Alex was tired. His entire body ached from a hard Monday training session. The other U18 players were already heading for the showers, laughing and shouting.

Sam jogged over, his hair plastered to his head with sweat. "You coming, Alex? Me and the lads are getting pizza. My treat."

"Cannot," Alex said. He nodded towards the empty pitch. "I have... extra work."

Sam looked confused. Then he followed Alexs gaze.

At the far end of the pitch, Mark was standing alone. He had already set up a bag of balls. He was waiting.

Sams jaw dropped. "You... with him? On purpose? Willingly?"

Alex just shrugged and smiled. "We are working on my left foot."

"Wow," Sam said, looking back and forth between them. "Okay. This is weird. You two are weird. Are you... friends now?"

"I do not think so," Alex laughed. "He is just a... a very bossy training partner."

"Alright. Well... do not let him murder you," Sam said, backing away slowly. "See you tomorrow."

Alex waved and walked onto the empty pitch. The power dynamic had changed. Mark was the one waiting for him this time.

"You are late," Mark grunted as Alex walked up.

"Training just finished, Mark. By two minutes."

"Excuses," Mark said. He kicked a ball towards Alex. "Your left foot. It is terrible. It is like a wet noodle."

Alex flinched. He knew his left foot was his weak side, but this body was naturally talented. "It is not that bad."

"It is," Mark said, his voice flat. "It is slowing you down. In the Reading game, you always shifted the ball to your right. Good defenders will see that. They will take away your right side, and you will be useless."

Alexs analyst brain clicked. He was not even offended. Mark was right. That was a solid, observable data point.

"Okay," Alex said, suddenly all business. "So how do we fix it?"

Mark was, it turned out, a terrible teacher.

He was a player of pure instinct. He did not know how he did things, he just did them.

He set up a small target goal thirty yards away. "Hit that," he ordered. "With your left."

Alex placed the ball. He focused. He tried to remember the feeling of the pass in the derby. He swung his left leg.

The ball did not fly. It did not spin. It... wobbled. It died on the grass, rolling pathetically, twenty yards short.

Mark let out a loud, frustrated groan. "What was that? Kick it! Like you mean it!"

"I am trying!" Alex said, his face getting red.

"No, you are thinking," Mark snapped. "I can see your face. You look like you are doing hard maths. Stop thinking. Just kick it! Hard!"

Alex took another ball. Okay. Do not think. Just kick hard.

He ran up and swung his leg as hard as he could.

THWACK.

The ball rocketed into the air. It went high. It went very, very wide. It almost hit the corner flag.

"That was terrible," Mark said, shaking his head.

"You told me to kick it hard!" Alex shot back.

"Not that hard! And not there! Are you even aiming? It is like you have never used that leg before!"

"I am not used to it!" Alex said. This was not working. Mark was making him nervous. He was trying to teach "feel" to a person who lived on "data".

Alex took a deep breath. He needed to stop. He needed to think.

"Okay, stop," Alex said, holding up a hand. "This is not working. You are a bad teacher."

Mark looked completely outraged. "What did you say to me?"

"You are a bad teacher," Alex repeated. He was calm now. The analyst was taking over. "You just shout 'kick it'. That is not helping. I need to understand how."

"How? You just... kick it! With your foot! It is not hard!" Mark yelled.

"No," Alex said. He dropped a ball at his feet. He started talking, almost to himself, ignoring Mark completely.

"The problem is not my leg. It is my balance. My whole body."

He stood over the ball. "When I use my right foot," he narrated, "my left shoulder comes across. It closes my hips. It locks my ankle. It gives me power and accuracy." He did a slow motion swing with his right leg.

Mark was just staring at him, completely baffled.

"But when I use my left," Alex continued, "I am too open. My right shoulder flies out. My hips are open. All the power is lost."

He mimed the weak left footed kick.

"You... you are really weird, man," Mark said, shaking his head. "You are not normal."

"Just watch," Alex said. He placed the ball.

He ignored the goal. He ignored Mark. He focused on his body.

Balance. Right shoulder across. Lock the ankle. Hips closed. Follow through.

He swung his left leg.

It was not a hard kick. It was not fast. But it was clean. The ball flew straight. It did not wobble. It just... went. It rolled to a stop twenty yards away.

Alex let out a small, satisfied breath. "That is it. That is the feeling."

"It was slow," Mark grunted, not impressed.

"It was straight," Alex said. "Now... I add the power."

He took another ball. He placed it.

He went through his mental checklist. Balance. Shoulder. Hips. Ankle.

He struck it.

THWACK.

The sound was different. It was the sound of a perfect connection. The ball was a rocket. It flew low and fast, spinning beautifully.

It smashed into the side netting of the small goal thirty yards away.

Alex stood there, breathing hard. His left leg was tingling.

Mark was completely silent. He just walked over to the goal, pulled the ball out of the net, and threw it back to Alex. Hard.

"That was okay," Mark said, trying his best to sound bored. "But you hit the side. The target is the middle. Do it again."

Alex could see the tiny, impressed look in his eyes. He grinned. This was progress.

For the rest of the week, this became their new, secret routine.

The other U18 players went to the showers. Alex and Mark stayed.

First, thirty minutes of passing and movement. Mark would run. Alex would find him. They practiced the "cut left" move. They practiced the "straight run" move.

They even invented a new one. Mark would run back towards Alex, dragging the imaginary defender with him. Then he would spin, and Alex would chip the ball into the space Mark had just created. It was beautiful.

Then, thirty minutes of Alexs left foot.

Mark was still a terrible, impatient teacher. "No, no! Your shoulder! You did the weird shoulder thing wrong!"

But he was trying. He was shagging the balls. He was watching. He was invested.

By Friday, Alex was hitting 5 out of 10 passes into the middle of the small goal. His left foot no longer felt like a wet noodle. It felt like a tool. It felt like his.

Alex and Mark were the last to leave the pitch. They were both drenched in sweat and covered in mud. They walked back to the locker room without talking. It was a comfortable, tired silence.

The room was empty except for Sam, who was fully dressed and waiting by Alexs locker.

"So?" Sam asked, his eyes wide with curiosity. "Are you two... like... friends now? Are you going to get matching haircuts or something?"

Mark just grunted. He did not even look at Sam. He walked to his own locker. "Do not be late on Monday, Finch," he said, pulling off his shirt. "We are working on your heading. You jump like a stunned duck."

He disappeared into the showers.

Alex just laughed. He was too tired to be annoyed.

"Wow," Sam said. "He is... bossy. But he is not wrong. You are pretty bad in the air."

"Thanks, Sam," Alex said, grabbing his towel.

"But seriously, Alex. You two... you are different. The whole team sees it. You are working so hard. It is... cool."

"I have to," Alex said. His personal goal was clear in his mind. This time, I will not fail. I will be the best.

He was about to go to the showers when the door opened. Coach Steve walked in.

His face was serious. Not angry. Just... important.

"Good week, lads," Coach Steve said. He looked at Sam. "Go home, Sam."

Sam practically ran out of the room. "Yes, Coach!"

Coach Steve turned to Alex.

"Alex," he said. "A call came in this afternoon."

Alexs heart did a little jump. A call?

"The U21s coach," Coach Steve said. "They have a friendly match next week. A private one. Behind closed doors. Against the first team."

Alexs entire body went cold. His blood turned to ice.

The first team?

"Their usual midfielder is away with the England U19s," Coach Steve continued, his voice steady. "They need a player. Someone smart. Someone who can see a pass. Someone who will not be scared."

He paused. A small, proud smile played on his lips.

"I told them I had just the guy."

"Coach... me?" Alex whispered. He could not feel his legs.

"You," Coach Steve confirmed. "Monday. You are not training with us. You are training with them. With the U21s. And on Tuesday... you are going to play against the superstars."

He put a heavy hand on Alexs shoulder and squeezed.

"Do not be late, son. And for goodness sake... try to get some sleep. You look terrified."

Coach Steve walked out, leaving Alex alone in the quiet locker room.

He was going to play against the first team. His heroes. The men from the posters on his wall.

He was not just terrified. He was electrified. This was it. This was the next step.

His analyst brain was already whirring, pulling up data on the first teams defensive patterns, their pressing triggers, their holding midfielders weaknesses.

He could not wait.

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