Morning in the Elite Academy never feels normal. Not anymore.
Not after the call-up.
Not after being thrown into Blue Squad.
Not after every pair of eyes suddenly turned into a camera lens, recording my every move.
I woke up before the alarm even had a chance to pretend it mattered. 5:32 AM. My body still ached from yesterday's chaos, but my mind was louder than any pain.
The Arsenal scout was coming.
Today?
Tomorrow?
Nobody said anything official—but rumors at the academy sprint faster than any winger alive.
And I'm the center of it.
I showered, dressed, and stepped out into the hallway. The atmosphere felt different—charged, electric, like oxygen had been blended with pure tension.
As I walked toward the cafeteria, every conversation dropped by a full octave.
"—that's him—"
"—the kid that got moved—"
"—Blue Squad? Just like that?—"
"—Arsenal's watching him—"
My skin felt like it was vibrating beneath all those whisper-stares.
I kept my eyes forward.
My breathing steady.
My steps controlled.
But inside?
I was cracking.
Not in a bad way—in a dangerous, powerful way.
Like pressure forging something new.
The System pinged quietly:
[System Reminder: Emotional Tension Detected — Composure Management Recommended.]
I ignored it. For now.
---
The cafeteria was full, louder than usual. Even players from squads I'd barely interacted with were here early—maybe because the academy always senses when something is shifting.
I grabbed a tray and headed for a corner seat.
But Blue Squad didn't let me get that far.
"Joseph."
A sharp voice cut through the noise.
I stopped.
A tall, lean figure stood up from a table where seven Blue Squad guys sat. His name floated into my mind like a warning: Ruben Okezie—Blue Squad's captain. The one rumored to have insane tactical IQ and a personality made of steel and cold air.
He stared at me like I'd trespassed on his father's land.
"Come sit," he said.
Not a request. Not quite a threat.
A test.
The entire cafeteria turned their heads as I approached. Even the noise reduced—not silent, but quieter, as if the room had decided to lean in.
I took a seat beside him.
Ruben's eyes scanned me the way a coach might scan positional data.
"So," he said, folding his arms, "you're the miracle child."
I blinked. "Miracle child?"
"You know how many players want a chance with Blue Squad?" he asked coolly. "How many grind two years? Three? Some never touch our pitch. And you—" his eyes sharpened, "—you jumped in one afternoon."
My jaw tightened.
I already knew where this was going.
"It wasn't my choice," I said evenly.
"Doesn't matter."
His voice cut like a whistle in cold air.
"Because now you're here. And every single one of us gets judged differently because of it."
Another Blue Squad member leaned forward.
A stocky midfielder with a buzz cut.
"People say the Arsenal scout is coming for you."
"And that," another muttered, "puts pressure on all of us."
The air around the table thickened.
I wasn't stupid.
This wasn't a welcome.
This was a warning.
Before the tension snapped, someone new approached.
"Relax, guys."
A calm voice.
A different tone.
I turned.
A boy with quiet eyes, neat hair, and a soft but unreadable expression stood behind me. His kit was Blue Squad too. He looked younger than most of the others but carried himself… differently. Almost too mature.
"This is Joseph," he said softly. "He earned his spot. Coach saw something in him yesterday."
The others didn't argue—but they didn't look convinced either.
He sat beside me and extended a hand discreetly.
"I'm Khalid Musa," he whispered. "Right back. And one of the few who isn't against you."
I shook his hand.
Well, at least I had one potential ally.
---
Training started at 7:00 sharp.
Blue Squad's pitch wasn't like Red's.
It felt heavier.
Sharper.
More professional.
Even the grass looked stricter.
Coach Afolabi waited at the center circle, arms crossed. Beside him was another coach I'd never seen before—tall, fair-skinned, with a European look. Maybe Dutch. Maybe German. His presence alone raised anxiety.
"Alright, Blue Squad! Gather!" Coach Afolabi shouted.
We formed a circle.
"Today," he began, "we are raising the standards. A scout may be visiting the academy soon."
The air snapped.
Eyes widened.
Murmurs rose.
"Not just because of one player," he added pointedly, glancing at me, "but because of all of you. Blue Squad must be the sharpest unit in Nigeria. Your cohesion, your discipline, your intelligence—everything is under spotlight."
I swallowed.
Then the European coach stepped forward.
"My name," he said in a clipped accent, "is Coach Reinger. I am here to observe your tactical responsiveness. Your academy is impressive, but your in-game speed, decision-making, and transitional play have gaps."
He clasped his hands behind his back.
"Today, we close those gaps."
Someone near me muttered, "Oh, shit…"
Coach Afolabi smirked.
"Warm-up is five minutes. You'll need the rest of the hour."
---
Warm-up ended brutally fast.
Then came the twist.
"Split into two teams," Coach Reinger announced. "Blue Squad A and Blue Squad B. Joseph—" he pointed at me, "—you're with Squad A."
Ruben, Darius, Khalid, a few others joined me.
"Today's drill is simple," Coach said.
"Squad B's job is to break you."
Pause.
"Your job is to survive."
Everyone stared at him.
"Survive?" Ruben echoed.
"Yes," Coach Reinger said calmly. "You will play short-field pressing drills where B has numerical superiority. They will hunt you. They will overwhelm you. They will suffocate you."
My heartbeat pumped hard.
Coach Afolabi added, "This is to simulate elite European game pressure. If Joseph is heading for an Arsenal assessment, he must learn to handle chaos."
There it was.
The confirmation everyone was waiting for.
The players turned to look at me again.
Pressure hit like a wave.
"Start!" Coach Reinger snapped.
Squad B swarmed us like wolves.
Three players rushed me immediately.
I shifted left—another blocked my angle.
I used Precision Touch to buy milliseconds—but they pressed like a coordinated machine.
I lost the ball.
Whistles.
Grunts.
Groans.
"Again!"
Next sequence—
I got the pass, bounced it back quickly, accelerated to create space.
Squad B still suffocated us.
Ruben yelled orders, trying to organize us.
Khalid slid in twice, saving possession.
Everyone fought like they had something to lose.
And maybe they did.
By the seventh repetition, sweat dripped down my face.
My lungs burned.
Coach Reinger nodded toward me.
"Good. But not good enough. Joseph—step up. You must demand the ball. Not hide from it."
I grit my teeth.
I wasn't hiding.
I was adapting.
When the next whistle blew—
I moved early, scanning ahead.
I called for the ball.
Khalid fired it to me.
One defender closed in.
Two more flanked.
I didn't wait—I flicked the ball behind with a sudden heel touch and spun, dragging two pressing players out of position.
Ruben saw it instantly.
He darted forward into the opening.
I played a sharp pass between the pressing lines.
Ruben broke through.
Coach Reinger's hand snapped upward.
"Better!"
The whole squad reacted.
Energy shifted.
Now Squad A fought.
We survived three waves.
Then five.
Then seven.
Breathing heavy, muscles burning—but something inside me lit up.
This was elite football.
This was where I belonged.
When the final whistle blew, Squad B collapsed from their own effort.
Squad A gathered, panting.
Ruben looked at me.
And for the first time…
He nodded.
"Not bad," he muttered.
In Blue Squad language, that meant:
You're one of us.
---
But the session wasn't done.
Coach Afolabi gathered us again.
"I have an announcement," he said. "A major one."
The entire squad straightened.
"The academy ranking system is undergoing review. That means squad placements may change based on the next 48 hours of performance."
Whispers erupted.
"Re-ranking?"
"Serious?"
"Now, when scouts might come?"
"This is mad—"
Coach Afolabi raised a hand.
"Calm down. This is an opportunity for some of you… and a wake-up call for others."
Then he looked directly at me.
"Joseph, this includes you. Your placement is temporary until the Arsenal observer confirms your invitation."
My chest tightened.
So I wasn't fully Blue Squad yet.
Not secure.
Not stable.
One mistake…
One bad session…
One moment of weakness…
And I could be dropped.
"Dismissed!" the coaches called out.
---
As players walked off, Khalid nudged me.
"You survived day one," he said softly. "But don't relax."
"Why?"
He gave a small, almost sad smile.
"Because the academy senses potential… and potential attracts pressure. And pressure attracts enemies."
I looked at him.
"Enemies?"
He nodded toward the far end of the pitch.
Darius stood there alone.
Staring at me.
Not with anger anymore.
With calculation.
Something had changed in him.
Something dangerous.
"Be careful, Joseph," Khalid whispered. "Your battle hasn't started. It's only shifting."
As I stared across the pitch, the System pinged:
[System Warning: Emotional Disturbance Detected — Rivalry Level Rising.]
[System Forecast: Upcoming Event — "Ranking Turbulence (High Risk)"]
My heartbeat slowed.
My breathing settled.
They could throw pressure.
Tension.
Enemies.
Politics.
I wasn't afraid.
I was ready.
Because this was the path to Arsenal.
This was the road to greatness.
And I wasn't turning back.
Not now.
Not ever.