Adrien stepped onto the pitch before sunrise, the chill of Norwegian spring biting at his fingers and face. The grass was damp, uneven, the lines not perfectly white but faded and cracked in places. The stadium—if it could even be called that—was a small stand of peeling wood, empty except for a few pigeons roosting in the corners.
He pulled his jacket tighter, adjusted the strap of his bag, and let his gaze sweep over the place. No crowds. No whistles of fans. No flashing cameras. Just the faint hum of a distant road and the wind brushing over the empty pitch.
Perfect.
Not that he felt relief.
Adrien's stomach twisted as he remembered Rennes. The pristine turf, the loud coaches, the pressure and the applause. Every touch of the ball then had felt meaningful. Here… even the ball seemed indifferent.
A door creaked. Adrien turned. A man, tall and broad-shouldered, walked toward him, clipboard in hand, expression neutral. The coach.
"You're Adrien Vauclair," he said. No smile. No extended hand. Just words.
"Yes," Adrien said quietly.
The coach nodded once. "Good. Let's see what you've got. Warm-up, then drills. Keep up."
Adrien nodded.
---
The first run across the pitch was harder than he expected. The ground was heavier, sodden from recent rain, and his acceleration didn't feel the same. He tried to cut in, to dash past invisible defenders the way he used to—but the uneven turf slowed him. His studs slipped once, and he stumbled slightly, catching himself before he fell.
The coach barked from the sideline.
"Focus! Stop wasting energy!"
Adrien gritted his teeth and kept moving.
---
Drills began. Simple passes, one-twos, and crossing exercises. Teammates eyed him with suspicion—or outright irritation. They were used to straightforward football: long balls down the line, rough tackles, aerial dominance. Adrien's style—cutting inside, faking left then going right, holding the ball to create openings—was foreign to them.
He tried to demonstrate his usual flair. A sharp cut inside, a fake to wrong-foot a defender… and he lost the ball entirely.
"Again!" the coach shouted.
A teammate muttered under his breath.
"Foreign kid thinks he's fancy."
Adrien didn't hear it. Or maybe he did. Didn't matter. He focused on the ball.
---
By midday, Adrien's legs ached, his lungs burned, and his confidence had shrunk. Every touch felt wrong. Every pass too slow or too early. Every attempt to create something new was met with blank stares or groans from his team.
He tried to remind himself: this was just Norway. Just a low-tier club. No one knew who he was here. No one expected miracles.
But that didn't stop the sting. He had been a prodigy once. He had been the boy everyone said would be great.
Now, he was barely visible.
---
After a brief lunch break, the afternoon session was tactical drills. Adrien was supposed to play as a winger, hugging the left touchline and sending in crosses. He wanted to obey. But instinct took over: cut inside, accelerate toward goal, open up a shooting lane.
The ball was stolen from him. Again.
"You're killing me," the coach muttered under his breath, pacing behind the drill. "Keep it simple. Touch it, pass it, move. That's football, not ballet."
Adrien clenched his fists but said nothing.
---
When the session finally ended, he slumped against the fence surrounding the pitch, hands on his knees, chest heaving. Around him, teammates laughed quietly, packing up, chatting about beers after training, footballing routines he didn't belong to.
He wanted to feel frustration, anger—something to ignite him—but all he felt was… hollow.
A sharp cough made him look up. From the side of the field, an older man was watching.
Not a coach. Not a teammate.
Just… standing there. Hands tucked into the pockets of a threadbare coat, hat pulled low over his eyes. He was observing—not yelling, not gesturing—just watching.
Adrien blinked. Then he noticed something strange.
The man's eyes… they weren't just looking. They were seeing.
Not at him. At the field. At the movement. At the lines of play, the runs, the spaces between players.
A chill ran down Adrien's spine.
He shook his head. "Probably just a neighbor," he muttered to himself.
---
That night, Adrien lay in the small apartment the club had given him. Sparse furniture. Cold walls. A single lamp. Outside, the wind pressed against the windows, carrying the faint smell of saltwater from the nearby fjord.
He thought about the day. About how wrong everything had felt. About the mistakes he had made. About Rennes. About his father. About the promise.
And then, as sleep began to edge into his consciousness, a quiet, almost imperceptible thought formed:
Maybe I'm looking at the wrong things.
It was fleeting. A whisper. A suggestion.
Adrien didn't know it yet—but the first seed of change had planted itself.
And in the shadowed corner of his vision, he imagined the old man watching, still seeing, still waiting.