Sleep was a foreign country Armani couldn't visit. He spent the night in a restless limbo, his mind replaying a highlight reel of every mistake he'd made on the field. The missed pass, the botched first touch, the way Marcus had sent him tumbling into the dust. Each error felt magnified, a glaring reason for his name to be omitted from the list.
But then he'd cling to the other moments. The blur of the fifty-yard dash. The satisfying *swish* of the ball through the cones. The perfect, net-bulging *thwup* of his goal. And, most of all, Coach Reynolds's words. *"Speed is a gift. Don't waste it."* The words were a mantra, a fragile life raft in a sea of doubt.
The first pale light of dawn was just creeping through his window when he gave up on sleep entirely. He dressed silently, the Cornwall College jersey feeling heavier than it had yesterday, like it already carried the weight of expectation. He crept past the room where his mother's soft, even breathing signaled a peace he desperately envied, and slipped out the front door.
The world was still asleep. Montego Bay was hushed, the air cool and carrying the sweet, damp smell of morning. The usual frantic energy of the city was dormant, replaced by a quiet that seemed to amplify the pounding of his own heart. He walked the familiar route to school, his new boots—now officially christened with dust and blood—scuffing against the pavement in a rhythm that matched his anxious thoughts.
He was the first one there.
The school grounds were deserted, the massive, historic buildings of Cornwall College looking imposing and silent. His destination was the bulletin board outside the Physical Education office. It was a simple corkboard, usually cluttered with notices about exams, club meetings, and lost property. Today, it would hold his future.
He couldn't look. Not yet.
He paced in front of the empty board, the minutes stretching like taffy. What if his name wasn't there? What would he do? Football wasn't just a hobby; it had become the central pillar of everything he wanted to be. Without it, he was just another boy in Montego Bay, his dream shrinking back to something he only watched on a screen.
"Yuh gwine wear out the pavement, or yuh gwine look?"
Armani jumped. Kofi was leaning against the gate, already grinning, a sugar bun in one hand. How did he always appear so effortlessly calm?
"Kofi! Wha' time yuh call dis? How yuh so… awake?"
"Mi brain nuh play tricks on me like yours," Kofi said, striding over. "Mi know mi make the team. Simple. Marcus might get captaincy, but mi tackle was cleaner. Mi pass was sharper. And mi…" He puffed out his chest. "Mi handsomer."
Armani couldn't help but laugh, the tension breaking for a precious second. "Yuh a fool."
"True. But look, Armani. It done already. The list write. Staring at the board won't change it. So mek we look."
Armani took a deep, shuddering breath. He nodded. Together, they turned to face the corkboard.
There, in the center, was a fresh, white sheet of paper. The heading, typed in bold, read: **CORNWALL COLLEGE FIRST XI FOOTBALL SQUAD - THE NEW BOYS.**
His eyes scanned the list. It wasn't in alphabetical order. It was just a list of names.
* David Thompson (Goalkeeper)
* Ricardo Brown (Defender)
* Kofi Jones (Defender)
* Shemar Davis (Midfielder)
* …the names blurred…
His heart hammered. He saw Kofi's name. His friend let out a low, triumphant "Yes!" and punched the air.
Armani's eyes, frantic now, scanned faster. He didn't see his name. The world began to tilt. The hope he'd been clinging to evaporated, leaving a cold, hollow emptiness in his chest. He'd failed. It was over before it even—
Then he saw it.
At the very bottom of the list, as if it were an afterthought, a final addition squeezed into the space:
* Armani Wilson (Forward)
For a full three seconds, he didn't breathe. He just stared, making sure his eyes weren't playing a cruel trick on him. W-I-L-S-O-N.
"YES!!" The scream was torn from his lungs, a raw, explosive sound that shattered the morning quiet. He grabbed Kofi by the shoulders, shaking him. "Kofi! Mi see it? A mi? It right?!"
Kofi's grin was wider than the Mona Lisa's. "Is so it go! Mi tell yuh! The Reggae Red dem haffi come fi yuh one day! Forward! See it deh!" He pointed at the position listed beside Armani's name. Forward. A goalscorer. His position.
The euphoria was a physical wave, warming him from the inside out. He'd done it. He was a Cornwall Colt. He was on the team.
The moment was interrupted by the arrival of other boys, their faces a mixture of hope and dread. They crowded around the board. There were more shouts of joy, but also the quiet, devastating sounds of disappointment—a low curse, a kicked stone, a boy turning away with his shoulders slumped. Armani's joy was tempered slightly. He knew some of these boys. They were good. But there were only so many spots.
He understood, for the first time, that this journey was paved with the dreams of others you had to surpass.
"Alright, alright, cool down the noise! Some of us are trying to sleep!"
The voice was laced with a lazy arrogance. Marcus and two of his friends sauntered up to the board. They didn't look anxious. They looked entitled. Marcus scanned the list, found his name—of course, it was there—and gave a slight, approving nod. Then his eyes drifted down and landed on Armani and Kofi.
"Jones. Wilson," he said, his tone flat. "Congratulations. I see they're letting anyone on the squad these days."
Kofi puffed out his chest, ready to retort, but Armani put a hand on his arm. He didn't want trouble. Not today.
Marcus's eyes lingered on the bandage on Armani's elbow. A smirk played on his lips. "Better get used to that, *Forward*. The DaCosta Cup nuh friendly. Defender dem will eat yuh alive if all yuh have is a little speed."
He didn't wait for a response, turning and walking away with his crew.
The euphoria from moments before had cooled, replaced by a new, steely determination. Marcus was right. Making the team wasn't the end. It was the very beginning of a much harder fight. A fight for respect, for a starting position, for a chance to prove he belonged.
The first team meeting was at 3 PM sharp in the locker room. The room smelled of old sweat, disinfectant, and leather—the smell of history. The walls were lined with photos of past teams, plaques commemoring DaCosta Cup and Ben Francis Cup victories. Legends in black and white stared down at them.
Coach Reynolds stood before them, no longer just an evaluator but their leader.
"Look around," his voice echoed in the tiled room. "You see those faces? Those trophies? That is the legacy of Cornwall College. That is the standard. You have the privilege of wearing this badge." He pointed to the crest on his own shirt. "It is not a privilege given lightly. It is earned. Every day. On this field, in the classroom, in the community. You represent something bigger than yourselves."
His gaze swept over the twenty-two boys, lingering for a fraction of a second on each new face.
"Making this team means nothing. *Staying* on this team means everything. Your spot is not guaranteed. It is leased. And the rent is due every single day at practice. We have one goal this season. One." He paused, letting the silence hang. "To win the DaCosta Cup. Anything less is failure. Is that understood?"
A chorus of "Yes, Coach!" rang out.
"Good. Your training regimen is on the board. Be on time. Be prepared. Be ready to work. First practice is tomorrow. Dismissed."
As the meeting broke up, the assistant coach handed out training schedules. Armani looked at his. It was brutal. Running, weight training, tactical sessions, film study. It was a colossal commitment on top of his schoolwork.
He was about to leave when Coach Reynolds called his name.
"Wilson. A word."
Armani's stomach clenched. Had he already done something wrong?
Coach Reynolds waited until the others had filtered out. "Your speed. It's your weapon. But a weapon is useless if you don't know how to use it. Or when to use it." He pointed a finger at him. "I don't want to see you just running past boys in practice. I want to see you thinking. I want to see you listening. Understand?"
"Yes, Coach."
"And see the physio about that elbow. I need you healthy, not tough."
"Yes, Coach. Thank you, Coach."
He walked out of the locker room, the schedule clutched in his hand like a treasure map. The sun was high now, baking the field where his dream had just officially begun. It felt different. The field wasn't just a patch of grass anymore; it was a proving ground. The jersey wasn't just a shirt; it was armor.
Kofi was waiting for him. "Wha him want? Him change him mind?"
"No," Armani said, a slow smile spreading across his face. He looked at the endless blue Jamaican sky, then down at the schedule in his hand. The work started tomorrow. The rent was due.
"He just reminded me that making the team was the easy part."