The Metro Academy wasn't just any soccer academy—it was a professional training ground disguised as a school. Every player here was handpicked, and every day felt like we were being groomed to go pro. Teachers came to the academy like clockwork, handing out lessons and assignments in between sessions. It wasn't easy balancing soccer with school, but that was the life now.
We weren't just training to be good.
We were training to be great.
Three Paths, One Goal
Every morning, the three of us walked into the Metro Academy together. But once we passed the front lobby, we split.
KJ went left toward the U17s. Kyle went straight toward the U14s. I turned right, heading toward the U11 group.
"Yo," KJ said, before peeling off. "Play like trash today and don't call me your brother."
Kyle grinned. "You too, striker boy."
I smirked. "Y'all better not embarrass the family name."
We bumped fists—our little ritual—and disappeared in three directions.
Three different teams. Three different levels. But the same mission.
KJ: Silent Killer
KJ had started gaining a bit of a rep. Coaches praised his off-ball movement—he always seemed to pop up in the right place. But it wasn't just that. When he trained as a left winger, defenders got exposed. His flair dribbling—the Joga Bonito style—was straight out of a mixtape.
Spin moves, flip-flaps, elasticos. He didn't spam them, but when he did—game over.
Still, he kept most of that hidden in real games. At striker, he didn't need it as much. His runs behind the line, his timing, and his instinct for goals made him a problem without even touching the ball. But every now and then, he'd shift wide—and when he did, the crowd would lean forward.
Because something crazy was about to happen.
Kyle: The Nutmeg King
Kyle was cold. Like ice-in-his-veins cold.
On the right wing, defenders would try to trap him against the sideline. That was cute. But Kyle didn't need space—just angles. He stuck to three or four moves, and defenders knew what he was going to do—but they couldn't stop it.
His first step? Unfair.
And if your legs weren't locked tight? Nutmeg. Easy. It was like watching someone type in cheat codes.
Coaches would call him flashy—but he wasn't trying to show off. That was just how he played. Clinical. Calculated. And if he got into the box?
Goal. Every time.
Me: The Playmaker in Training
My team was younger, and I was still catching up. But every week, I felt the gap shrinking.
My dribbling was tightening up, sharper and cleaner. Depending on the moment, it was smooth and elegant or direct and forceful. I was starting to find my own rhythm.
But my real power?
Passing.
That day in scrimmage, I didn't wait for the run—I made the run happen. One of our wingers hesitated, unsure if he should cut inside, and I threaded the ball before he moved. He saw it, sprinted through, and finished.
The coach blew his whistle. "That's vision! Kareem, I see you!"
That felt good. But it wasn't just vision—it was memory. Future memory. I'd watched games like this play out in real life. My brain was replaying scenarios that hadn't even happened yet in this timeline.
I wasn't just reacting. I was playing chess.
School vs. Soccer
Later that day, we hit the classroom block. The teachers rolled in with assignments, and groans filled the room.
KJ sat next to me, arms folded. "I hate this."
"You hate everything except scoring," I muttered.
"Exactly."
Truth was, if KJ applied himself, he could get straight As. He just didn't care. Not about homework, not about reading comprehension. School didn't feel real to him—soccer did.
Kyle, on the other hand, was a math and science machine. Equations, problem-solving, geometry—he crushed it. But give him an essay prompt and he'd roll his eyes so hard you'd hear it.
"This is dumb," Kyle said, flipping through his English packet. "When am I ever going to analyze a poem in real life?"
"Maybe if you become a poet," I offered.
"Not funny."
And me? I could ace any of this. I'd done it already—in my first life. But it felt like pressing replay on a game I'd already beat. Boring. Repetitive. Sometimes I just turned in half-done work because I didn't feel like pretending to try.
Still, we did what we had to do. Just enough to pass, just enough to stay on the field.
The Pressure Builds
By the end of the week, there was buzz around the academy. A big friendly match was coming up—inter-academy. Scouts would be watching.
Some of the older players were already flexing for attention.
KJ was unfazed. "Let them watch."
Kyle was quiet, but focused. Sharpening his dribbling in every session.
And me?
I started to feel the pressure.
Not because I was scared—but because I wasn't satisfied anymore. Being the youngest wasn't enough of an excuse.
I needed to be great.
Not in the future.
Now.