Three weeks.
That's how long it had been since Noah was told he wouldn't be training with the first string anymore. At first, it had felt like punishment, like a step backward—but time had a strange way of reframing things.
In those three weeks, his life had become a cycle of small, deliberate changes. Early mornings spent in the gym with Lars's quiet advice on strength work. Afternoons hammering shooting technique under Vermeer's orders—stationary drills, then movement drills, then weighted vest drills. Evenings studying matches, where he finally started looking beyond highlight reels to full tactical breakdowns.
On off days, Noah's phone calls home became his anchor. His mother always asked the same question: "Are you eating properly?" and he always answered the same way: "Yeah, Mom, I'm fine." But deep down, he wasn't just surviving anymore. He was adapting.
He even started reading about Andrés Iniesta—not just as a fan, but as a student of the game. He'd known Iniesta was special, sure, but digging deeper opened his eyes: the way the man manipulated tempo, how he froze defenders with just a shift of his body, how he played passes not into feet, but into futures. Noah had never seen football like that before, and for the first time, he began to think… maybe I could try to play like that.
The second string had its own rhythm. Fewer polished drills, more chaos. Fewer perfect first touches, more raw determination. The first time Noah stepped on the pitch with them, they had looked at him like an outsider—a neat passer dropped into a street fight. But three weeks later, something had changed.
Week One:
Noah had been a ghost, delivering safe passes while Ali yelled at him for "hiding behind easy choices." Lars hadn't said much, but his occasional disappointed looks cut deeper than words. Noah had left training frustrated, fingers clenching around the straps of his bag as he thought about Vermeer's words: "You're not here to play safe anymore." That night, he stayed in the indoor facility, hitting ball after ball from outside the box, legs shaking by the end.
Week Two:
His passing sharpened. Ali still teased him, but he'd started to call for the ball more often—a silent form of respect. Lars finally spoke during a post-session stretch: "You're improving. Keep your head up." The Console even registered slight growth in vision calibration, reinforcing what Noah already felt: he was reading the game better, trusting himself a bit more.
Week Three:
The drills intensified. Vermeer had him doing shooting repetitions with a resistance band around his waist and weighted sandbags strapped to his ankles. He still wasn't scoring from distance, but his attempts looked less panicked. Ali had stopped mocking him outright and started shouting tactical cues instead, like he actually wanted him to succeed. The atmosphere in the locker room shifted too—less like a stranger finding his way, more like… a teammate.
Now, three weeks later, Noah stood on the practice pitch tying his boots as sunlight glinted off the dew-coated grass. The team jogged through warm-ups, banter flying in every direction.
Ali Moussa, the ever-smirking striker, called out, "Yo, Carter! You ready to finally pass me the ball where I don't have to break my spine reaching for it?"
Noah rolled his eyes but smiled faintly. "Depends, you planning to stay onside today?"
Ali grinned, unbothered. "Offside is a mindset, my guy."
Behind them, Lars Koopman methodically stretched, his calm presence grounding the group. "Focus on your touch, Carter. If you hesitate, the press eats you alive."
"Got it," Noah said, adjusting his shin guards.
Coach Vermeer walked in, whistle and clipboard in hand. "Scrimmage today. Two thirty-five-minute halves. Full intensity." His eyes landed squarely on Noah. "And Carter… stop playing safe. Own the pitch."
Noah took a breath, nodding. He wasn't the same player he'd been three weeks ago—and this was his chance to prove it.
The whistle blew. The scrimmage burst to life.
The second string's style was messy but fearless, built on raw energy. Noah hesitated on his first touch—just a flicker of the old habit—but shook it off quickly, zipping a pass forward to Jens on the wing. Jens gave it right back, and Noah looked up to see Ali already making his trademark diagonal run.
Normally, he would've recycled it backwards. This time, he took one extra step forward, lifted his head, and bent a perfectly weighted ball between two midfielders into Ali's path.
Ali latched on, hit it low, and forced a diving save from Stefan, the keeper.
"Better!" Ali shouted. "That's what I'm talking about!"
Noah smiled slightly, jogging back into position.
Over the next twenty minutes, the game settled into rhythm. Noah's passing confidence was clearer than ever: he was threading riskier balls, hitting switches of play that he wouldn't have dared weeks ago, and occasionally carrying the ball himself. His shooting attempts? Still clumsy—one skied over, another trickled harmlessly wide—but he no longer froze when the opportunity arose.
[Football Vision Console Online]
Skill Adjustment Logged
Weighted Passing → Lv2 (Stable)
Spatial Awareness → Lv2 (Reinforced)
La Pausa → Lv1 (Stable)
Note: Shooting mechanics remain unaffected by current configuration.
Noah almost laughed. Yeah, no shortcuts there.
Ali's personality lit up the field. Every time Noah threaded a pass, Ali made sure to comment. "That's money, maestro!" after one ball. "Do it again, Carter!" after another. For all his arrogance, there was something infectious about Ali's energy—it made you want to feed him chances.
Lars was quieter, but his leadership was undeniable. He marshaled the back line like a seasoned pro, barking simple but effective commands: "Shift left!" "Cover middle!" "No gaps, boys!" Noah could see why Vermeer liked him; he was the kind of player who made chaos survivable.
By halftime, Noah had already notched one assist: a clever little disguised pass that split two markers, leaving Ali free to slot home. Another play had started with Noah dragging defenders before slipping the ball to Jens, who created a rebound goal.
The second half was even messier, but Noah's involvement never faded. He tried five shots in total—not great ones, but shots nonetheless. None found the net, but each attempt felt easier than the last. The fear of failure was loosening its grip.
When the final whistle blew, the second string had won 3–2. Ali scored twice, Jens once, and Lars had racked up enough defensive stops to warrant quiet applause.
Vermeer clapped his hands together. "Plenty of mistakes today. But… progress. Carter, that's more like it. Keep playing like that, and we'll have something to work with."
Noah nodded, sweat dripping down his face. He wasn't close to perfect, but for the first time since joining Ajax, he felt like he belonged.
That evening, after a quick shower and dinner, Noah sat in his dorm, rubbing sore calves as the Console hummed faintly:
[Football Vision Console Update]
Skill Progression:
Weighted Passing → Lv2 (Stable)
Spatial Awareness → Lv2 (Reinforced)
La Pausa → Lv1 (Stable)
Physical Adaptation:
Balance Control +2%
Lower Body Stability +3%
Emotional Tag: Confidence trajectory: Upward
There was a knock on the door. Ali leaned in, wearing a casual hoodie. "You did good today, maestro. You keep passing like that, I might stop roasting you."
Lars stood behind him, arms crossed but with a rare small smile. "You're starting to trust yourself. Keep that up."
Noah chuckled. "Thanks, guys."
Ali shrugged. "Don't get too comfortable. Next week, I'm scoring three, and you're setting up every single one."
Noah laughed, shaking his head. Three weeks ago, he'd have dreaded that kind of expectation. Now? He almost welcomed it.
For the first time, he felt like he wasn't just filling a spot—he was building one.