By seventeen, Kellan De Vries was no longer just another academy graduate at Garen Athletic — he was their secret weapon. The whispers that once followed him through the corridors of the youth academy had turned into quiet respect from the senior players. He had become the kind of footballer who could shift the rhythm of a game with a single touch.
The 2010–11 season — though the year itself mattered little in his mind — began with promise. Garen's senior squad was strong but inconsistent, a team known for brilliance in one match and uncertainty in the next. The coaches believed they needed a spark — someone who could bring calm in chaos, who could read the game like a story unfolding before it was written.
Kellan didn't start the season expecting to be that spark. He trained as he always had — quietly, methodically, notebook in hand, every detail recorded. But during a preseason match, injuries forced the coach's hand. "You're starting," he told Kellan just hours before kickoff. "Play your game. Don't chase it."
The stadium that day was only half full, the crowd murmuring through the cool evening air. When the whistle blew, Kellan felt time slow. The ball rolled under his feet, and everything else — the shouts, the drums, the noise — faded into silence. He played with measured simplicity, his passes clean and deliberate. It wasn't flair that caught attention; it was control. He didn't rush, didn't force. The game moved around him as if orbiting an invisible center.
By halftime, the coaching staff had exchanged looks. "He makes the pitch look smaller," one of them said. "Like he's compressing the space."
From that match forward, Kellan stayed in the lineup. Game after game, he found ways to influence outcomes without scoring. His ability to anticipate runs and manipulate tempo became Garen's rhythm. When the team pressed, he guided them forward. When they needed patience, he slowed the game down. The captain once said to the press, "He's the quietest player we've got, but when he speaks with the ball, everyone listens."
Life off the pitch remained simple. Kellan avoided distractions — no nightlife, no social media glamour. His world was the training ground, the stadium, and the small room he rented near the club. He still wrote in his notebook every night, lines that read more like lessons than diary entries: See space, not players. The ball is language. The mind controls the body.
As the season progressed, Garen's momentum grew. The team climbed the league table, and confidence spread through the dressing room. Reporters began to take notice of the young midfielder who seemed to see patterns that others missed. Journalists described his play as "clinical," "mathematical," and even "unnerving."
Kellan didn't read the articles. He didn't need to. Praise didn't change the next training session. Mistakes still had to be corrected; weaknesses still had to be studied. Every Monday, while teammates joked in the cafeteria, he sat alone with his plate, headphones in, watching game footage on his phone.
In late spring, Garen faced one of their fiercest rivals in a decisive match that could determine the title race. The stadium pulsed with tension. Fans waved blue and white flags, their chants echoing against the metal stands. The team bus rolled through a sea of supporters, smoke flares painting the air in color. Kellan sat near the window, calm amid the chaos, his mind tracing the patterns of the match before it began.
On the field, the game was brutal. The opponents were physical, relentless, pressing every touch. For the first half, Garen struggled to find rhythm. Then, ten minutes into the second half, the ball came to Kellan near midfield. Two defenders closed in. He looked up once, saw a flash of movement from the striker, and without hesitation curved a pass through the narrowest of gaps. It sliced the defense open like a blade through fabric. The striker finished in one touch. The stadium erupted.
Kellan didn't celebrate wildly — just raised a fist briefly, eyes focused. It was enough. Garen won that match, and with it, momentum carried them toward the championship.
The final stretch of the season tested everything: endurance, nerves, and belief. As pressure mounted, Kellan remained constant. When others panicked, he stayed composed. He became the team's anchor, the one who dictated tempo when the crowd screamed for chaos.
When the title-deciding match finally arrived, the stadium overflowed. Thousands of fans filled the air with smoke, song, and prayer. The energy was overwhelming. Yet Kellan stood at the center circle before kickoff, staring at the grass, unmoved. He thought about Dronen, about the old wall where he first learned rhythm. He thought about the Verhoevens, about the quiet rejection that had shaped his resolve. And then he thought about the game.
Ninety minutes later, when the referee blew the final whistle, Garen Athletic had secured the league title. Players sprinted across the pitch, embracing, shouting, lifting their arms to the crowd. Amid the celebration, Kellan stood still for a moment, eyes closed. He could hear the sound of fans, the thrum of drums, the voices of teammates — yet in his mind, everything went silent.
This was what every repetition, every lonely night, every note in his notebook had led to. The pain, the patience, the silence — all of it had shaped this moment.
Later, as confetti drifted through the air and his teammates celebrated, one of the coaches approached him. "You'll go far, Kellan," he said. "You already play like someone who's seen the whole story."
That night, Kellan sat alone in his small apartment, the medal still hanging around his neck. He opened his notebook and wrote only one sentence: Success is quiet.
And then, for the first time in a long while, he smiled.