The whistle blew again, sharper this time.
The boys jogged back onto the pitch from where they had taken their short break. Coaches were adjusting cones and markers along a length of the field. Russell recognized what it was immediately, sprint tracks, laid out for timed runs. There were markers at thirty meters and fifty meters.
"Alright, lads," one of the coaches shouted, "We are moving into the physical assessment phase. Sprint work, agility, power testing. Do not try to cheat the lines, we are tracking your times with laser gates and clipboards. Do your best. That is all you can control."
Russell's group, Group B, was lined up near the first sprint gate.
He bounced lightly on his toes, keeping his calves loose. He felt sharp. His legs were still warm from earlier. And sprinting, sprinting was something he was good at. He knew that.
Still, he did not let the thought take up too much space. Every time he got too confident, his focus slipped. He needed to stay inside the moment, one step at a time.
"First three. Step up."
Russell moved forward with two other boys. The coach raised his arm. "Thirty meters. Go on the beep."
The moment came.
Beep.
Russell exploded forward. His arms pumped. His strides were clean, long, strong. He did not glance sideways. He did not need to. When he passed the final cone, he slowed down and turned.
A staff member held a stopwatch. "Hayes, seventeen, quickest."
He nodded silently and jogged back to the group.
They ran the same sprint a few more times. Thirty meters. Then fifty. Each time, Russell was either first or tied for first. He did not look around to see how the others were reacting. He did not celebrate. But he did notice something, a few scouts who had been watching the group from a distance were now pointing toward him, speaking quietly, one of them writing something down.
That did not make him relax.
If anything, it made him more alert.
The sprints wrapped up and the groups rotated. Russell moved to the agility station, a series of cones arranged for shuttle runs and quick footwork drills. He watched the boy in front of him fumble slightly on a turn, then took his position.
Feet low. Centre of gravity tight. Do not waste movement.
The whistle blew.
Russell dashed forward, cut left, right, backpedaled, drove through the gate. His time was decent. Not first. But smooth, clean, and balanced.
Then came the jump tests. They were measuring vertical leap. Some players had explosive power. Russell's was fine, not bad, not top tier. But he was not here to win that test.
Stay level, he reminded himself. Do not let one part of the trial change the way you approach the rest.
After the agility and jump stations, the boys were given another short break. Water bottles clinked. Sweat glistened on foreheads. Some dropped onto the grass, stretching their hamstrings. The sun had fully arrived now. Warmth coated everything.
Russell walked off toward the corner of the pitch and sat on the ground again, sipping slowly from his bottle. His breathing was under control. His legs were slightly heavy, but manageable. What started to press into his thoughts now was what came next.
Technique.
That would be where everything counted. Sprinting could turn heads. But technique built careers.
He looked around for Alexis. No sign of him. Maybe he was on a different rotation.
So Russell sat alone again, mind narrowing in. What would they run them through? Ball control? Small-sided patterns? Would they be judged on every touch or on creativity?
He did not know. But he was ready.
Ten minutes later, another coach clapped his hands. "Right. Everyone up. Group B, you are on Pitch Two. Follow me."
Russell stood and joined the movement.
Pitch Two was set up with cones, mini-goals, mannequins, and two fenced sections for rondos and one versus one duels. The setup told him everything he needed to know.
They were going to be tested now. Real technique. Real pressure.
The group was split again. Russell went straight into the one versus one area first. The setup was simple, one attacker, one defender, try to beat the other and score in a small net.
Russell started off defending.
The boy opposite him was fast, tried a feint and quick touch past him. Russell read it, shifted across, and poked the ball away with the inside of his boot. Clean.
Next round, he was attacking.
Ball at his feet. Defender flat-footed. He dropped his shoulder, pushed off left, then shifted the ball right and accelerated past. His shot was hard and low. Into the net.
He did not react. Just walked back, reset, and got in line again.
They rotated players in and out. Russell won his duels. Every time he had the ball, he looked to be direct. Not reckless, direct. He did not dribble for the sake of it. Only when the defender showed the wrong angle.
After twenty minutes, they rotated stations again. He moved into the passing and first touch drills. Coaches fired passes at different angles. Players had to receive and redirect under light pressure. There were time limits, target cones, and a judge on every turn.
Russell did not overthink.
Open body shape. Take with the back foot. Cushion. Set. Move.
Every drill felt natural. Like training back home. Like doing it a hundred times in the back garden when no one was watching. His first touches stuck. His passes were sharp.
From there, they shifted again, small rondos. Keep-ball games, tight space, three-touch maximum.
Russell thrived. His awareness was dialed in. He moved into space before the pass even came. He anticipated pressure, did not get caught on the ball, and rotated cleanly.
The last technique station was finishing.
They were given reps, volleys from a cross, headers from a looped ball, first-time shots from the top of the box.
Russell's striking was crisp. He did not try to hit everything with power. He focused on timing, direction. He connected cleanly on volleys. He directed headers with purpose. His weaker foot was not flawless, but he trusted it. He scored on most of his reps. He heard one coach mutter, "Nice," after a left-footed finish.
He walked off the final station without speaking to anyone. But in his chest, a steady rhythm pulsed. Not adrenaline. Focus. A kind of quiet fire.
Once all groups had finished, the players were called to gather again in front of the academy manager. Russell wiped his forehead and joined the semi-circle forming around him.
The manager stood tall, hands behind his back.
"You have done well," he said plainly. "Some of you showed intelligence. Others showed good physical tools. Some of you have clearly worked hard at your technique. That is good."
A pause.
"But football is not played in drills."
Russell's ears sharpened.
"It is played in matches. In chaos. In structure. In movement. When you are tired. When someone is shouting. When you do not get the ball for ten minutes and then suddenly you have to be perfect. That is what matters."
No one moved.
"The final stage is match play. We are dividing you into elevens. You will be given bibs and positions. Some of you might play slightly out of position. That is not a mistake. That is a test. Adapt. Use what you have. Do not hide."
Russell's pulse ticked up slightly. He felt the tension shift in the group.
"This is where you show us everything. Because it is not about the cleanest first touch. It is about what you do when the game starts moving."
The manager stepped back and nodded to the staff.
"You have got fifteen minutes to rest. Hydrate. Prepare."
The players dispersed.
Russell walked back toward the bench quietly, every part of him alive now. He did not know where he would be played. He did not know who would be on his team. But one thing was clear.
Now it was real.
And he was ready for it.