The whistle shrieked across the pitch.
A wave of relief washed over the field. Legs buckled. Arms fell limp. Bodies hit the ground like felled trees.
Leon let himself collapse onto the grass, chest heaving, heart pounding so hard it seemed to echo in his ears.
Beside him, Byon threw himself down with exaggerated drama, arms flung wide like a cartoon character after a failed mission.
"Man…" he groaned. "Coach was trying to kill us!"
Leon turned his head slightly. His breaths came in short bursts, each one a reminder of how far he'd pushed this body.
"Maybe…" Leon managed between pants. "But that training… it mattered. I felt like I'm actually improving."
Byon rolled onto his side, resting his head on his elbow, sweat gleaming on his forehead.
"You? Improving?" He scoffed lightly, then laughed. "You're already better than half the guys out here. I've been watching."
Leon didn't answer at first. He stared up at the sky—pale blue, streaked with late-afternoon clouds, the kind that drifted slowly like time when you were tired but satisfied.
Every drill, every sprint, every pass—it had dug deeper into him than he expected.
This isn't just training. It's memory reconstruction. Skill recovery.
But also—This is new. This is mine.
Byon sat up and pulled off his training bib, wringing it out dramatically.
"Still…" he added, voice softening. "You're really good. But kinda mysterious. You think like someone way older."
He turned his head and grinned, then dropped into a high-pitched voice full of innocence:
"Maybe 'cause I want to grow up faster?"
"That sounded weird, bro." He wiped his face with the bib. "But I get it. I really do."
Silence stretched between them for a moment, comfortable and full of the kind of exhaustion that didn't hurt. The kind that said, you worked for something today.
Byon flopped back down, arms folded behind his head.
"You ever think about the future?" he asked. "Like seriously think about it? I don't just want to play football. I want the full thing—TV interviews, Champions League, walking out of the tunnel with people chanting my name."
Leon turned his head again. Byon's face was still young—baby fat in the cheeks, eyes wide with untouched belief—but there was something behind the words.
"Someday," Byon went on, voice quieter now, "I want to be a famous player. In a big club. Doesn't have to be City. Could be Madrid. Or PSG. I don't care. As long as the whole world watches when I play."
Leon inhaled slowly through his nose, then exhaled just as slow.
Byon's dreams sounded so much like his own first time around.
But this time, Leon wasn't dreaming with wide eyes anymore.
He was chasing with open ones.
"We're just getting started, Byon…" he said, eyes drifting skyward again. "But this start feels different."
The sky had changed subtly since the start of training. The clouds were pink at the edges now, bleeding toward the horizon, like the sky was catching its breath.
All around them, the academy was slowly unwinding. The assistant coaches gathered cones. The groundskeepers ran rakes across the goalmouths. Some of the younger boys were kicking balls lazily at the empty nets, too tired to chase them when they missed.
Coach Holloway stood at the edge of the field, arms behind his back, watching—not barking orders anymore.
Leon's gaze followed him briefly, then settled again on the clouds.
Today wasn't perfect. But it was progress.
He could still feel the sting of that missed trap during pressure drills. Still remember the exact moment the ball skipped off his boot just a little too far.
But instead of shame, there was resolve.
This body's getting sharper. My instincts are waking up. One day soon… I'll stop being the comeback story—and start being the star.
He didn't say any of that aloud.
And beside him, Byon didn't press.
Instead, the younger boy folded his arms behind his head again and closed his eyes, murmuring:
"Like something started."
Leon nodded slowly, almost to himself.
"When the beginning is right… the dream can become real."