The first alarm went off before the sun had fully risen. Peter woke up first, fumbling for his phone on the bedside table. The room was still quiet, Jeffery's steady snoring filling the silence, while he was buried deep in his blanket.
Peter slipped quietly to the edge of his bed and pressed the call button. His mother picked up almost instantly.
"Peter?" Her voice was soft, tired from the hour, but warm.
"Yes, Mom. I didn't want to miss you before we left for the training grounds."
A pause, then a sigh of relief. "How was the journey? Did you eat? Did they treat you well?"
Peter smiled faintly, lowering his voice so he wouldn't wake the others. "It was fine. The place is nice… better than I thought."
"Good. Just remember why you're there. Focus. Don't waste this chance." Her tone firmed, but Peter could hear the quiver beneath it, the loneliness he was afraid she would experience without him.
"I won't, Mom," he promised. For a few quiet seconds, neither of them spoke, only listening to each other breathe across the distance.
"Also remember, if it's too difficult or you can't handle it, just tell me and come home, alright? As long as I have you, nothing else matters." She rounded off.
"Yes, Mom, of course. I'll be keeping you updated from now on. Bye." When she finally hung up, Peter sat still for a moment, staring at the phone, before tucking it away with a small nod to himself.
Jeffery woke next, stretching with a groan. He squinted at Peter. "You already called?"
Peter nodded. Jeffery grabbed his phone and pressed dial. Within seconds, the speaker was filled with overlapping voices — his father's booming encouragement, his mother fussing about whether he packed enough socks, and a younger sibling yelling, "Score plenty of goals, Jeff!"
The boy grinned, trying to respond to all of them at once, shaking his head in amusement. "One at a time, please! I only have two ears!"
There was a knock on the door, but before anyone could answer, Gift let himself inside. "You're awake already?" he asked.
"Yup, making calls back home," Jeffery said as he hung up his call.
Gift walked into the room and sat on Peter's bed, whipping out his phone and calling his dad as well. His parents answered together, voices calm, almost measured.
His father asked practical questions — training schedule, how many boys were in the dorm, and whether he'd met the coaches yet.
His mother cut in, softer, "Don't let it all be pressure, Gift. Enjoy yourself too. Remember why you love the game."
Gift smiled faintly, reassured. "I will, Mum."
By the time the calls ended, the sun had begun to bleed light into the windows. The boys dressed quietly, each carrying the weight of their families' voices in their own way.
Peter with his mother's steady hope, Jeffery with his family's loud confidence, and Gift with the balanced strength of his parents' guidance.
A firm knock came at the door.
"Come in," Peter called.
The door swung open and Graham stepped in, dressed as neatly as ever in a polo shirt and jacket. He paused, eyebrows lifting in faint surprise. "Well, this is a sight. All of you up already?"
Jeffery grinned. "We're professionals now, aren't we?"
Gift chuckled. "Of course, I don't think Ronaldinho or Zidane slept in when they were in academies."
Graham shook his head with a smile. "Doesn't matter which one it is, I'll take it. Most lads I've had to collect on their first morning were still snoring when I came knocking."
Peter shrugged lightly. "We wanted to speak with our parents before the day got busy."
Graham's expression softened at that.
"That's good. Keep that balance—it's easy to forget home when football takes over everything." He clapped his hands together.
"Right then, grab what you need. Today's about showing you the grounds, meeting the staff, and getting you settled properly."
The three boys rose at once, the nervous excitement in the air almost tangible. Peter slipped his Okrika [1] jacket on, Jeffery pocketed his phone, and Gift slung a small bag over his shoulder.
"Breakfast first?" Jeffery asked hopefully.
"You'll get plenty to eat, don't worry," Graham replied as he motioned them toward the door.
"Cafeteria's already buzzing, and after that we'll walk the grounds. You'll see the pitches, the training centre, classrooms, and even the medical wing. By the time we're done, you'll know the place inside out."
Peter exchanged a look with his friends as they followed Graham out into the corridor. It wasn't just nerves anymore. This was it—their first real day in the academy's world.
The drive to the academy wasn't long, but for the three boys it felt like another crossing—one more step away from home, one step closer to something bigger.
They sat in the back of the small van, bags at their feet, while Graham drove. The city rolled by in quick snapshots: quiet streets, bakeries just opening, joggers with headphones, cyclists weaving along bike lanes. Gift pressed his face to the glass, watching it all with wide eyes.
"You'll get used to it," Graham said, catching his expression in the rearview mirror. "First week's always a blur."
"What about the second?" Peter asked.
Graham chuckled. "That's when it starts feeling real."
A short drive later, and they had arrived at the grounds.
"There it is, lads," Graham said, a note of pride in his voice. "Welcome to your new home."
Jeffery sat forward, elbows on his knees. "It looks… bigger than I imagined."
"Bigger and harder," Graham replied. He slowed as they passed through the gates, nodding at the security guard who waved them in. "Every blade of grass here has been earned. Remember that."
The van curved around the complex, giving the boys a full view: rows of pristine pitches, each marked and ready; clusters of players already warming up in coordinated kits; coaches pacing with clipboards. To one side stood the dormitories, sleek and modern, with banners of the club's crest hanging proudly from the walls.
Peter's chest tightened. It was one thing to dream of Europe's academies from thousands of miles away—it was another to see it up close, to realize he was about to step into it.
Graham parked near a low building with wide glass doors. "This is where you'll be spending most of your mornings. Training center. The gym's inside. Medical staff. Cafeteria too. You'll get the tour in a bit."
The boys climbed out, stretching their legs, the cool air sharper than what they were used to. A group of academy players jogged past in matching tracksuits, barely sparing them a glance.
Gift whispered, "They don't even look at us."
"They don't have to," Peter muttered.
"They're already here. We're the new ones."
Graham overheard and gave a small smile.
"Don't worry about them. Worry about
yourselves. First impressions matter, but not the kind you're thinking of. It's not about looking tough or acting like you belong. It's about showing what you've got when the ball comes to your feet."
The lobby was bright, with polished floors gleaming under ceiling lights. Club crests lined the walls alongside framed photos of former academy players who had gone on to the first team. Some were names the boys recognized instantly, players they had only ever seen on TV.
Jeffery slowed his steps, his eyes darting from frame to frame. "He came through here? And him too?"
Graham smiled knowingly. "Every player you see here started the same way you're starting. Same nerves, same doubts. Some made it, some didn't. That part's up to you."
They moved down a corridor where the faint clang of weights carried through open doors. Graham pushed one door wider and gestured inside. Rows of machines gleamed, neatly arranged, with a few older academy players already working under the watchful eye of a trainer.
"That's the gym. You'll have scheduled sessions here every week. Strength, conditioning, recovery, everything to keep you sharp."
Peter only nodded, quietly drinking it all in.
Next, Graham led them toward the medical suite. The sharp smell of disinfectant greeted them as they passed physio tables, shelves of bandages, and exercise balls. A physio looked up from taping an older boy's ankle and gave them a polite nod.
"Don't make this room a habit," Graham said dryly, though his tone was gentle. "But if you need it, it's here."
They carried on, the corridor opening up into a wide cafeteria. Long tables filled the space, already crowded with players in navy tracksuits, eating breakfast. The sound of chatter and clinking cutlery filled the air. Trays of food sat steaming along the counter: eggs, toast, fruit, porridge.
The boys slowed, suddenly self-conscious. A few players looked up, giving them curious glances before turning back to their meals.
"You'll eat here most mornings and afternoons," Graham explained. "Fuel's just as important as training. Don't skip meals, don't pick at food. What you put in your body is what comes out on the pitch."
Jeffery whispered, "Smells way better than my boarding school cafeteria."
Peter gave a small smile, though his stomach twisted with nerves more than hunger.
They didn't linger long. Graham pushed open another set of doors, leading them outside again, where the pitches stretched wide under the rising sun.
A few teams were already deep in drills, the thud of passes and sharp shouts echoing across the grass.
"This," Graham said, his voice carrying a weight that made the boys stand straighter,
"is your stage. Every session, every touch, every sprint, it all matters. Coaches will be watching. Not just for goals or tricks. For attitude. For discipline. For how you carry yourselves when you win the ball, and more importantly, when you lose it."
Peter's throat went dry. He could almost feel the grass under his boots already, as if stepping onto it would prove whether he belonged or not.
Gift folded his arms, studying the players.
"When do we start?"
Graham glanced at him, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. "Soon enough. But first, you'll meet the staff. Then the school orientation. Football is only half of this place. Don't forget that."
The boys exchanged glances. School. It was the part none of them had thought about, not in detail.
As if sensing their unease, Graham added, "Don't worry. It's built into your schedule, and the teachers know you're here to play. But you'll be expected to keep up. No excuses."
He led them along a narrow path toward another building, smaller but neat, with classrooms visible through the windows. Children in academy gear sat at desks, books open.
For a moment, it felt surreal—football boots and textbooks under the same roof.
Jeffery chuckled nervously. "Maths after training… that's gonna be rough."
Peter swallowed. He thought of his mother's words—don't waste this chance—and silently promised her he wouldn't.
Graham paused, letting them take it all in before he moved again. "Right, lads. Time to meet the Academy Director. He'll want a word with you before the real work begins."
"But before that, how about you get some food in your bellies. I'll be taking care of some things, so I'll come get you when I'm done. Move along together," he said as he whipped out his phone and left the boys alone.