The Announcement
The Ajax Academy Strategy Room hummed with the static electricity of anticipation. Coach Bakker stood before a glowing screen, its blue light carving shadows into his stern face. Players were scattered around the room, perched on chairs with elbows on knees, chewing gum or tapping restless feet. At the back of the room, Femi sat silently, fingers tracing the scar on his knee, a reminder of his first failed tackle as a left-back.
Coach Bakker's voice broke through the quiet hum. "We've been invited," he said, pausing just long enough to let the words settle, "to the EFF U-23 Championship."
The room erupted in cheers. Liam whooped, slapping the table, while Josip muttered, "Finally," under his breath. Femi, however, stayed silent. His pulse raced in his ears. Europe. Barcelona. Lars.
The Draw Reveal
The live stream flickered to life on the large screen. The polished host in Madrid droned on about "football heritage" while the draw machine spun. Group A: Real Madrid, Arsenal, Porto, Benfica. Groans of relief filled the room. Group B: Liverpool, Inter Milan, Lyon, PSG.
Then came Group C:
"Bayern Munich." Josip snorted. "Tractor engines in cleats."
"Juventus." Diego whistled. "Mamma mia."
"Barcelona." The word hung in the air like a guillotine. Femi's jaw tightened.
"And… Ajax."
Liam dramatically fake-swooned, "Ah, the group of death! Perfect for my funeral."
Femi, however, was still. His eyes locked on the screen. Barcelona glowed red beside Ajax's name. Somewhere, in Spain, Lars was watching.
Aftermath – Late Night Reflections
Femi sat in his dorm, the room dim except for the glow of the city lights. He stared out the window, lost in thought. Flashbacks of his journey danced through his mind: the penalty mistake, Josip's goal, Lars's farewell. Slowly, he opened the note Lars had left him. The words burned into his mind:
"You're not done yet. Barcelona will see you soon."
Femi's eyes narrowed, determination simmering beneath the surface. He wasn't finished. Not yet.
Barcelona, La Masia:
Lars de Groot walked through the hallowed halls of La Masia. His reflection glided over trophies older than Femi. He paused in front of a whiteboard, tracing Ajax on the fixture list with his finger.
Madrid, Ciudad Real:
Elias Rikken adjusted his pristine white jersey, eyes locked on a replay of Femi's assist in the final. His new coach barked, "¡Enfócate!"
London, Arsenal's Hub:
A wiry teenager with pink-tipped hair watched the draw on his phone. His eyes glinted with excitement as he leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. When Ajax appeared in Group C, he grinned, "No Ajax, huh? Guess I don't get to dance with that left-back."
He tapped his phone screen, pulling up a video of Femi's assist against Heerenveen—the game-winning goal. "This guy…" The teen muttered to himself, shaking his head. "We'll see what happens." He slid his phone into his pocket, a confident smirk spreading across his face. "Let them come. I've got my sights on him."
Munich, Säbener Straße:
Bayern's squad lunged into sled pushes, the coach's voice roaring in the background: "Schneller!" A defender spat, "Ajax is just a warm-up."
Closing Beat – The Horizon
One month later, Ajax's training pitch buzzed with energy. Drills were sharper than knife blades. Coach Bakker barked formations, his voice raw from endless hours of planning.
"High press, quick switches. Bayern hates chaos. Juventus fears speed. Barcelona…" He glanced over at Femi. "Barcelona won't recognize you."
Femi tied his boots tighter, the note Lars had left him tucked carefully inside his sock. Outside, storm clouds gathered.
This time, I won't just be ready. I'll be undeniable.