The Birmingham City academy training centre, located in Wast Hills, was a fair distance from the main stadium, St Andrews. It was quiet this early in the morning. The sun was just beginning to rise fully, casting a soft light over the grounds. Valen stood at the gates of the Knighthead Training and Academy Ground, taking in a deep breath.
He had been here before, many times, but never like this. This was different. This was his first official day with the under eighteens. No more under sixteens, no more bouncing back and forth between groups. No more excuses. He was here now, in the proper youth team. Not because he had impressed anyone recently, but because he had aged out of the younger category. They needed numbers. And he was available.
Valen ran a hand over his face. He was already late.
His feet moved quickly across the pavement as he headed inside. The training grounds were already coming alive. A few assistant coaches were setting up equipment on the far side of the pitch. Hurdles, cones, rebound walls. A few bibs were laid out in small piles. But there were no players in sight.
That meant the squad was still in the locker room. Probably receiving introductions, maybe a short talk from the coach about expectations and squad roles. It was a common thing every pre-season. Even the ones who had trained with the team in bits and pieces the previous year were formally introduced now.
Valen picked up his pace, moving through the corridors until he reached the entrance to the locker room. He slowed his pace before walking in, hoping not to draw attention. His hopes were immediately dashed.
Everyone was gathered around Coach James, who stood at the front of the room. His voice was loud, clear, and confident.
"Alright, from Nigeria, please give a warm welcome to Samuel Adeyemo. He was the MVP of our Next Gen program which was hosted in Lagos earlier this year. This is his first time in England, so I hope all of you will take care of him."
Valen turned his head and looked at Sam. The boy stood tall, not necessarily imposing, but composed. His expression was neutral, not betraying any nervousness. Valen knew him well. Sam was frighteningly talented. Not just good. Frightening.
What made Sam stand out wasn't his raw talent in one position. It was the fact that he could play in almost every attacking and midfield position. Eight, ten, winger on both flanks, even as a striker. And he did not just play them to fill space. He dominated. The coaches often joked about not knowing his true position anymore. Valen had seen it first-hand.
What made Valen care even more about Sam was the fact that Sam had never treated him like he was broken. Sam was his closest friend, the one who kept pushing him through the worst days. When the knee pain would not go away, when the other lads mocked him behind his back, when training felt like an uphill battle, Sam was always there. Encouraging. Reminding him who he used to be.
"Alright, and last but not least, we have Valen Alarcon."
The coach's voice echoed in the room. Valen straightened. A few chuckles passed through the group. Some of them subtle, others more open. His name still carried the weight of two lost years. Two injuries. One release letter.
Valen kept his face neutral. He looked ahead. He did not flinch. He had already decided what he was going to do this time around.
"He's just come up from the under sixteens and I hope all of you will treat him well as he adapts," James said.
There was no applause. Just a few murmurs. Then James clapped his hands once.
"Alright, let's go out to the pitch. Time to see what you all have."
The players filed out of the locker room, most of them chatting amongst themselves. Valen kept to the back.
When they reached the training pitch, everything was already set. The field was large, marked specifically for training with extended zones for drills. On one side, there were two movable goalposts placed on either end of a smaller pitch that took up about a third of the entire space.
Coach James stood in the middle of the field.
"As I like to say, no one is guaranteed a spot in the starting eleven," he began. "All of you will have to work hard and prove to me whether you have what it takes to be a regular." His eyes scanned the group, then lingered on Valen. "Or whether you are going to be rotting on the bench."
There were a few more quiet laughs.
Valen stared at the coach. He knew what that look meant. It sounded harsh, but it was not hate. He had seen this look before. He had misunderstood it at first. He had thought the coach was being unfair. Picking on him. But the day he was released, the coach had pulled him aside and explained everything.
It was never about breaking him. It was about pushing him. The coach had seen something in him. A spark. Potential. Maybe not the cleanest technique or the flashiest talent, but hunger. A need to win. And so he had prodded. Repeatedly. Sometimes cruelly.
Valen had responded. He had worked harder than anyone. He had pushed through every training session with every ounce of energy in his body. But it was never enough. His body could not keep up.
Now that body was no longer holding him back.
He would not waste it.
"We have quite a number of players here, so I'll be dividing you all into groups of three," James continued. "Each group will be playing direct, fluid, counterattacking football. How you execute that is up to you. This is not about structure. This is about seeing what you can do on the pitch. I need to know what each of you brings. Who can make decisions. Who can create space. Who can read the game."
James paused and looked at the squad.
"Let me be very clear. What you do today does not determine your place forever. Starters can be dropped. Bench players can become leaders. But today gives me the first impression. Make it count."
The players started moving to their assigned areas.
Valen scoffed quietly. He had heard that speech before. He had worked harder than almost everyone else in the group. He stayed behind after training. Came early. Trained alone on weekends. Learned tactics and formations. Watched professional matches and studied positioning. Yet he never got real minutes. Not even off the bench. He had been a warm body for training drills. A cone with a pulse.
Not anymore.
His body was ready. His mind was clearer than ever. He had been given a chance. He would not waste it. He was going to carve a clear path for himself. Every decision. Every movement. Every play. He was going to make them count.
This was not about getting revenge. It was about proving to himself that he was not a mistake. That the years of pain and recovery had not been in vain. That the love he had for the game was not just a childish dream.
It was real. And now he had the tools to live it.
He jogged toward his assigned group, eyes focused and breath steady. The noise around him faded. There was only the ball. The pitch. And the goal ahead.