The training ground felt different the morning after the match.
Not louder. Not quieter either.
Sharper.
Marcus noticed it as soon as he stepped through the gates. Conversations dipped half a second too late. Eyes lingered a fraction longer than before. Nothing obvious enough to call out. Enough to feel.
He slung his bag over his shoulder and walked past the main pitch. A couple of academy lads were already warming up. One of them glanced at Marcus, then nudged the other.
They both looked away.
Marcus kept walking.
The briefing room smelled like coffee and damp kit. Players dropped into their seats, boots scraping against the floor. The coach waited until everyone was in before starting.
"Last match," he said, tapping the remote. The screen lit up with paused footage. "Good result."
No one spoke.
"Movement from the nine caused problems," the coach continued, eyes on the screen, not the room. "Late drops. Dragging defenders. Creating space."
A few heads turned. Not all the way. Just enough.
"But," the coach added, clicking to the next clip, "once teams identify patterns, they counter them."
The clip showed Marcus dropping. Two defenders stepping with him this time. Space closing instead of opening.
"Football adjusts," the coach said. "Players must adjust faster."
Marcus felt it settle in his chest. Not praise. Not warning.
Expectation.
Training started with rondos.
Tight circles. One-touch. Pressure constant.
Marcus stepped into the middle of one group. The ball snapped around him. He read the angles, cut off the obvious lanes, forced a rushed pass.
Interception.
A couple of nods followed. Subtle. Acknowledging.
The next round, the drill changed.
Two defenders now. Not one.
Marcus pressed again. This time the ball moved quicker. Sharper. He arrived late.
Nutmeg.
Laughter rippled.
"UNLUCKY," someone called out.
Marcus smiled thinly and reset.
The winger caught him during a water break.
"You're making things unpredictable," he said, leaning against the fence.
Marcus unscrewed his bottle. "That's the point."
"For you," the winger replied. "When you drop, I have to guess."
Marcus took a drink, eyes still on the pitch. "Then stop guessing. Start reading."
The winger frowned. "You think it's that easy?"
Marcus capped the bottle and turned. "You think staying high is?"
The winger hesitated.
Marcus stepped closer, voice calm but firm.
"YOU'RE NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO NEEDS SPACE."
They stood there a moment longer before the whistle called them back.
The rival striker didn't wait for a private moment.
He said it loud enough for half the group to hear.
"Seventy-two, huh?" he smirked as they lined up for drills. "Must be nice. Some of us have to score goals for that."
A few snorts followed.
Marcus didn't look at him. "You're still here," he said. "Must be doing something right."
The rival's smile tightened. "We'll see how long that lasts."
They moved apart as the drill started.
The coach set up a press-resistance exercise.
Back four building from deep. Midfield under heavy pressure. The nine tasked with creating an outlet.
Marcus knew this one.
First rep.
He stayed high. Let the press compress. Waited.
Then dropped late, received, turned, and released the ball in one touch.
Clean.
The coach nodded once.
Second rep.
The press came faster. Two men closing instead of one.
Marcus tried the same movement.
The ball bounced off his shin.
Turnover.
"RESET," the coach called.
Third rep.
Marcus adjusted. Stayed high longer. Dropped even later.
The pass came, but the space was gone. He was clipped from behind. Ball lost again.
The coach said nothing.
Just wrote something down.
That silence felt heavier than shouting.
Lunch was quiet.
Marcus sat alone, scrolling through his phone without reading anything. His profile was still open in another tab. He hadn't closed it since last night.
OVERALL: 72.
The number didn't change when he stared at it.
He scrolled through the stats again.
Decision Speed. Vision. Passing.
All climbing.
Sprint Speed. Stamina.
Still lagging.
He locked the screen.
Numbers don't care if your body can keep up.
The thought sat there, unwelcome and accurate.
Afternoon training was lighter. Recovery work. Stretching. Short passing.
Marcus felt the fatigue in his calves now. Not exhaustion. Accumulation.
The rival striker walked past him during a drill and brushed his shoulder deliberately.
"Thinkers burn out first," he muttered.
Marcus didn't respond.
He finished the session cleanly. No mistakes. No highlights.
That almost bothered him more.
The pitch emptied as the sun dipped lower.
Marcus stayed.
He always did.
He placed a cone near the centre circle. Another ten yards ahead. Practiced the same movement over and over. Stay. Wait. Drop.
Sometimes he forced himself not to move at all.
Let the imaginary defender step first.
Let the space come to him.
His legs ached. His mind stayed sharp.
That imbalance scared him a little.
In the locker room later, the captain sat beside him.
"You're changing how we play," he said quietly.
Marcus looked up. "Is that a problem?"
The captain shrugged. "Only if you stop owning it."
Marcus nodded once.
That felt fair.
At home, Marcus lay on his bed staring at the ceiling.
The day replayed in fragments.
The coach's pause.
The rival's smirk.
The winger's frustration.
The drills getting harder without warning.
Stats didn't just reflect growth.
They invited attention.
They invited pressure.
They invited someone to try and break you.
Marcus rolled onto his side and picked up his phone again. Opened the profile one last time.
Same numbers.
Same Overall.
Different weight.
BEING SEEN MEANT BEING STUDIED.
He locked the screen and set the phone face-down.
Tomorrow, there'd be another session. Another tweak. Another attempt to pin him in place.
That was fine.
Let them watch.
Let them guess.
Marcus closed his eyes, already replaying the moments where he'd waited just long enough.
The space would come again.
And when it did, he'd be ready to move.