The locker room was louder than usual. Cleats tapping against tile, chatter bouncing from wall to wall, and the faint hiss of air from the vents above. Even with all that noise, I could hear the steady rhythm of my heartbeat.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
My name wasn't on the youth roster anymore.
That thought hadn't fully settled yet.
This was the first team.
No more whispers of "the new kid from the academy."
No more friendly nods from old teammates.
I sat in front of the mirror, hands laced together, staring at the reflection of a boy who was still trying to believe he belonged here.
The locker room door opened, and Coach Leonardo Rossi stepped in — tall, calm, and sharp-eyed. Even without the whistle around his neck, he carried an aura that silenced the room instantly. The man once called the Midfield King during his playing days still moved like he was dictating tempo, even when walking.
"Listen up," he said, voice deep and steady. "Today's not a match. It's a mirror. You'll see where you stand. You'll see who you trust."
He pointed at the board.
Two squads. Yellow Vests vs Red Vests.
I glanced at the list.
My name sat under Yellow Vest – Left Wing.
Opposite me, on the Red side, was Nicolo Bernardi, the first-team's current left winger — quick, confident, and known for his low drives into the box. Facing him felt less like competition and more like stepping into a storm.
Rossi's tone softened slightly. "No one plays safe today. I want risk, instinct, and intelligence. If you're afraid to lose possession, you'll never control the rhythm."
He looked directly at me for half a second.
I don't know if it was deliberate — but it felt like it.
When he walked out, the room erupted again. Players slipped on jerseys, tightened laces, stretched. My body followed automatically, but my mind was already somewhere else — out there, on the field.
---
Kickoff
The sun hung low, painting the pitch with streaks of gold and shadow. The air was cold enough to sting when I breathed too hard.
I rolled my shoulders, adjusting my yellow vest. My heart raced, but beneath that anxiety was something steadier — focus.
Rossi stood at the halfway line, arms crossed, watching both teams take position.
A sharp whistle cut the air.
The scrimmage began.
The ball zipped through midfield, controlled chaos from the start. Both sides pressed high — no space, no time.
"Han! Inside!" shouted Matteo, our center-mid.
I darted inward, letting the pass slide across my body. The Red Vest right-back lunged forward, too aggressive. My left foot cushioned the ball; my right guided it away. A small space opened.
I drove forward.
A shadow closed in from behind — Nicolo.
Fast. Too fast.
I could feel his steps syncing with mine, a rhythm clashing against my tempo. I feinted left, then rolled the ball across with the outside of my boot, slipping through the narrow channel between him and the defender.
The crowd on the sideline — mostly staff and substitutes — let out a low murmur.
I didn't need applause. Just rhythm.
Keep moving. Keep feeling the tempo.
I spotted our striker cutting between center-backs. The angle was tight, but I slipped a pass through anyway. It skimmed past the defender's boot — perfectly weighted.
The shot came, sharp and direct —
Saved.
The keeper parried, and the Red Vests cleared it immediately.
Rossi's voice cut through the echo: "Good tempo, Han! But follow through the play!"
He was right. I'd hesitated after the pass — a fraction too long, watching instead of reacting.
Lesson learned.
---
Midfield War
Ten minutes later, both sides had settled. Possession was even, but the Reds were more fluid. Their midfield moved like a unit — one touch, two touch, open lanes everywhere.
Matteo looked frustrated beside me. "We're getting overrun in the middle."
"Then let's flip it," I said.
He blinked. "Flip what?"
"Our rhythm. They're expecting short passes. Let's stretch it. Pull their lines apart."
He gave me a quick nod. "Try it."
Next sequence — I dropped deeper, collecting the ball near halfway. The Red midfield pressed high again. Instead of dribbling, I launched a long diagonal toward the far side. Our right winger chased, catching it before the full-back.
Within seconds, space opened.
Now we had control.
Rossi clapped once, sharp and approving. "Good adjustment!"
The game shifted. Every time the Reds tightened their shape, we stretched them again. Every time they relaxed, we pressed. It wasn't perfect — but it was thinking football.
And for the first time since arriving, I felt something click.
That invisible connection between instinct and control.
Still, the fatigue crept in fast. First-team tempo was heavier, faster — like playing under constant wind.
---
Rossi's Eyes
Half-time pause.
Rossi called both teams over.
His eyes scanned each face before landing on me again. "Han," he said, "you've got vision, but you hesitate when you play the third pass. Why?"
I wiped sweat from my forehead. "Because I'm still… measuring timing, sir."
"Timing is earned through trust," Rossi replied. "Not calculation. You can't refine tempo alone — it has to flow through others. Understand?"
I nodded.
But his words hit deeper than I expected.
Trust.
The one thing I'd been holding back since stepping up.
Maybe I still saw them as strangers — older players, seasoned, rough. I'd been relying on precision instead of connection.
As we jogged back out, I caught Matteo's gaze. He grinned. "You heard the boss — trust me next time."
"Don't make me regret it," I said, half-smiling.
---
Second Half – The Test
Kickoff again.
The Reds came harder this time — high press, faster transitions.
It was chaos.
But Rossi wanted chaos.
Ball to me on the flank — defender tight, Nicolo closing from behind.
I could feel the weight of the moment.
Instinct said cut inside. Logic said pass back.
But then — Rossi's words echoed again.
Trust.
I flicked the ball down the line to our right-back overlapping behind me. Instant give-and-go. I sprinted inward, expecting the return.
He sent it perfectly.
In one motion, I received, twisted, and released a through ball into the box.
Matteo burst through, shooting low —
Goal.
The whistle blew, signaling restart.
Rossi didn't smile, but I saw the small nod.
That was enough.
---
Final Whistle
By the time Rossi ended the session, the score was 1–1. Nobody celebrated. Everyone was exhausted — jerseys clinging, breaths heavy, minds drained.
But there was something electric in the air. A quiet, collective awareness that this was more than training. It was the first glimpse of identity — how each of us fit into Rossi's tempo.
He called everyone in for the final talk.
"Good work," he said. "You all played like professionals today. Mistakes are part of rhythm — what matters is how you adjust. And some of you…"
His gaze flicked to me for a split second. "…are starting to understand what real tempo control feels like."
He dismissed us, but as everyone headed toward the tunnel, Rossi stopped me.
"Han," he said quietly. "You played well. Don't rush growth. Let the rhythm settle before you chase the next beat."
I nodded. "Yes, coach."
He smiled faintly. "Welcome to the real game."
---
[Status Screen]
Name: Jaeven Moretti Han
Age: 16
Team: Virtus Lombardia – First Team
Position: LW/SS
Technique: 50 – Control approaching elite youth level
Dribbling: 50 – Sharp and unpredictable
Vision: 60 – Expanding rapidly due to Tempo Instinct
Speed: 60 – Mentally amplified through timing control
Stamina: 69 (B+) – Physical body lagging behind mental capacity
Mental Strength: 70 – Neural endurance under prolonged focus
---
That night, as I sat in the dorm room staring at the ceiling, my muscles throbbed but my mind buzzed.
Rossi's words replayed again and again.
"Trust creates rhythm."
I realized something simple but powerful —
For all my solo training, all the mental drills, all the precision — football was never meant to be fought alone.
Tempo wasn't just movement.
It was connection.
And for the first time since joining Virtus Lombardia, I felt like I was starting to belong.
---