The late afternoon sun hung low over the National Stadium, turning the edges of the field gold. Boys moved in clusters, some quiet, some trying too hard to look relaxed, all of them waiting for what tomorrow might bring.
Near the scouts' section, under the shade of a faded canopy, a little girl sat swinging her legs from a plastic chair, carefully licking the side of a melting vanilla ice cream before it dripped onto her hand. Beside her, an elderly white man with silver hair and a pair of glasses scanned a folder labelled Jeremiah.
The girl leaned toward him, looking at the papers."Morfar, are you still working?" she asked in Swedish.
The old man did not look up immediately. "Always," he said in the same language, then adjusted his glasses.
"Especially when I think I have found someone interesting."
She looked out toward the pitch. A few boys were still walking off, boots in hand, shirts soaked through with sweat.
"Which one?" she asked.
The scout's finger rested on a page. "Jeremiah Idahosa."
The girl repeated the name slowly. "The small one?"
A faint smile appeared on the old man's face. "Yes. The young-looking midfielder out there. same age as you. But he doesn't play like a child."
She tilted her head. "Because he passed a lot?"
He finally turned to her fully, pleased by the question. "Not only that. Many boys can pass. Many can run. Many can even do tricks. But very few boys understand time."
She blinked. "Time?"
He tapped one of his notes. "Composure. Delay. Rhythm. When to release the ball, when to hold it for one second more. He slows other players down without stopping the game. That is rare. Very rare in someone his age."
The girl licked her ice cream again. "So you like him best?"
The old man was quiet for a moment. "There are others with stronger bodies. Faster boys. Bigger boys. That striker..." he murmured, flipping a page. "Victor Osimhen. Very aggressive movement. Good hunger. Another one, Pelumi Adesina, good balance, excellent pace. There is even another midfielder from another group, Kelechi Nwakali, who also looked promising. But Jeremiah..." He stopped, looking back at the pitch. "Jeremiah sees the whole picture."
The girl smiled. "That sounds magical."
"In football," her grandfather said, "it almost is."
He scribbled one more line under Jeremiah's name, then underlined it once.
The girl leaned against his arm. "Will you talk to him?"
"Not yet," he said. "Tomorrow is the match. Small-sided drills can flatter a clever player. A real match exposes who he is in the line of battle."
"But you think he is good."
The old scout folded the papers neatly. "I think so."
Not far away, one of the local coordinators approached the scout table to exchange a few words. The old man responded politely, but his eyes drifted back once more toward the boys leaving the pitch.
Jeremiah Idahosa, he thought again.
The ride back to the hotel felt different from the ride that morning.
Fatigue had stripped away most of the noise. Even the louder boys had less energy now, their earlier swagger replaced by the ache of effort. Boots knocked against metal seat legs, and the bus rattled through Lagos traffic as evening settled over the city.
Jeremiah sat by the window again, one arm resting against the frame, watching the blur of roadside stalls, yellow buses, and pedestrians flow past. Beside him sat Pelumi, his duffel bag squeezed tightly between his knees.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Then Pelumi glanced sideways. "You really meant that? About me sharing with you?" Jeremiah nodded. "Yes."
Pelumi looked down at the bag. "Most people wouldn't do this for a stranger."
Jeremiah's eyes stayed on the passing city. "Most people don't know what to do when pain is in front of them."
Pelumi gave a dry laugh. "And you do?"
Jeremiah took a moment before answering.
"I know that hunger can make somebody proud. And pride can make things worse."
Pelumi studied him for a second, "You dey talk like person wey don old."
Jeremiah smiled faintly.
Pelumi shook his head and leaned back. "Coach is a good man."
"He is," Jeremiah said quietly.
That was the thing that stirred him most. Even knowing it would happen had not made it feel smaller. Seeing Coach Benson step in again, the same way he had in that other life, reminded Jeremiah that some people were solid across any timeline. No matter how fate shifted, kindness still found its own habits.
After a few minutes, Pelumi spoke again.
"I was embarrassed."
Jeremiah turned to him this time. "About what?"
"Everything." Pelumi exhaled hard. "The bag. He's asking questions. Crying like that." He rubbed the side of his face. "I told myself I would come here like I had everything under control. Just play ball, impress people, and find a way. Then one small conversation and everything scattered."
Jeremiah's voice was calm. "It didn't scatter. Somebody just helped you lift those weights off your shoulder, now you can just focus on your football ."
Pelumi looked at him for a long time after that and said nothing more.
By the time they reached the hotel, the sky had deepened into a dark blue-purple, and the flickering light above the Golden SKY sign welcomed them back with the same stubbornness as before.
Inside, the players dragged themselves through the corridor. Some were still talking about the drills, about who had impressed, who had overdone things, what to expect from tomorrow's games.
Coach Benson stood near the reception desk, addressing the players, "Make sure una bathe before una sleep. I no want smell of stadium killing person for here."
"Yes, sir." They all responded
Pelumi followed Jeremiah as they entered the room together. It was small and warm, with the ceiling fan making its usual tired protest. Jeremiah dropped his own bag first. Pelumi stood still for a moment, taking in the space as though he still wasn't sure it was truly his for the night.
Then, slowly, he set his duffel down too.
Jeremiah noticed how carefully he did it.
After washing up, the two sat on the bed while the room dimmed around them. Noise from the hallway drifted in and out: laughter, arguments, somebody singing badly somewhere down the corridor.
Pelumi lay back first, staring up at the slats above him. "You called me Pels earlier."
Jeremiah's chest tightened for half a beat.
"Yeah," he said.
Pelumi turned his head slightly. "Na new nickname."
Jeremiah leaned his elbows on his knees. "If you want."
Pelumi raised an eyebrow. "So you already gave me a nickname in your mind?"
Jeremiah chuckled softly. "Maybe."
Pelumi watched him, then smiled. "I don't mind."
That helped more than it should have.
They talked quietly after that, first about football, then about where they were from, what kinds of pitches they grew up on, the worst boots they had ever worn, the coaches they had hated, the ones they respected. The conversation came easier than Jeremiah expected. Pelumi was open once he relaxed, and sharp too, in conversations that stirred up memories of the past.
At one point, Pelumi said, "Tomorrow's match, if we end up on the same side, just find me early. I like midfielders that don't panic."
Jeremiah nodded. "If we're on opposite sides, I'll make sure you regret saying that."
Pelumi laughed out loud at that, the kind of laugh that came from a place deeper than amusement.
Coach came into the room to his own bed, informing the duo to go to bed, as tomorrow is going to be a big day.
Later that night, after the hallway finally quieted and the city outside softened to a distant murmur, Jeremiah lay on the top bunk staring at the ceiling.
He could hear Pelumi breathing below, already asleep.
For a while, Jeremiah let the darkness settle around him. Then the thoughts returned.
The trials.
The match tomorrow.
And now, something else.
Those foreign eyes in the stands. He had felt it only once or twice during the drills, that sensation of being watched not casually, but carefully.
He didn't know by whom. But he knew the feeling.
He closed his eyes.
Tomorrow would make things clearer.
As he prepared to enter the system for training, the system notification came up in his sleep while in the system.
SYSTEM X
_______________
Secret Mission Completed:
Impressing on day 1 of trials:
Always good to leave an impression during the trials. Whether it was the passing drills or the 400-metre race, you applied yourself and left a positive impression. Your journey to the top of the football pyramid is already heading up.
_______________
Reward:
Player Trait Unlocked:
Gareth Bale Road Runner (Automatic Skill):
Adopt the physical speed traits of a player who used his speed to terrorize teams in his prime.
Gareth Bale Road Runner Level Mastered: %100
_______________
Rewards:
+10 Pace
+6 stamina
+8 Acceleration
New stat:
Pace 20
Stamina 16
Acceleration 18
Important Notice:
This is an automatic skill. In the system, automatic skills are skills you do not have to train, as they become a part of you, but still have to be maintained with constant training.
_______________
"Wow", Jeremiah mutttered to himself. Having that much speed at 13 is incredible; he knew having that trait would take him very far. He was even more excited ahead of tomorrow's game as he went to do Okocha ball magic training today.
July 2nd, 2013
Morning came faster than either of them wanted.
The hotel woke in layers: bathroom doors creaking, slippers dragging across the hallway, low voices, someone knocking on the wrong room. By the time the sun had fully risen, all seven boys, including Pelumi, were already dressed.
Breakfast was simple and disappeared quickly. Nobody complained. Hunger and nerves had formed a temporary truce.
The bus ride to the stadium was much quieter than the previous day's. Today, there was no large crowd of unknowns to hide inside anymore. The numbers had dropped. The air felt sharper because every remaining player knew he was now visible.
As they arrived, coordinators began pinning team sheets to a notice board near the tunnel entrance.
That was when the crowd surged.
Boys pushed forward, craning necks, calling names, searching for bib numbers and positions. Some stepped back, smiling. Others stared longer, trying to understand what they had been handed.
Jeremiah and Pelumi moved in together through the cluster.
Jeremiah's eyes scanned.
Team C.
Number 8.
Midfield.
He shifted down the sheet.
Pelumi.
Same team.
A tiny breath left him.
Then 2 other names further below caught his eye.
Kelechi Nwakali and Samuel Chukwueze.
Opposition team.
Pelumi appeared beside him at the same moment. "We dey together," he said, unable to hide the grin in his voice.
Jeremiah nodded once. "Kelechi and Chukwueze are against us."
Pelumi clicked his tongue. "You sabi them."
In his previous life, the 2 players would go on to play for Nigeria in the 2015 U-17 World Cup. Becoming household names as they both finished 3rd in the goal scorers chart, Kelechi went on to win the player of the tournament.
Club Careers went wildly different. Kelechi signed for Arsenal but went out on multiple loans, failing to nail a spot, and last he checked, he was playing in the second division of Spain. Chukwueze, on the other hand, signed for Villarreal, managing to break into the first team before signing for AC MILAN, and becoming a regular in the national team.
" I just see them yesterday, we go have to keep an eye on those boys," Jeremiah muttered to Pelumi.
Behind them, Coach Benson approached at a measured pace. He didn't push into the crowd.
He simply waited for his boys to turn toward him.
When they did, he looked from one face to another.
"Today," he said, "na where talking ends."Nobody joked.
He continued, voice firm and low. "Play simple when simple is correct. Play brave when brave is needed. No one here needs miracle football. Understand the game. Help your teammate. If your chance comes, use it."
His eyes settled on Jeremiah for just a fraction longer.
Then on Pelumi.
Then he gave a single nod.
"Go and warm up."
The pitch looked different this morning.
Less crowded.
Cleaner.
More dangerous.
This was no longer a general trial full of noise and bodies. This was selection football now.
Every pass would be weighed. Every mistake would stay in somebody's notebook. Every good decision might open a door.
On the far side, under the canopy, the old Swedish scout had returned.
So had his granddaughter, already eating something sweet again.
The old man unfolded his chair and sat with the patience of someone who knew that the most important things in football usually revealed themselves only after the opening excitement had burned away.
His eyes found Jeremiah almost immediately.
Number 8.
Small frame.
Composed posture.
Scanning before the ball had even reached him in the warm-up pattern.
The scout smiled to himself.
"Now," he murmured in Swedish, "show me again."
Down on the pitch, Jeremiah rolled his shoulders loose and looked across at the opposition. Nwakali was there, bouncing lightly on his toes, restless as fire. Pelumi stood nearby, adjusting his socks, sharp-eyed and ready.
The whistle for warm-ups shrilled.
The match time had come.