Joey never really put effort into anything.
Thats why when he did, it felt awkward.
Joey noticed it first in class. Not motivation—just… resistance. He caught himself drifting and forced his eyes back to the board. When his hand reached for his phone, he stopped. When he felt the urge to give up halfway through an assignment, he finished it anyway. Not well. Just finished.
That alone felt exhausting.
Weekend classes didn't suddenly become easier either. If anything, they felt longer. The work piled up faster than his confidence could keep pace with it. There were days he left the classroom with his head pounding, convinced he hadn't improved at all.
Layla helped. Not constantly. Not gently.
She corrected him when he was wrong. Pointed out when he was slacking. Occasionally slid her notes across the desk without a word when she noticed him struggling.
Sometimes she didn't say anything at all—just glanced at his paper, nodded once, and went back to her own work.
Strangely, that mattered.
Weeks passed.
His grades didn't skyrocket. They stabilized. The red marks stopped bleeding across his papers. Failing turned into passing. Passing turned into… average.
It wasn't impressive.
But it was enough.
One afternoon, a teacher called him aside—not with concern this time, but confirmation.
"You're improving," they said. "Keep this up, and the extra classes won't be mandatory anymore."
Joey nodded, trying not to react too much.
Inside, something settled.
When the weekend classes became optional, it felt unreal. He still showed up sometimes—out of habit, or stubbornness—but leaving early felt like proof. Like evidence.
The work had done something.
So he went back to football.
The field felt smaller than he remembered. Louder. Faster. The team had changed while he'd been gone—new faces, younger players, sharper movements. When the coach read the roster, Joey's name didn't land where he expected.
Reserves.
Not the bench.
Reserves watched from farther away.
The juniors were good. Really good. Quick, aggressive, hungry. Joey felt it immediately—every mistake stood out, every hesitation punished.
For a moment, doubt crept back in.
But he stayed.
He ran drills until his legs burned. Showed up early. Stayed late. Repeated movements until they stopped feeling wrong. He wasn't better than anyone—but he was there, every day, pushing.
People noticed.
Not praise. Just comments.
"Did Joey always train this hard?"
"He's been showing up a lot lately."
"Didn't think he had it in him."
Each one stuck.
In his head, Joey didn't think about Anita. Not directly. He thought about Layla's words. About effort placed where it couldn't be ignored.
Some days, it felt pointless. Others, it felt like momentum.
Then one evening, the coach stopped him after practice.
"Stay sharp," he said. "You're improving."
It wasn't a promise.
But it was something.
The next match, Joey's name was called.
Bench.
He sat there, heart pounding, cleats pressed into the turf, watching the game unfold. It wasn't the field—but it was closer than he'd ever been.
And this time, he knew exactly how long it had taken to get there.
Layla found him afterward, leaning against the fence.
"Heard you made bench," she said casually.
Joey nodded. "Yeah."
"You know you're basically back where you started, right?"
Joey blinked at her. "What?"
She leaned against the railing near the field, watching the team warm up. "Before all this, you were average. Now you're average again." She glanced at him. "The difference is—you worked to get back here."
He didn't know whether to feel insulted or proud.
"From here," she added, quieter, "this is where effort actually matters."
He didn't argue.
As he walked home that night, legs aching, mind tired, Joey thought about how none of this felt sudden. Nothing had clicked into place. Nothing had changed overnight.
But something was moving.
Slowly.
*********
The weeks after that blurred together.
Joey trained harder than he ever had. Not recklessly—just consistently. Early mornings. Late afternoons. Drills until his legs shook. Reviewing plays, fixing mistakes, forcing himself to stay present even when doubt crept in.
He stayed on the bench.
Not reserves. Not starters.
The bench.
Good enough to be trusted. Not good enough to be relied on.
Game after game, he watched from the sidelines. Sometimes he warmed up and never got called. Sometimes he was subbed in for a few minutes at the end, when the outcome was already decided.
People stopped commenting on his improvement.
He was just… there.
Then came the match.
The stands were full that day—more than usual. Parents, students, teachers. The noise felt thicker, heavier, pressing down on the field. Joey sat on the bench, bouncing his leg, staring straight ahead.
Midway through the second half, the coach turned.
"Marron."
Joey's heart jumped.
"Warm up."
His body moved before his mind caught up. He jogged to the sideline, stretching, breathing too fast, eyes flicking to the stands without meaning to.
They're watching.
The whistle blew.
"Marron, you're in."
He stepped onto the field.
The grass felt different under his cleats—too real, too exposed. The noise surged. His name wasn't being cheered. It wasn't being booed either.
It was just… noise.
The ball came to him faster than he expected. He trapped it cleanly—but his next pass was a half-second late. Intercepted.
No groans. Just play continuing.
He tracked back, breathing hard. An opposing attacker slipped past him—not easily, but enough. Joey recovered, blocked the cross at the last second.
His chest burned.
Every time he glanced toward the stands, his thoughts tangled.
Another pass. Slightly off-target.
Another run. A step slow.
He wasn't bad.
He wasn't good.
Time blurred. Sweat dripped into his eyes. His legs felt heavy, like he was running through water.
Then it happened.
The break came fast.
Too fast.
The ball spilled loose in front of goal, rolling into space like it had been placed there on purpose. Joey saw it before he heard anything else—before the crowd, before his own breath.
This is it.
His legs moved. His foot swung.
The contact felt wrong immediately.
The ball curved—not sharply, not dramatically—just enough. It skimmed past the post and kept going, rolling harmlessly wide.
For a split second, the world didn't react.
Then the sound hit him.
A collective inhale. A groan that wasn't angry, just disappointed. The kind you couldn't argue with.
Joey slowed to a stop.
He didn't look at his teammates. Didn't look at the ground.
He looked up.
The stands blurred together at first—faces, colors, movement—until one spot sharpened.
Anita stood near the railing, hands clasped in front of her. She hadn't moved. Her mouth was slightly open, like she'd been about to cheer and hadn't caught up to what happened yet.
Then her expression changed.
Not shock. Not frustration.
Something quieter.
Her shoulders dropped just a little. Her lips pressed together, eyes lowering before lifting again—already looking past him, back to the field.
It lasted maybe a second.
That was all it took.
Joey felt it hit harder than the miss itself.
Not ignored.
Seen.
And still—
Not enough.
The whistle blew soon after.
They lost by one.
Hands clapped his shoulder as he walked off. Someone muttered "Unlucky." Another said "Good run."
Joey nodded when he was supposed to.
He didn't hear any of it.
The image stayed with him instead—the way Anita's face had fallen, just for a moment, before she turned away.
He stayed behind after everyone else left.
The field emptied. The lights hummed. The grass was cool when he lay back at the center circle, forearm draped over his eyes.
Letter.
Bench.
Extra classes.
Training.
Sweat.
That look.
Different efforts. Same result.
He let out a slow breath, chest tight, and stayed there, unmoving.
He had tried.
Really tried.
And it hadn't been enough.
He stayed there longer than he should have.
The grass was cool against his back. The silence pressed in.
For the first time since he started trying, the thought crept in again.
What's the point of trying, if this is all I am?