replaying the sequence in perfect clarity.
A quick glance toward the sideline—Coach Bakker's eyes were fixed on him, unreadable.
Then, Femi raised both arms wide, palms down, as if to calm the storm that had just broken loose.
It wasn't the wild, exuberant celebration many expected. It was controlled, purposeful—a moment of quiet defiance. His trademark: The Quiet Storm.
His teammates rushed in—Traoré was on his back, Jacek was yelling something in Polish, and the bench had erupted. But Femi stayed focused. Eyes forward. He had made a statement.
And now, he could hear his heart beating steadily. The moment he'd always dreamed of was finally his.
Later…
Josip sat at the end of the bench, his hamstring wrapped in ice, his gaze fixed on the pitch.
The cheers still echoed.
He didn't move. Didn't clap.
His eyes tracked Femi—jogging off the field, high-fiving teammates, soaking it in.
That should've been me.
His jaw clenched.
That was mine.
He'd fought too hard to be here. Earned that starting spot. And now? Now this kid—this raw, flashy project—had stolen the moment?
Lucky goal. Coaches fall in love with highlights. They forget the dirty work.
But deep down, Josip knew better.
Femi didn't just survive out there. He adapted. Fought back. Took the game by the throat.
Josip's fists curled. I'm not done. Not by a long shot.
He looked down at the ice melting in his lap.
Femi may have seized the shirt tonight.
But the war?
Far from over.
To be continued...