That night, Franck's dreams took a different turn. Instead of the usual vivid scenes of professional glory that he had grown accustomed to, his sleep was filled with something entirely unexpected. Surprisingly, this change didn't unsettle him. In fact, he found himself strangely drawn to these new dreams. For someone as determined as Franck, whose every waking thought was consumed by the desire to become a professional footballer, these dreams were a perfect outlet for his deepest ambitions.
What Franck didn't realize was that his previous dreams were nothing more than fleeting illusions, conjured by his subconscious mind before the activation of the Star Player Evolution engine. Now that the system had come to life, those comforting, yet superficial dreams had naturally faded away, replaced by something far more significant.
The night passed uneventfully, and morning arrived with its usual routines.
Franck awoke with a vague sense of something being different about the night before, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it. In their shared dormitory, Samuel was always the first to rise, typically at 6:30 a.m. Franck and Alain, on the other hand, preferred to sleep in. Their French exchange student roommate, a notorious night owl, would often stay up into the early hours and sleep well past breakfast. Many mornings, Franck would head down to the cafeteria for breakfast only to find his French roommate still deep in slumber.
Fridays at school were relatively relaxed. With only two morning classes, the afternoon was free, which meant time for the school team's training session. With the final looming on Sunday, Coach Norbert Elgert had planned a light training regimen. Beyond some essential passing drills and tactical exercises to keep the team sharp, the actual training session was brief, lasting just forty minutes. To add a bit of fun and prepare for the unexpected, Coach Elgert had organized a penalty shootout.
Given the formidable strength of their opponents, the Technical University of Dortmund, Westphalian University had little choice but to adopt a defensive, counter-attacking strategy. There was always the possibility that the game could stretch into extra time or even be decided by penalties. Coach Elgert, ever the strategist, had begun preparing for this potential outcome.
However, he had deliberately kept this from his players. He didn't want to burden them with unnecessary pressure. He knew all too well that in the high-stakes environment of a penalty shootout, the mental resilience of these young students would be crucial. Without the right mindset, even the most talented players could crumble under the weight of expectation.
Having spent years nurturing young talent at Schalke 04's youth academy, Coach Elgert was well-acquainted with the psychological challenges faced by players at this age.
As the players took turns stepping up to the penalty spot, their positions on the pitch dictated the order. Alain, as the team's goalkeeper, had the opposite task: while his teammates focused on scoring, his job was to thwart their efforts, honing his skills in saving penalties.
Samuel, the team's primary striker, was first up and confidently slotted the ball into the net. But it was Alain who truly caught Coach Elgert's eye. In a moment reminiscent of Jerzy Dudek's heroics in the 2005 Champions League final, where the Liverpool goalkeeper had famously waved his arms and danced on the goal line to distract penalty takers, Alain instinctively mimicked the tactic. Despite his amateur status, Alain's attempt at psychological gamesmanship displayed a remarkable level of awareness and creativity. Though his movements lacked Dudek's finesse, the mere fact that Alain understood and tried to innovate in this way was impressive.
However, the college players were easily rattled, and this included Franck. As he watched Alain's antics in front of goal, Franck couldn't help but fixate on his shooting attribute, which he knew was a mere 39. The more he dwelled on it, the more the pressure mounted. By the time it was his turn to shoot, his nerves had gotten the better of him. His final shot was weak, lacking both angle and power, and Alain easily scooped up the low, half-hearted effort.
Despite the save, Alain didn't celebrate. Instead, he walked over to Franck, who was visibly frustrated, and offered some words of encouragement. "Franck, don't worry about it. That was just luck. Don't let it get to you."
Franck forced a smile, trying to mask his disappointment. He waved Alain off casually, "Why would you apologize to me? Do you think I'm so petty? If you managed to save my shot, it's either because my shooting isn't good enough or your goalkeeping is exceptional. Given that we're friends, I'm actually happy for you. Do you really think I'd hold a grudge?"
But despite his outward bravado, Franck couldn't shake the unease gnawing at him. He thought to himself, I'm really off my game today. I just hope I don't mess up when it really counts.
This year, the school team had made it to the final, and Franck was acutely aware of the role he had played in getting them there. The last thing he wanted was to be remembered as the player who let them down when it mattered most.
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The school took the upcoming final very seriously. Before the team set off for Dortmund, the headmaster, Klaus von Richter, visited over the weekend to show his support. The school wasn't just sending the team; they were also sending two buses full of cheerleaders, determined to ensure that, even if they didn't win on the pitch, they wouldn't lose the battle of spirit and support.
Dortmund and Gelsenkirchen, both part of the Ruhr industrial region, are separated by a mere 40 kilometers. The journey along the autobahn took just half an hour, yet the anticipation made it feel much longer.
On the bus, Franck typed a quick text message: "Wait for me, I'm on my way." He sent it to Lena Weissbach, the girl who occupied his thoughts more than he liked to admit. After sending the message, he leaned back and gazed out of the window, taking in the passing scenery as his mind raced with thoughts about the match and Lena.
The bus finally pulled into the campus of the Technical University of Dortmund. The campus was unusually quiet for a weekend, with most local students having gone home. But as they neared the football pitch, the atmosphere changed dramatically. The once serene environment became charged with energy and excitement.
The home team's players, clad in their yellow jerseys, were already on the pitch, warming up with the precision and intensity of a professional squad. As Franck and his teammates arrived, the Dortmund players eyed them with a mix of curiosity and confidence, their body language exuding the assurance of defending champions.
These Dortmund players were not just any opponents; they had already caught the attention of local media and had been training under the watchful eyes of Bundesliga scouts. For them, this match was not just about winning a title; it was a crucial step towards a potential professional career. The pressure on them was immense, yet they carried it with a certain swagger, knowing they were on the brink of something big.
As soon as Franck stepped off the bus, his eyes began searching the crowd for Lena. Samuel and Alain, his close friends, also scanned the area, hoping to spot her. After a few minutes, Samuel leaned in and whispered, "Franck, you haven't seen her? Did she forget to come?"
Franck didn't respond immediately. Just as he was about to pull out his phone to call her, Alain nudged Samuel, giving him a look. Realizing his mistake, Samuel quickly apologized, "Ah, sorry, that was out of line. Don't worry, she probably just hasn't seen you yet. She's probably here somewhere, waiting for you."
Before Franck could reply, a voice cut through the tension. "Are you Franck Emmanuel Ndongo?"
Franck looked up, surprised to see a tall, imposing figure in a yellow jersey standing before him. The player was a few centimeters taller than Franck, and their eyes met at nose level, each sizing the other up.
"Yes, that's me. Do we know each other?" Franck replied, though his instincts told him this was an opponent, likely one who could spell trouble in the final.
The player looked Franck up and down with a sneer, his tone dripping with condescension. "Your height is barely acceptable... Lena is someone you're interested in, isn't she? Well, I like her too. So here's my advice: back off. You're not good enough for her. If you don't believe me, you'll see the difference between us on the pitch."
Franck's eyes narrowed with anger. It was one thing to trash talk before a game, but questioning his feelings for Lena crossed a line. This wasn't just about his pride as a player; it was about his dignity as a man.
"Hey, you bleach-blonde wannabe!" Samuel burst out before Franck could respond. "You think you're worthy? You're just a pathetic frog trying to leap at the stars! Believe it or not, I'm going to teach you a lesson right here!"
Franck hadn't even opened his mouth, but Samuel's outburst was enough to set the mood. Everyone in the school team knew about Franck's admiration for Lena, the campus beauty from the Technical University of Dortmund. It was practically an open secret.
Faced with someone who dared challenge his friend so openly, Samuel saw this as his moment to be the hero. With so many students and, more importantly, girls around, he felt this was the perfect opportunity to show his strength—and maybe catch the eye of a beauty or two.
The situation escalated quickly. Players from both teams began to gather, and tensions rose. Staff members rushed in to intervene before things could get out of hand.
Samuel glared at the player, while Alain, usually quiet and composed, began slowly removing his coat and rolling up his sleeves, revealing his muscular arms. The sight of Alain's biceps caused a murmur among the onlookers. Though Alain was a man of few words, everyone knew that when he acted, it was serious.
Sensing the brewing storm, Franck stepped in. "Samuel, Alain, this is their territory. We don't need to start something here and lose our advantage."
Reluctantly, Samuel and Alain backed off. The staff, who had been prepared to jump in, breathed a sigh of relief, silently grateful for Franck's level-headedness. A brawl on the opponent's campus would have done more than just put them at a disadvantage; it could have led to serious repercussions, possibly even disqualification from the final.
Seeing his friends back down, the player smirked sarcastically. "Ha! What a joke. You're not men—you're just a bunch of cowards."
"Watch your mouth!" Samuel growled, ready to charge again, but Franck held him back.
Franck stepped forward, meeting the player's gaze with a steely determination. He pointed a finger at the player's chest, his voice calm yet laced with menace. "You said I'm not good enough for Lena? Fine, I accept your challenge. But let me make something clear—if you lose, stay away from her. And don't ever let me catch you near her again, or you'll find out that we Cameroonians are not just skilled at mind games. We know how to deal with troublemakers."
Under Franck's intense stare, the player felt a flicker of fear. He could tell Franck wasn't bluffing. But with so many eyes on him, backing down would be even more humiliating, so he summoned his courage and retorted, "Lose? What a joke! Do you even know who I am? But I'll give you credit for your courage. My name is Conta Fermolin. Remember it well, because it's the name of the man who's going to beat you."
Franck let out a cold laugh. "You overestimate yourself. I'm not interested in remembering your name, because soon you'll be nothing more than a forgotten obstacle in my path."
Just then, a voice interrupted the tense standoff. "What's going on here? Why are you fighting as soon as you arrive? Is everything okay?"
Lena arrived a moment too late, her concern evident in her voice. She had heard about the near altercation between the two teams and had rushed over to check on Franck.
"It's been a month since I last saw you, and you look even more beautiful," Franck said, grinning.
At 1.6 meters tall, Lena had the perfect height for a young woman of German descent. Her features were delicate, with striking blue eyes that reflected both intelligence and warmth. Her blonde hair, neatly styled, framed a face that was both refined and expressive, typical of the region's natural beauty. Today, she had clearly dressed up to meet Franck. Wearing a simple yet elegant outfit—a white blouse paired with a stylish coffee-colored coat—she looked both graceful and modern. Her hair, flowing down to her shoulders, added a touch of softness to her overall appearance.
Despite Franck's playful remark, Lena was pleased, though she responded with mock indignation, "You're such a sweet talker. Are you like this with all the girls when I'm not around?"
Franck laughed. "You know me better than that! But seriously, is everything okay? Has anyone been bothering you?"
Lena's smile faltered slightly, and she hesitated before replying, "No, I'm fine."
Franck wasn't convinced. "Really? Because I just got here, and someone's already telling me to leave you alone. Conta Fermolin—do you know him?"
Lena's expression turned to one of shock, then disgust. "He came to bother you? That idiot! He's like a bad penny that won't go away. To get rid of him, I showed him your picture, thinking it would scare him off. I didn't expect him to cause you trouble... I'm so sorry, it's my fault!"
Seeing her guilty expression, Franck gently cupped her face in his hands and smiled, reassuring her. "There's no need to apologize. I've already warned him. If he loses on the field, I'll make sure he stays far away. Let's just hope he's smart enough to back off."
Lena looked at him with concern. "Be careful. That guy has been in the local papers, and he's one of the few players Dortmund has selected for trials."
Franck raised an eyebrow in surprise but then smiled confidently. "No wonder he's so full of himself. But don't worry, I can handle it. Just be sure to cheer me on."
As he stepped aside, Franck silently asked in his mind, "Tactica, there's a trialist from the Dortmund youth team on the opposing side. With my current skills, can I take him on?"
Tactica responded after a brief pause: "The host's comprehensive technical skills have reached the level of a youth team player. There is no issue in facing a semi-professional trialist. Please remain confident. After completing certain tasks, the Star Player Evolution engine will activate the simulation game program, allowing the host to view relevant data on opponents in future matches. The host should focus on completing the first task diligently."
"Good to know!" Franck felt reassured. As long as he played to his potential, he wouldn't disappoint himself—or Lena.
At 3 p.m., the match was set to begin.
The referee's whistle pierced the air, signaling the start of the 2007 German University League North Rhine-Westphalia Regional Division final.