The Manchester rain fell in sheets as Ibukun stepped onto the Carrington training pitch for the first time. The grass was immaculate, each blade perfectly trimmed, the lines so crisp they looked painted. Across the field, United's first-team stars warmed up—some of the biggest names in world football, moving with the effortless grace of predators.
And then there was him.
A loanee from the Belgian second division.
A nobody.
**"Alright, trialist!"** A barrel-chested coach bellowed from the sideline. **"You're with the reserves today. Try not to embarrass yourself."**
Jay-Jay's hologram flickered beside him, arms crossed. *"Well, kid. This is it. Time to show them what you're made of."*
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### **The First Touch**
The match started at a blistering pace.
Ibukun received the ball near midfield, and before he could even turn, a hulking midfielder—a Brazilian international with twenty caps—closed him down like a freight train.
Ibukun barely managed to flick the ball wide before the tackle came in. The crowd of coaches and scouts murmured.
*"Too slow,"* Jay-Jay muttered. *"These boys ain't Westerlo defenders."*
The next time the ball came his way, Ibukun didn't hesitate.
A quick one-two with the left back, then a darting run into the channel. The right back—a seasoned Premier League veteran—tried to body him off the ball, but Ibukun held firm, rolling his shoulder just enough to shield it before laying off a simple pass.
Not spectacular.
But clean.
Professional.
**>> COMPOSURE +1**
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### **The Moment of Magic**
Second half. The reserves were down 0-1, struggling to break down the first-team defense.
Then—
A loose ball in midfield.
Ibukun pounced.
Two touches to control, then a sweeping diagonal pass that curled over the head of the left back and landed perfectly at the feet of the winger. The cross came in, and—
**GOAL.**
1-1.
The reserves mobbed him, slapping his back, shouting in his ear.
From the sidelines, Jim Lawlor, the scout who had visited him in the hospital, scribbled something in his notebook.
---
### **The Test**
The first team wasn't happy.
The Brazilian midfielder came at Ibukun again, this time with a vicious little stamp disguised as a challenge. Ibukun felt the studs scrape down his shin but didn't flinch.
Instead, he spun away, collected the ball, and drove forward.
A feint left. A drop of the shoulder.
The defender bit hard, and Ibukun was past him, surging toward the box.
The center back stepped up—Ibukun flicked it over his foot, bursting into the space behind.
The keeper rushed out.
Ibukun chipped him.
The ball floated, spinning, dipping—
**GOAL.**
2-1.
For a heartbeat, the training ground fell silent.
Then—chaos.
The reserves erupted. The first-team players scowled.
And from the director's box, a figure in a long coat watched, unmoving.
---
### **The Shadow**
After the match, as Ibukun limped toward the locker room (every muscle screaming), he spotted him.
A man in a dark suit, standing apart from the scouts, his face obscured by the shadow of an umbrella.
Ibukun's skin prickled.
Jay-Jay's hologram flickered, uncharacteristically tense. *"Don't look. Don't react. Just keep walking."*
But the feeling lingered.
Someone was watching.
Really watching.
---
### **The Verdict**
Ibukun didn't have to wait long.
As he sat in the physio's room, ice wrapped around his knees, the door swung open.
Jim Lawlor stepped in, a contract in his hand.
**"Six-month loan. Option to buy. You'll train with the first team, play with the U23s."**
A pause.
**"And if you survive? We'll talk permanent."**
Ibukun took the pen.
Jay-Jay's hologram grinned. *"Welcome to the big leagues, kid."*
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