The whistle blew sharp and loud across the training pitch.
"Everyone to the center circle," Coach Dubois called out while players jogged from the locker room in their training kits. "Standard warm-up before we split. Let's go."
Twenty-eight players gathered in a loose group while the morning sun climbed higher over Pau FC's academy facility, so he fell into line behind Lucas as they began jogging laps around the pitch.
His legs felt light.
That registered after the first fifty meters because his body was nineteen again and the weight of fifty years had disappeared completely, yet something felt off while he ran because his lungs were burning faster than they should have been.
He'd spent twenty years watching football obsessively and his fifty-year-old mind remembered what proper fitness felt like, but this nineteen-year-old body had 63 stamina which should have been decent for academy level.
Should have been.
The problem was his brain expected more endurance than this body could deliver, so the disconnect between mental expectation and physical reality created confusion while he tried to find a sustainable pace.
Players around him were breathing harder though.
Lucas was already sucking air beside him while another midfielder ahead had slowed his pace noticeably, so he realized that 63 stamina was actually better than most of his peers who were sitting around 50-60 in that attribute.
He maintained his pace while others struggled.
"Beauséjour," Coach Dubois's voice cut across the pitch. "Pick up the pace in front. Set the tempo."
His head turned slightly because the coach had singled him out—not to criticize but to lead—and that had never happened in the original timeline where he'd been invisible until the accusation destroyed everything.
He accelerated while his legs pushed harder, then the group behind him matched the new pace because he was setting the standard now.
Text appeared in his peripheral vision.
|WARM-UP PROGRESS: 5/15 MINUTES|
The system was tracking everything in real-time just like it had promised, so he kept running while the counter ticked upward and his teammates followed his lead.
Lucas pulled up beside him after two more laps. "Bro, you good? You've got energy today."
"Yeah," he replied while keeping his breathing controlled. "Slept well."
"After last night? That's wild." Lucas shook his head before falling back slightly as the pace continued.
The warm-up lasted fifteen minutes with jogging, dynamic stretching, and activation drills that got blood flowing to muscles, then Coach Dubois blew his whistle twice to signal the end.
|WARM-UP: 15/15 MINUTES COMPLETE ✓|
"Alright, split into positional groups," the coach called out while pointing to different areas of the pitch. "Strikers and wingers with Coach Bernard at the penalty area. Midfielders stay with me at the center circle. Defenders with Coach Laurent near our box. Goalkeepers with Coach Mathis. Move."
The squad dispersed immediately while players jogged to their designated zones, so he followed five other attackers toward the penalty area where Coach Bernard was already setting up cones in a pattern.
Bernard was older—maybe fifty-five—with gray hair and a face that looked like it had seen every training drill ever invented, so when he spoke his voice carried authority that came from decades of molding strikers.
"Finishing drills," Bernard said flatly while the six attackers gathered around him. "Twenty shots each from various positions. I want accuracy over power. Missing the target completely is worse than a weak shot on frame. Understood?"
The group nodded while Bernard gestured to the first cone fifteen yards from goal.
"Line up. One at a time. Ball starts here, you take one touch to set yourself, then shoot. Keeper will rotate every five shots so everyone gets different angles."
Text appeared in his vision.
|QUEST 1 PROGRESS: SHOTS ON TARGET 0/20|
The academy's star striker—a kid named Antoine who would go on to sign with Lyon's first team in a few years—went first while the ball was passed to him at the cone.
Antoine took one touch with his right foot before striking cleanly with his left, so the ball flew into the top corner past the diving keeper with precision that made it look easy.
"Good," Bernard said without emotion. "Next."
The line moved while each striker took their turn, then it was his turn and the ball came rolling toward him at the cone.
His first touch was heavier than intended because his ball control wasn't good enough to kill the ball perfectly, so he had to adjust his body position before shooting and the rushed strike sailed high over the crossbar.
"Again," Bernard called out. "Plant foot closer to the ball. Don't lean back."
Antoine smirked from the back of the line.
The ball came again and he focused on the system's guidance from earlier training sessions, so his plant foot landed closer this time while his striking foot connected better, yet the shot still went wide right.
Three out of his first ten attempts hit the target.
Text blinked in his vision.
|SYSTEM| "Plant foot 12cm too far. Ankle not locked. Strike through the center of the ball."
The feedback was cold and precise without any encouragement, but it was accurate because he could feel the issues the system described.
His next shot followed the corrections exactly—plant foot closer, ankle locked, strike through center—and the ball flew straight into the bottom corner.
"Better," Bernard grunted. "Keep that form."
Five out of his next ten hit the target because the system's real-time feedback let him adjust faster than normal learning would allow, so by the end of the first set he had eight total shots on target out of twenty attempts.
|SHOTS ON TARGET: 8/20|
The other strikers were rotating through while Bernard set up the second drill—receiving crosses from wide positions and finishing with either foot or head.
"Same concept," Bernard explained while pointing to the wing where an assistant coach waited with balls. "Cross comes in, you attack it, finish. Twenty attempts total. Go."
Antoine went first again and won the aerial duel easily before heading powerfully past the keeper, so the gap between natural talent and hard work was obvious when someone with 68 overall made everything look simple.
The drill continued while each striker took their turn attacking crosses, then the ball came whipped in from the right wing toward him.
He timed his run and jumped but the ball sailed over his head because his vertical leap wasn't enough to reach it, so frustration flared briefly before the system's text appeared.
|SYSTEM| "Jump timing 0.3 seconds too late. Anticipate the cross earlier. Watch the crosser's body shape."
The next cross came and he focused on the assistant coach's shoulder position before the ball was struck, so he started his run earlier and jumped at the right moment, yet he still lost the header to a defender because his leap wasn't high enough.
He won three aerial duels out of ten attempts.
|AERIAL DUELS WON: 3/10|
The drill shifted to ground crosses where he could use his feet instead of his head, so his success rate improved because his finishing was barely adequate but better than his aerial ability.
He managed to put six more shots on target from the remaining crosses, then Bernard blew his whistle.
"Last set," the coach called out. "Free shooting from eighteen yards. Find your own space, create your own angle, finish. Go."
The strikers spread out while balls were passed to them at various positions around the box, so he received one just outside the penalty area and took a touch to his right before striking with his left foot.
The ball flew into the side netting.
|SHOTS ON TARGET: 15/20|
Three more attempts followed with two on target and one wide, then the final ball came to him with space to shoot.
He remembered the system's earlier feedback—plant foot position, locked ankle, strike through center—and executed the technique as cleanly as his current ability would allow.
The ball rocketed low and hard into the bottom right corner past the keeper's dive.
"Good," Bernard said while nodding once. "That's the standard. Hit it."
|SHOTS ON TARGET: 20/20 COMPLETE ✓|
The positional training lasted forty minutes total before Coach Dubois's whistle echoed across the entire pitch, so all the groups stopped their drills and jogged back toward the center circle.
Twenty-two players gathered again while coaches conferred briefly, then Dubois stepped forward with his clipboard.
"Tactical work for the next twenty minutes," he announced while gesturing to the pitch. "We're working on our pressing shape and transition from defense to attack. Pay attention to your positioning and spacing."
The squad organized into formation while Dubois walked them through defensive triggers and pressing patterns, so he stood in the striker position and followed instructions while his thirty-nine-year-old football brain processed the tactics faster than everyone around him.
When Dubois explained the pressing trigger—second pass in their half meant immediate pressure—his mind had already calculated three scenarios where that pattern would break down against competent opposition.
"Beauséjour," Dubois called out. "When the ball goes to their right back, where should you be?"
"Cutting the passing lane to their defensive midfielder," he answered immediately while pointing to the space. "Force them wide or back to the keeper."
Dubois nodded. "Correct. Everyone see that?"
The tactical work continued while they walked through patterns without opposition, then Dubois added resistance with coaches playing as opponents, so the intensity increased while players had to execute under pressure.
His positioning was consistently good because his brain understood space and timing, but his body couldn't always execute what his mind knew because technical ability lagged behind tactical intelligence.
|SQUAD TRAINING: 65/90 MINUTES|
Dubois blew his whistle twice before checking his watch.
"Alright, listen up," he called out while the squad gathered around him. "We're finishing with eleven-versus-eleven. Full match simulation, twenty minutes each half. This is your chance to show me what you can do before Friday's match against Paris FC academy."
The mention of Paris FC made several players straighten up because academy matches mattered for scouting reports and playing time, so everyone knew this scrimmage would determine who made the squad for Friday.
Dubois pulled out his clipboard and pen.
"Team A in white training shirts," he said while reading names. "Antoine up front. Matthieu and Jules on the wings. Sofiane, Lucas, and Karim in midfield. Defense: Thomas, Alexandre, Pierre, and Romain. Malik in goal."
Team A was a mix—Antoine and Lucas were among the best in the squad, but Thomas and Pierre were solid but unspectacular defenders while Romain was fighting for his spot just like everyone else.
"Team B in yellow bibs," Dubois continued. "Beauséjour up front."
His name came first for the second team because striker was his position, then Dubois read off ten more names that included some talented players mixed with development cases like himself—the coach was clearly balancing the teams to make the scrimmage competitive.
"Subs for both sides," Dubois finished while naming the remaining six players—three per team. "Both teams get your bibs organized. Five minutes to sort out your shape, then we kickoff."
The squad dispersed while Team A gathered confidently on one side and Team B—his team—pulled on yellow bibs with less swagger because everyone knew they were the weaker eleven.
Antoine caught his eye from across the pitch before smirking while adjusting his white shirt, so the message was clear: the star striker expected to dominate this scrimmage and prove the gap between talent and mediocrity.
He pulled the yellow bib over his head and walked toward his teammates.
This was his chance.