By the time Kellan De Vries turned sixteen, the name Garen had become a second home — and a silent battleground. The academy's training ground buzzed with energy each morning, the sound of boots scraping across dew-covered grass and the sharp whistle of coaches echoing through the air. Around him were dozens of young men chasing the same dream, but only a handful would ever reach the top.
Kellan had already outgrown the youth ranks. His performances had caught the eye of the senior coaching staff, and whispers spread through the corridors of Garen's training complex. They said the quiet boy from Dronen wasn't just talented — he was different. His intelligence on the field was rare, his precision uncanny. The academy director, Mr. Brens, decided it was time to test him among the grown men.
The invitation came quietly one afternoon after training. "Pack your boots early tomorrow," Brens said. "You'll join the first team session."
Kellan nodded but said nothing. Inside, a storm brewed — excitement, fear, and something else entirely: the hunger to prove he belonged. That night, he lay awake in his narrow dormitory bed, the sounds of the city faint beyond the window. He thought about everything that had brought him here — the long drives from Dronen, the quiet dinners, the rejection he'd turned into strength. Tomorrow was another step, another test of his resolve.
The next morning, he stood outside the main pitch of Garen's senior training complex. Around him were players he had watched from a distance — men who played under bright stadium lights, whose names filled newspaper headlines. Their movements were sharper, their voices louder. They looked like they belonged to another world.
When the session began, Kellan's pulse quickened. The drills were faster, the passes harder, the expectations higher. Mistakes weren't corrected gently; they were punished with intensity. But instead of shrinking, Kellan adapted. His touches grew more confident, his decisions quicker. He played simple when needed, bold when it mattered.
During a scrimmage, the coach divided the teams evenly. Kellan was placed in midfield, opposite one of the senior players known for his aggression. Within minutes, the older player tried to intimidate him with sharp tackles and loud taunts. Kellan didn't respond. He simply waited — timing his moment. Then, midway through the match, he intercepted a pass, turned effortlessly, and slipped the ball through a narrow channel between two defenders. The striker ran onto it and scored.
The entire pitch froze for a heartbeat. It was one of those passes that felt inevitable only after it happened. The head coach raised his eyebrows, glanced at Brens, and nodded slightly.
After the session, as players filed toward the locker rooms, a few senior members clapped him on the back. "Not bad, kid," one of them said. Kellan only smiled faintly. Inside, though, his chest burned with quiet pride.
Over the next few weeks, he began training regularly with the first team. It was grueling — long hours, tactical sessions, fitness drills that left his legs trembling. But he never complained. Each mistake was logged in his mind, analyzed, and corrected. Each success was filed away as a lesson.
The older players began to respect his consistency. He never showed off, never talked unnecessarily, but he was always present, always reliable. In football, trust is built through repetition, and Kellan earned it one pass, one movement at a time.
At home in Dronen, his parents noticed the change in his tone during weekend visits. He was still quiet, but there was a new steadiness in his voice — a maturity that seemed to have appeared overnight. Henrik listened carefully as his son described the intensity of training, the speed of play, the physical battles. Alena watched him with both pride and concern. "Don't forget who you are," she told him. "The world will try to make you louder, but you've always been strongest in silence."
Her words followed him back to Garen. In the locker room, amid shouts and laughter, Kellan stayed focused. The more noise surrounded him, the calmer he became. He knew that football wasn't about sound — it was about rhythm, movement, and timing.
His first real breakthrough came in the form of a friendly match during the preseason. The team was missing several starters, and the coach decided to give some academy players a chance. Kellan's name appeared on the list. When he saw it, his heart pounded once, then steadied. This was what he had been waiting for.
That evening, the stadium lights hummed as the crowd gathered — not a large crowd, but enough to make the air buzz with energy. Kellan jogged onto the field in Garen's blue and white kit, the grass glistening under the lights. He felt the same calm that had followed him since childhood.
The whistle blew. The game unfolded fast, but Kellan adapted like water finding its flow. He pressed, passed, and orchestrated. His movements were measured, his decisions instinctive. In the second half, he received the ball near the halfway line, looked up, and threaded a pass that split the opposition completely. The forward finished cleanly. The stands erupted.
Kellan didn't celebrate. He just turned and jogged back, his eyes scanning the field. The noise around him faded into background hum. All he cared about was the next play.
After the match, the head coach approached him in the tunnel. "You don't talk much, do you?" he said with a small grin.
"No, sir," Kellan replied.
"Good," the coach said. "Keep letting your football do the talking."
That night, Kellan returned to his dorm room and sat by the window as the city lights shimmered in the distance. He opened his notebook and wrote a single line: If you think faster, you play slower.
He closed the book and smiled faintly. The boy from Dronen had just stepped into the world of men — and though the road ahead would be long, he could feel that something inside him had shifted again.
For the first time, he no longer felt like an outsider. He belonged here.