The dining hall smelled of lingering roast chicken and starch—remnants of the academy's celebratory feast. Paper flags hung limp over empty tables, and a single flickering bulb threw shadows across Lars's face as he nursed a tumbler of amber liquor. Femi lingered nearby, picking at a leftover caramel waffle stuck to its wax paper.
"You're quieter than usual," Lars said, swirling his drink. Ice clinked like a clock ticking down.
Femi shrugged. "Just thinking."
The lie hung between them, brittle as the waffle's crisp edges.
The Announcement
Lars set down his glass. The sound echoed through the quiet room.
"I'm leaving, Femi. Barcelona called."
The words landed like a misplaced tackle. Femi's throat tightened.
No. Not now. Not him.
"First-team manager," Lars continued, voice steady but eyes avoiding Femi's. "A dream… and a curse."
Femi's mind raced. Who'll fix my positioning? Who'll see the gaps I miss? But all he said was, "When?"
"Next week."
Silence pooled around them. Somewhere, a janitor's mop squeaked against tile.
Memory Flashback – Their First Session
A brief flashback to the first time Lars trained Femi after his switch to left-back. Lars's original doubts were evident, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the young player's raw talent. Femi's rawness was palpable, his movements awkward and uncoordinated. But Lars saw something in him, a spark that hinted at greatness. The memory connected emotionally to how far they'd both come, a testament to their growth and development.
Final Advice – The Bridge
Back in the hall, Lars leaned forward, the ghost of a smile touching his lips.
"When I was at Barça as a player, I broke my ankle three times. Each time, they said I was done. Know what I learned?"
Femi shook his head.
"Limits are lies told by small minds." Lars's voice softened. "You're not just defending the left side, Femi. Own it. Redefine what it means."
Femi's eyes burned, but he straightened. "I will."
The Farewell
They stepped into the night, breath fogging under a streetlamp. The canal below swallowed the moon's reflection.
Lars extended his hand. Femi shook it—callouses meeting callouses—then pulled him into a brief, fierce hug.
"Make them fear left-backs," Lars muttered into his shoulder.
Then he walked away, his silhouette dissolving into the mist like ink in water.
Eyes on the Horizon
Femi stood alone, phone glowing in his grip.
Femi: Things are changing fast.
Liam: Always do. You good?
He didn't reply. Across the canal, a neon sign buzzed—RESTAURANT—its letters bleeding red into the water.
Own It. Redefine it. The words coiled in his chest, sharp and warm.
He turned toward the training ground, fists clenched.
Fear me.
Femi's Inner Monologue
Every pass I intercept, every overlap I make—they'll carry his voice. Not a ghost. A compass. And whe
n Barça comes for us in the EFF tournament… I'll show Lars what his "defender's heart" built.