Theo woke up the next morning to the soft hum of his alarm, a faint light peeking through the curtains of his room. His body was sore from the night before, but he welcomed it, a reminder of his victory. The world outside was still quiet, just like the calm before a storm. He moved through his usual morning routine with precision—shower, breakfast, stretching his muscles to shake off the stiffness. After washing his face and tying his shoelaces tight, he gathered his football gear: cleats, shin guards, and his favorite ball, slightly worn from hours of practice.
His mother stood in the doorway, watching him prepare. "Be careful, Theo, and don't forget to eat well," she said with a soft smile.
Theo nodded, a small smile on his lips. "I will, mom. I'll see you later."
She waved goodbye as he stepped outside into the crisp morning air, the soft clatter of rain from the night still lingering on the streets. He hailed a taxi, his mind racing as he slid into the back seat. The letter from Mr. Nakamura felt heavy in his jacket pocket, and after a moment of hesitation, Theo pulled it out and opened it. His eyes scanned the words, and as they sunk in, his thoughts drifted toward what awaited him at the FIPA Training Program. What challenges would he face? Who would he meet? Would he rise or falter? The uncertainty was thrilling, but it also gnawed at him. This was more than just a training program—it was his chance to prove himself, to surpass them, to show the world what he was made of.
The taxi sped through the city, and as the buildings blurred by, his mind conjured images of drills, intense matches, and scouts watching his every move. He felt a jolt of anticipation in his chest.
Moments later, the taxi slowed to a stop. Theo glanced out of the window and felt his breath catch in his throat. The building that stood before him was nothing short of massive—a sleek, modern structure that stretched high into the sky. Glass walls gleamed under the morning light, reflecting the pristine training fields that surrounded the complex. It was more like a fortress for the future of football than a mere facility.
Theo stepped out of the taxi, eyes wide in awe. As he slung his bag over his shoulder, he was greeted by the sight of Mr. Nakamura, standing just outside the gate, hands in his pockets, an approving smile on his face.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Nakamura said as he approached.
Theo nodded, trying to keep his voice steady. "Yeah. It's… big. Really nice."
Nakamura chuckled. "It's not just for show. This facility was recently built, a part of FIPA's vision to expand opportunities for players in continents like Asia and Africa. You see, this program is meant to give you all a stage where the world's eyes can watch. For players like you, Theo, this is a step toward greatness."
Theo glanced at the building again, the weight of those words sinking in. "So, what exactly will I be doing here?"
Nakamura smiled knowingly. "That's something you'll find out soon enough. Go ahead—enter, and see for yourself."
With a nod, Theo trusted Nakamura's words and stepped through the towering gates of the complex. As he made his way inside, his eyes widened further at the sight before him. Dozens of players, just like him, stood in the lobby with their bags scattered around, waiting. Some were stretching, others were sitting silently, but all of them carried the same expression—cold, calculating, competitive. The tension in the air was palpable. Theo could feel their gazes land on him as he walked by, and for a moment, a small wave of intimidation washed over him. But underneath that, something else stirred—excitement.
Before he could dwell on it, a young man approached him. "Are you here for the Training Program too?" the man asked, his tone flat.
Theo met his gaze and simply replied, "Yes." He found a chair nearby and sat down, feeling the tension in his muscles loosen slightly.
Then, a sudden voice echoed from above. A man on the second floor of the elegant building called out with a welcoming tone, "Welcome to the FIPA Training Program Japan 2024! I am Masao Yamada, President of the Japanese Football Association. Each of you standing here today are considered potential players for the Japan U-17 team and other U-17 national teams. I see many of you have traveled from across the world to be here."
Theo listened intently as the President gestured to several women dressed in sharp suits, who began walking through the room, handing each player a small card. "These are your personal FIPA cards," Yamada explained. "They grant you access to the training grounds, the marketplace, and your personal rooms. These cards are key—without them, you won't be able to access anything, so take care of them."
When the woman handed Theo his card, he glanced at the information printed on it—his full name, birthdate, address, height, weight, and most importantly, his FIPA number. He was number 7.
As Yamada continued to speak, explaining that training would begin in an hour, Theo felt a flicker of confusion about his number. "Number 7?" he muttered under his breath. What did it mean?
After the briefing ended, Theo made his way down a long corridor, searching for his assigned room. He found it easily enough and slid the card into the door. The lock clicked, and the door swung open, revealing a lavish space—far beyond what he had expected. The room was vast, with a perfect view of the sprawling training fields outside. The bathroom was large and modern, and the living room had every amenity he could ask for.
On the bed lay a sleek black uniform, neatly folded, with a letter resting on top of it. Theo picked up the letter, reading through its contents. It welcomed him to the program and explained the significance of his number. "Number 7," it read, "means you are the seventh-best player in the Black Team."
The realization hit Theo like a tidal wave. Seventh? Out of the entire Black Team, he was ranked seventh? It wasn't bad, but it wasn't the top either. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the uniform, determination simmering beneath his skin. He didn't just want to be seventh—he wanted to be the best.
After putting on his uniform, he headed to the training ground. When he arrived, he saw several other players in identical black uniforms, each with a different number stitched onto their backs. Some looked calm and composed, others like they were already sizing up the competition. Theo felt his heart quicken, but he remained focused.
Moments later, a man in a black jacket stepped forward onto the field. His presence demanded attention, and when he spoke, his voice was sharp and commanding. "Welcome to the FIPA Training Program. My name is Kasuo Kobayashi, and I'll be your manager for the Black Team."
One of the players quickly raised his hand. "What's the meaning of these numbers?" he asked, glancing at the number on his chest.
Kobayashi's eyes gleamed as he began to explain. "The numbers you've been assigned represent your rank within your team. Best to worst. We've observed each of you—your strengths, your weaknesses—and these numbers are a reflection of that. This isn't just about training. This program is a test, a battle. We'll push you beyond your limits to see how far you can go. Each team will compete in a league against one another. Matches, drills, tests of endurance. And there are scouts here watching. If you perform, if you rise above, they'll notice. Your future starts here."
Theo's mind raced. This was it. A league, a system where only the best could thrive. He looked down at the number 7 on his chest and clenched his fists. He wasn't just going to be a number—he was going to rise.
Kobayashi's voice snapped him back to reality. "Now, let's begin the training. Get ready, because from this moment on, every step, every kick, every drop of sweat will determine your future."
Then, with a sharp blow of his whistle, Kobayashi yelled with intensity that echoed across the training grounds. "Let's start the training, shall we?!"
Theo felt his blood rush, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. This was the beginning of his journey, the first step toward proving that he wasn't just seventh. He was destined to be number one, and nothing—no rain, no cold, no competition—would stand in his way.