Saturday morning arrived with a grey sky and the smell of rain in the air. Ethan woke up at 6 AM, two hours before he needed to leave. Sleep had been impossible anyway. His mind raced with possibilities, scenarios, outcomes—always three moves ahead.
His mother, Aminata, was already awake in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. She looked up as he entered, her warm brown eyes immediately noticing the tension in his small frame.
"You're nervous," she said. It wasn't a question.
"A little," Ethan admitted, sitting at the worn wooden table.
She set a bowl of cereal in front of him and sat down across from him. "Your father called from work. He wanted me to tell you something."
Ethan looked up.
"He said: 'Talent opens doors, but character keeps them open.' Do you understand?"
Ethan nodded slowly. His father, Moussa, had played amateur football in Ivory Coast before immigrating to France. He understood the game. He understood the pressure. He understood what it took to make it.
"Just be yourself, mon fils," Aminata continued, reaching across to squeeze his hand. "That's all anyone can ask."
But what if being himself was too much? What if the things he could do scared people? What if they thought he was lying or cheating somehow?
He pushed the thoughts away and focused on eating. He needed energy. Needed to be sharp.
The Stade Léo Lagrange in Bondy wasn't much to look at. Cracked concrete stands, a pitch that had seen better days, goals with nets that needed replacing. But for the local youth football club, it was home. It was where dreams began.
Jean-Marc was already there when Ethan arrived, bouncing a ball on his knee. Next to him stood a man in his late forties wearing a dark blue tracksuit with the letters "OL" embroidered on the chest.
Olympique Lyonnais.
Ethan's heart skipped a beat. Lyon was one of the biggest clubs in France. They'd won multiple consecutive Ligue 1 titles. They produced world-class talent.
"Ethan!" Jean-Marc called out. "This is Coach Bernard. He's a scout for Lyon's academy."
Coach Bernard stepped forward, extending his hand. He was tall and lean, with short grey hair and sharp eyes that seemed to analyze everything. "Ethan Loki. I've heard interesting things about you."
Ethan shook his hand, trying to keep his grip firm despite his small size. "Nice to meet you, Coach."
"Jean-Marc tells me you scored seven goals against his team. In twenty minutes." Bernard's expression was neutral, giving nothing away. "That's quite a claim."
"It's true," Jean-Marc interjected. "I've never seen anything like it. The kid sees things before they happen."
Bernard's eyebrow raised slightly. "Sees things? Explain."
Ethan took a breath. Here it was. The moment where he had to put it into words. "When I have the ball, I can see the patterns. Where defenders will move. Where spaces will open. Where the goal is. It's like... like watching a replay of something that hasn't happened yet."
The scout studied him for a long moment. Then he picked up a ball from the ground and placed it at Ethan's feet.
"Show me."
For the next hour, Coach Bernard put Ethan through a series of tests. Dribbling drills. Shooting exercises. One-on-one situations against Jean-Marc and two other older kids who'd shown up. Small-sided games.
Every single test, Ethan excelled.
In the dribbling drill, he navigated through cones with a combination of speed and flair that made it look like dance. His feet seemed to barely touch the ball, yet it remained glued to him, responding to the slightest touch.
In the shooting exercises, he placed fifteen shots in fifteen different spots of the goal. Top left corner. Bottom right. Dead center upper ninety. Each strike was precise, calculated, perfect. When Bernard asked him to shoot with his weaker right foot, Ethan put three consecutive balls in the exact same spot—something even professional players struggled with.
"How do you do that?" Bernard asked, his neutral expression finally cracking into something resembling amazement.
"I see where it needs to go," Ethan replied simply. "And then I just... put it there."
But it was the small-sided game that truly convinced the scout.
Three versus three. Ethan on one team with two fourteen-year-olds. Jean-Marc and two fifteen-year-olds on the other.
The older kids had size, strength, and experience. But Ethan had something else entirely.
He received the ball in the center circle, already mapping out the entire sequence in his mind. The defender would press high. The midfielder would drop to cover. The goalkeeper would cheat to his near post.
Three moves ahead.
Ethan feinted left, and the defender bit hard, committing his weight. In that split second, Ethan dragged the ball right with the outside of his boot—a Lavinho move—and accelerated into space. The midfielder rushed over to cover, but Ethan had already seen it. He flicked the ball through the defender's legs with his heel—a nutmeg so casual it looked disrespectful—and collected it on the other side.
Now it was just him and the goalkeeper. Twenty meters out.
Too far for most seven-year-olds. But not for someone with Gerd Müller's instinct.
Ethan struck the ball with his left foot, keeping it low and hard. The goalkeeper dove, getting a hand to it, but the power was too much. The ball crashed into the back of the net.
"Incroyable," Bernard muttered under his breath.
Ethan scored four more goals in the next fifteen minutes. Each one different. Each one spectacular. A chip from outside the box. A first-time volley from a cross. A solo run from his own half. A bicycle kick that drew gasps from everyone watching.
When the game ended, Bernard called Ethan over. The scout's expression was serious, but there was a light in his eyes that hadn't been there before.
"Ethan, how old are you?"
"Seven. I'll be eight in March."
"And you've never played for an academy? Never had professional coaching?"
"No, Coach. Just street football and school games."
Bernard shook his head slowly, as if processing something incomprehensible. "In twenty-three years of scouting, I've never seen anything like what you just did. The vision, the technique, the finishing—it's like watching three different world-class players merged into one seven-year-old body."
Ethan's heart raced. Was this good? Was this bad?
"I need to speak with your parents," Bernard continued. "Lyon wants to offer you a place in our academy. Immediately. We'll provide transportation, equipment, everything you need. But this is serious, Ethan. If you accept, your life changes. Football becomes your priority. School, friends, free time—everything takes second place to developing your gift."
Ethan looked down at the ball at his feet. This was it. The first real step. The first door opening.
He thought three moves ahead. He saw the academy. He saw the training. He saw himself getting better, faster, stronger.
He saw his future.
"When do I start?" Ethan asked.
Coach Bernard smiled for the first time. "Monday. Welcome to Olympique Lyonnais, Ethan Loki."