The morning sun filtered weakly through the dormitory window when Noah woke, muscles still heavy from yesterday's match. The soreness in his legs was a reminder of how hard he'd pushed himself, of how much had changed in just a few weeks. For once, it didn't feel like the pain of failure—it felt like growth.
Later that day, Vermeer summoned the second-string squad to the film room, its walls lined with tactical diagrams and decades of team photographs. Noah filed in with the rest of his teammates, carrying his training bag and an uneasy anticipation. Vermeer stood at the front, arms folded, eyes sweeping over the group.
"Yesterday was good," Vermeer began, voice even, "but good doesn't win tournaments. Good doesn't earn first-string promotions. Yesterday's first half showed me why you're here in the second string. The second half showed me why you might not stay here long—if you keep pushing."
A highlight reel flashed on the screen behind him: mis-timed tackles, safe back-passes, and moments where hesitation left open space unused. Then it shifted to the second half, showing Noah's decisive passes and their breakthrough goal.
Vermeer paused the video and turned to face the players. "Improvement is good. But improvement doesn't mean we're ready. Noah, especially—you had a great moment yesterday, but moments don't define a midfielder. Command does. And right now, our midfield is reactive, not commanding."
He let the words hang, then walked toward the whiteboard and began sketching Bayer Leverkusen's shape: a compact 4-2-3-1, with their attacking midfield pressing high and their fullbacks pushing aggressively. "They'll try to choke the middle tomorrow. Their double pivot is one of the best you'll face in this tournament. If you let them dictate tempo, we're done."
The room quieted. Everyone knew what that meant. Leverkusen was unbeaten so far.
"We counter them by doing three things," Vermeer continued. "First, compact defensive shape when we lose the ball—transition immediately, no lazy tracking. Second, quicker outlet passes—use our wingers' pace. Third…" He glanced toward Noah. "…we control the midfield like it's ours. No panic. No hesitation. Command."
He walked along the rows of seats, stopping at each player. To Ali, the aggressive fullback: "I need you sharp on their winger. He's fast but predictable—bait him inside, then cut the lane." To Jasper, the goalkeeper: "Watch their striker's near-post runs. He's clever, but he telegraphs his shots if you look close enough." One by one, he gave personal advice to every player, not in generalities, but clear tasks, each one sharp and deliberate.
When he stopped in front of Noah, the room seemed to hold its breath. "Carter," Vermeer said, "tomorrow isn't just another game. It's the last of the group stage. For some of you, maybe your last shot to prove you belong in this squad next season. I want you to run the midfield tomorrow like it's your battlefield. Picture this: you're the general. Every pass you make is an order. Every run you direct is part of a plan. If someone is out of position, command them into place. If we break, you set the pace. If we're pressed, you dictate the escape. Can you do that?"
Noah hesitated only for a second before answering, "Yes, sir. I can."
"Prove it now," Vermeer said, pulling out a tactical board. He quickly sketched Ajax's shape, placing magnetic pieces where Noah's teammates would be. "Show me how you'd break Leverkusen's press."
Noah took a deep breath and started moving the pieces. "We pull their midfield higher with early short combinations, then bait their fullbacks by rotating possession toward one side. Once they overcommit, we switch to the opposite wing. That gives our winger space to cut in, pulling one pivot out of position. From there…" He moved a piece toward the box. "…we exploit the gap they leave in the half-space."
Vermeer nodded slowly. "And if they collapse the middle?"
"Spread the play, quick touch out wide, recycle and reset. We can't panic—we make them chase until a lane opens."
For the first time, Vermeer smiled. "Good. That's your test. You think on your feet tomorrow like you just did here, and we might have something. Remember—midfielders aren't assistants. They're conductors. Everyone else plays their instruments. You write the music."
Noah carried those words with him long after training ended. That night, lying in bed, he stared at the ceiling while the dorm lights dimmed. The idea of being a "general," of giving orders on the pitch instead of just delivering passes, weighed on him in a way he hadn't felt before.
He thought back to his old self—the one who avoided mistakes by avoiding risk. The one who thought a midfielder's job was to make safe choices and let others take responsibility. That player couldn't survive tomorrow.
For the first time, Noah understood why midfielders were called maestros. It wasn't just about being creative. It was about control, leadership, and shaping the game around their vision.
When he finally closed his eyes, it was with an odd calm. Tomorrow wasn't just another match. It was proof of whether he could be that kind of player—or not.