The locker room fell silent as Vermeer walked in, clipboard tucked under one arm, marker spinning idly in his fingers. The mood was different today—not the usual easygoing chatter that filled the air after regular training sessions. Everyone knew what this meeting meant. Tomorrow, the second string would face Ajax's first string—a match that would decide promotions, demotions, and reputations.
Noah sat in the front row, leaning slightly forward, elbows on his knees. He could still feel the lingering rush of wind from yesterday's bungee jump, the adrenaline from the dares Vermeer had orchestrated to strengthen their bond. For Noah, it had been more than a team-building exercise; it had been a small victory over the safe, risk-averse boy he used to be.
"Good morning," Vermeer said, his tone calm yet cutting through the silence. "Sit down. We need to talk."
Every player sank into their seats. The coach placed the clipboard on the whiteboard stand and drew the outline of a football pitch. "You boys have exceeded expectations in the tournament. Undefeated, strong teamwork, and a much-improved midfield orchestration." His eyes briefly met Noah's. "But tomorrow is different. Tomorrow, you play the first string."
A ripple of nervous energy spread across the room.
Vermeer pointed to the left side of the diagram. "The first string is built differently. They've been together for two years, minimum. They know each other's tendencies, they understand Ajax's principles—fluidity, speed, and relentless pressing. They will punish hesitation. They will punish predictability." His gaze locked on Noah again. "And you, Carter, you'll be their target."
Noah's stomach tightened.
"You've improved—your passing range is better, your rhythm control has grown—but you still hesitate when the lanes collapse. You default to the safe option when pressure mounts. Tomorrow, safe passes will kill you. They'll read it and intercept before you even release the ball. So we're adding a wrinkle: positional rotations. Ali, Jamal, Milan—you'll create vertical and diagonal shifts to stretch their shape. Carter—" Vermeer's voice sharpened, "—you will command those shifts. You don't just pass anymore. You dictate the game."
The coach's marker clacked against the board as he emphasized certain areas. "Their captain, Johan de Vries, will sit in midfield. He's thirty, experienced, calm under pressure, and a natural leader. When he talks, the team moves. When he holds the ball, the tempo bends to his will. And Noah, you're going to go head-to-head with him."
Some of the second-string players exchanged looks; everyone knew Johan's reputation. He wasn't flashy, but he was effective.
Vermeer turned back to Noah. "This is your chance to learn from one of the best in this club. Watch how he communicates. Watch his body language, how he doesn't just pass but directs. There's a reason he wears the armband."
He let that sink in before shifting topics. "Now, tactically, we're introducing three key points." He drew patterns on the board—quick one-touch triangles in the midfield, transition arrows from defense to attack, and a compact pressing shape when they lost possession. "The first string's strength lies in their ability to suffocate space. They force errors, then punish immediately. We counter by moving the ball faster, anticipating pressure before it arrives, and using Carter's passing vision to exploit their forward commitment. Carter, you'll focus on early switches and occasional vertical penetrations to catch their press off balance. That means trusting your reads—and your teammates."
Noah nodded, taking mental notes.
Vermeer capped his marker and faced the room. "And one more thing… Carter, have you considered finding an agent?"
The question hit Noah like a misfired shot. "An… agent?"
"Yes," Vermeer said evenly. "You're not just some academy hopeful anymore. You've proven enough to attract interest. If you're serious about becoming a professional, you need representation. Contracts, opportunities, endorsements—you'll need someone who handles that so you can focus on playing. Start with someone you trust. Talk to your family. Your father, maybe."
Noah nodded, quietly stunned.
"Alright," Vermeer clapped his hands. "Training ground. Now."
The session outside was relentless. Vermeer structured drills designed to mimic the first string's press—compressed spaces, aggressive closing down, forced turnovers. Noah struggled at first, trapped between his old instincts and Vermeer's demand for faster reads. The coach shouted from the sideline: "Think two passes ahead, Carter! Trust your rotation!"
Ali, quick-footed and always vocal, challenged Noah constantly. "I'm here, I'm here!" he shouted, darting into a pocket. Noah hesitated once, then released a perfectly weighted ball between two markers.
"That's it!" Vermeer barked. "Early and decisive!"
The drill shifted to shooting practice. Though Noah's specialty wasn't finishing, Vermeer still wanted him taking attempts. "You're too passive in front of goal," he said. "Midfielders don't score much, but when they do, it changes games. Build the confidence to take shots when the moment's right."
By the end, sweat drenched every player. They huddled, panting, as Vermeer concluded: "Remember tomorrow: this is your audition. You show me you can think faster, play braver, and command your teammates, and some of you will get your promotion. That's not a threat—that's a fact."
That night, Noah sat on his dorm bed, phone in hand. He scrolled to his dad's name and hesitated before pressing call.
"Hey, Noah," his father answered, warm and familiar. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah," Noah said softly. "Just… I wanted to catch up. And I need advice."
He explained Vermeer's talk about agents, the weight of tomorrow's match, the looming duel against Johan de Vries. His father listened, then chuckled. "An agent, huh? Yeah, I've been waiting for this call. When I played, I learned quick—talent gets you noticed, but having the right people in your corner gets you places."
"Where do I even start?" Noah asked.
"You don't go looking for just any agent. You look for the right one. And I think I know someone: Simon Hale, an old teammate of mine. Good man, knows Europe's system well, and he cares about his players. I'll give you his contact.
"Would he even want me? I'm… still in the second string," Noah said, embarrassed.
"That's the best time, son. Build the relationship before everyone's fighting for a piece of you. Trust me—this is about your future, not just next week's game."
Noah smiled faintly. "Thanks, Dad. I'll think about it. Maybe call him after tomorrow
"And Noah?"
"Yeah?"
"Proud of you, son. Doesn't matter if you win or lose tomorrow—what matters is you're growing. That's what this whole thing's about."
Noah hung up, feeling grounded yet restless. He glanced at his notebook, flipping to a blank page, and wrote: Find your voice.