Everyone in the locker room was celebrating.
Laughter echoed through the concrete walls. Boots clattered against the floor, and the smell of sweat mixed with the sharp scent of disinfectant. Players cheered, clapped each other's backs, and shouted across the room in excitement.
But Arghana sat in front of his locker, motionless.
He had already showered, but his hair was still damp. A towel hung around his shoulders, forgotten. His eyes were locked on the floor beneath his feet.
Two goals.
He'd scored twice.
And yet, something didn't feel right.
There was a moment in the match when time seemed to slow down—when his body moved before his mind caught up, as if he wasn't the one in control. It wasn't instinct. It was something… sharper. Quicker. Like his senses had elevated for just a heartbeat, and then gone.
He didn't know what it was.He just knew it wasn't normal.
Teammates passed by, offering high-fives and congratulations. Even Marnix, who used to snap at every mistake, gave him a nod of approval.Coach Ten Hag praised the team, reminding them to stay focused—the season wasn't over yet.
But all Arghana could do was nod.
And wonder.
Back in his small apartment, Arghana lay on his bed, eyes on the ceiling.
He'd eaten a quick snack, but hunger wasn't the issue. Something about the match kept playing in his mind like a looped highlight reel.
He pulled out his phone, searching for answers. "Heightened awareness in sports," "mind-body instinct connection," "athlete mental state." Dozens of tabs opened, none of them fully answering what he'd felt.
Eventually, he landed on a concept: Flow State.A mental zone where athletes were so immersed in their game that the world seemed to fade.
Was that what happened?
He wasn't sure.
The next morning, he woke up with one thought in his head.He needed to tell someone. Needed to understand this feeling.
Without overthinking, he dialed his father's number.
The call connected.
"I scored two goals yesterday," he said, barely hiding the tremble in his voice.
"I read the report this morning," his father replied calmly. "Tell me about it."
So he did.
Arghana described the match, the goals, the sensation of everything slowing down. Well—most of it. He kept the strange parts vague, unsure if he even believed them himself.
Even so, his father's response was the same as always."Don't let the goals fool you. You still need to analyze your game. Stay sharp. Work harder."
That was his father. Stern, grounded, never swayed by one good day.
"And your money? Still enough?""I'm okay," Arghana lied.
"Alright. Good start, son. Don't waste it."
The call ended.
Arghana stared at the ceiling again.
In truth, his savings were running thin—but he didn't want to ask for help. Not yet.
Training resumed as usual.
There were no banners, no extra attention. This was Dutch football—subtle, focused, and brutally honest.
Ten Hag and his staff watched every movement. Drills were simple: two players, one ball. No hand-holding, no fixed roles. Just pure, competitive chaos.
Here, only the sharp survived.
Arghana tried to channel whatever he'd tapped into during the match.
But nothing clicked.
He stumbled through drills. His touches were heavy. One-on-ones ended in frustration.
"Too predictable," Khalid Karami said, tapping his shoulder. "I knew what you were going to do before you moved. Relax. It's just training."
But Arghana couldn't relax.
He wanted to find that moment again.That zone. That rush. That... whatever it was.
And yet, it stayed out of reach.
He pushed harder—rushed a dribble, forced a run—but the ball slipped away every time. There was no clarity now. No instincts. Just noise.
From the sidelines, the coaching staff exchanged looks.
Arghana could feel their judgment.
He had the body, sure. But technically? He was average.
And for a non-EU player in a league like this, average wasn't enough.
A local player could offer the same, maybe more. No visa complications. No risks.
By the time training ended, Arghana was soaked in sweat and disappointment.
He sat on the grass, catching his breath, replaying yesterday again and again in his mind.
That night, in the match—it was real.
The crowd had faded. Movements had slowed. Every pass, every decision, felt like it arrived a second before it needed to.
He wasn't imagining it.
He knew it happened.
And if it did once, maybe... just maybe...
He could find it again.