Ajax smelled blood. Femi Adeleye ached everywhere. His legs screamed, his chest heaved, but his mind stayed razor-sharp. This ache? Nothing. Nights in the camp, hunger gnawing like teeth… this was child's play.
Josip flattened Brandt in an aerial duel, earning a roar from the Ajax supporters. Liam drove at Niko Weiss again, skipping past him like he wasn't even there.
77th Minute
Liam cut inside, whipped a low ball to Souleymane Traoré. The striker spun, unleashed a vicious strike. Felix Hartmann was beaten—but Vogel, somehow, appeared on the line, blocking the shot with his chest.
He crumpled to one knee, pain flashing across his face. His hand brushed instinctively over the faded scar on his wrist—a habit born from a brutal moment two years ago, a broken collarbone in a German U-19 final that nearly derailed him. From then, perfection wasn't a preference. It was survival.
Femi caught it. The desperation in the perfectionist captain's eyes.
81st Minute
Bayern adjusted. Sommer and Reuter hugged the touchlines, baiting Ajax high.
Brandt lingered on Dekker's shoulder. His glare wasn't hatred now. It was something more personal.
He's better than I gave him credit for, Brandt thought. But one mistake…
86th Minute
It came.
Vogel misfired a pass. Femi lunged, intercepting cleanly. The world opened ahead.
He surged forward, ignoring agony in his muscles, the roar of the crowd blending into one long note.
Josip peeled left. Liam darted right. Souleymane called for it.
Femi hesitated. A heartbeat. A decision too long.
Vogel, dragging himself across the pitch, tackled from behind, nicking the ball away.
Counter.
Enzo Meyer fed Reuter down the left. Ramon slid but missed. Reuter whipped a cross to the near post.
Brandt rose, powered a header goalward.
Visser's glove met it.
Not enough.
1-0 Bayern.
The stadium detonated.
Brandt screamed, not at the crowd but directly at Femi.
"I told you!"
But then—a beat—his face softened. A flicker of something closer to respect. He gave a small nod before jogging away.
90+1' Minute
Ajax refused to break.
Josip bulldozed past Reuter, curling a high cross into the box.
Souleymane rose, outmuscling Vogel, nodding it down.
Liam pounced.
Left foot. Clean strike.
Hartmann stretched but couldn't stop it.
1-1.
The away end erupted.
Femi dropped to his knees, exhausted, relief washing over him.
Final Whistle
Players collapsed. Vogel hunched, sweat dripping. Brandt approached Femi.
"You're a pain to play against. I'll give you that."
He jogged off.
Vogel gave a single exhausted nod, the scar on his wrist catching the light.
As Femi limped toward the tunnel at full-time, his gaze lifted to the stands.
There.
Pink hair. A grin.
Kai Sterling.
The memory slammed into him. Rotterdam U-17 Invitational Final.
A packed stadium. Femi rising for a last-minute winner . Lars de Groot lifting him. Kai, dark-haired and stone-faced, left watching.
That night should have been mine.
Femi swallowed hard.
In the tunnel, Kai appeared from the shadows, leaning against the wall.
"Took you long enough to remember," Kai murmured.
Without waiting for a reply, he vanished into the tunnel, the promise of unfinished war heavy in the air.
To be continued...