The Metro Academy training complex was massive—bigger than any field we'd ever stepped on. Turf fields stretched in every direction, coaches with clipboards stood like sentries, and the buzz of talent filled the air like static before a storm.
This was it. The big leagues. And we weren't walking in as a group anymore.
We were walking in as three individuals.
"Alright, you boys ready?" KJ asked, adjusting his backpack.
"Ready to show them what a real striker looks like," Kyle said with a cocky grin, then nudged me. "And you, little bro?"
I tightened the straps on my boots. "I was born ready."
We reached the front gate, where three different coaches waited, each holding a list and clipboard. One for U18s. One for U15s. One for U10s. All different teams. Different fields. Different journeys.
This was the part nobody saw. That even when you're chasing the same dream, sometimes you have to take different roads to get there.
KJ turned first. "Make a statement," he said to Kyle, then pointed at me. "And don't embarrass the family name."
Kyle laughed and threw his arm around my shoulders. "Bro, just don't fall out there. Play like you belong. Or don't call yourself a Bernard."
I smirked. "You better score today, or I'm roasting you in the next YouTube video."
We bumped fists—three black brothers walking into the fire from different doors, but lit by the same flame.
Then, just like that, we split.
KJ jogged toward the older players, where full-grown bodies moved like pros already. Kyle headed toward his group, loose and confident. And I walked toward the youngest group, my heart pounding like a drum.
Kareem: First Touches
The U10 session started with technical drills—juggling, dribbling through cones, first-touch passes. Most of the kids were fast and sharp, and you could tell they'd been here a while.
I was the new guy.
But I didn't come to blend in. I came to stand out.
I kept everything tight, sharp. One touch. Two touch. Dribble. Flick. Every drill, I gave it something extra. A feint. A little hesitation. A shoulder drop. I wanted the coaches to notice, even if they didn't say anything.
And I wasn't just doing moves—I was seeing the game differently.
During a passing drill, I noticed the timing between two players was off, so I adjusted my angle just slightly. The next pass? Right into stride. The kid gave me a look like, how'd you know to do that?
Because I've already seen this. A thousand times. In my head, in my dreams, in my future.
They thought I was just some quick kid with good feet. But I was a playmaker in training—with a brain that played five years ahead of my age.
Kyle: Flow State
Kyle's session was all about decision-making under pressure. One-v-ones. Crossing drills. Quick passes in tight space.
He looked like he was in his element.
His speed wasn't just physical—it was mental. He moved like he saw every defender's weakness before they even reached him. When they pressed, he feinted. When they lunged, he was already gone.
But I knew Kyle. I knew that behind his chill smile, he was thinking hard. Wondering if this was what he wanted. MLS? Overseas? Stay home or go all-in?
And still, he played like a magician. That left foot—pure art. One coach even pulled him aside after a drill and asked where he learned that touch.
Kyle just smiled. "Genetics."
KJ: Fire and Fury
Over on the U18 field, KJ wasn't playing like a trialist—he was playing like a starter.
High-press, aggressive movement, full-speed runs. He was loud, vocal, and dangerous. His first shot in the scrimmage cracked off the crossbar so hard it sounded like thunder.
He wasn't here to try out.
He was here to take a spot.
And that made some of the older academy players angry. KJ got bodied on one play—clearly intentional. But he bounced right back up and smiled.
That's the thing about KJ—he loves the fight. Always has.
He dropped deep, picked up the ball, and drove through two defenders before rifling it into the bottom corner.
No celebration. Just a stare.
Message delivered.
Reuniting After the Fire
By the time the sun dipped low and training ended, we all met back up at the front gate.
Kyle was the first to appear, sweat dripping, still juggling a ball lazily.
KJ showed up next, calm and confident, swinging his bag like he hadn't just battled grown men for 90 minutes.
Then me—shirt damp, legs sore, heart still racing.
We locked eyes.
"Well?" KJ asked.
"I made the best kid on the team fall with a stepover," I said.
Kyle grinned. "Good. You'd better keep up. 'Cause I cooked everybody."
"Y'all too loud," KJ said, grinning. "I scored twice. That's all that needs to be said."
We started walking home—three different teams, three different games.
Same goal.
Same blood.
Same fire.
And one day, the world would know all three names: KJ, Kyle, and Kareem Bernard.
3KB. Coming soon.