"Pass the ball."
Hearing my teammate's voice, I lift my head to check if he's marked. No, he's open, perfectly positioned for a shot. Without hesitation, I send a firm, quick pass, hoping it reaches him before the nearest defender can intervene.
The ball whistles through the air. My teammate traps it flawlessly and prepares to shoot. But suddenly, an opponent slides in out of nowhere, attempting to snatch the ball away. My heart skips a beat.
The smack of leather against his boot reassures me—he's taken the shot. The ball hurtles forward but veers off course. It ricochets off the post and bounces back to my feet.
"You again," I murmur instinctively.
I'm just outside the box. A small gap opens up between two defenders—a narrow window. No time to think. I strike with all my strength.
The ball slices through the air. A brief silence. Then, the roar: the net ripples. Goal.
My teammates rush towards me, shouting in joy, but amid the celebration, I notice something strange. At the edge of the field, a mysterious figure watches the match. Dressed in a black jacket, a notebook in hand. Our eyes meet for a fleeting moment.
The figure remains motionless, their gaze fixed on me. They seem captivated, analyzing every detail, every move. Their rapid note-taking sparks my curiosity, but the euphoria of the moment keeps me from dwelling on it.
I can't help but wonder: are they a scout?
---
The game resumes quickly after our celebration. Despite the joy of the goal, the image of the mysterious figure lingers in my mind. Are they a recruiter? Perhaps a journalist? Or just a curious spectator? It doesn't matter—I force myself to stay focused.
The ball rolls again, and the intensity of the game ramps up. The opposing team is determined to equalize, but their pressure only fuels our determination. Every action, every pass, every run feels more instinctive.
A few minutes later, another opportunity arises. A teammate recovers the ball in midfield and sends it forward to me. I sprint at full speed, the defender hot on my heels. I feel the pressure but also hear the cheers from my teammates and the crowd.
This time, no pass. I execute a quick feint to shake off my opponent, set up my right foot, and shoot. The ball rises slightly, then dips just beneath the crossbar. Second goal.
The cheers are even louder than the first. My teammates swarm around me, but my gaze instinctively returns to the edge of the field. The figure is still there. This time, they give me a subtle nod, almost imperceptible, before turning and disappearing behind the stands.
---
As the match winds down, my mind is elsewhere. Who was that person? Why were they so interested in me? When the referee blows the final whistle, we've won, but I'm left with a mix of euphoria and intrigue. I need to know.
Leaving the field, I ask one of the coaches if he noticed someone with a notebook near the sideline. He shrugs.
"Not really, but scouts or journalists often drop by. They don't always make themselves known."
Intrigued, I decide to look for them. Maybe they're still around, somewhere in the stadium. My heart races, faster than during the match. As I walk through the corridors leading to the exit, I notice a trail of sand on the floor. It leads toward the stands.
---
I climb the steps hurriedly, scanning for the mysterious figure. Fans mill around me, chatting about the game, drinking, laughing, but there's no sign of the person in the black jacket. Maybe they've already left. Maybe I imagined it. But just as I'm about to give up, a voice calls out behind me.
"Nice shot out there."
I spin around. It's them. The mysterious figure stands a few meters away, still holding their notebook. Up close, I see a woman in her forties with sharp features and piercing eyes. Her calm, almost intimidating demeanor makes me uneasy.
"Are you a scout?" I ask, trying to hide my excitement.
She smirks but doesn't answer directly.
"Do you always play like that, or was it just a good day?"
Her question catches me off guard.
"I… I give my best in every match."
She nods, jotting something quickly in her notebook.
"Keep it up. You've got potential. But potential alone isn't enough."
I stand frozen, trying to grasp her meaning.
"Do you work for a club?" I press.
She closes her notebook and pockets her pen, signaling the end of our conversation.
"Let's just say I'm looking for players with vision, determination. You might fit the bill… if you stay on this path."
Before I can ask more, she walks away, leaving me with a flood of unanswered questions. Who was she really? Why did she seem so interested in me yet so elusive?
---
That encounter stays with me all evening. Even during the team's celebrations, her words echo in my mind. "Potential alone isn't enough." What did she mean? Was it a critique? A challenge? Perhaps both.
Back home, I replay the match in my head. Did I really perform well? Was it enough to catch someone's attention like hers? I decide then and there to push myself harder, to prove I'm worth noticing.
---
In the days that follow, I return to training with renewed motivation. Every pass, every shot, every sprint is an opportunity to improve. I push my limits, wondering if she'll return. But weeks go by, and there's no sign of her. Perhaps I'll never see her again. Perhaps she's already moved on to another player.
One morning, as I head out for a run, I find an envelope slipped under my door. Inside is a single sheet of paper with an address and a time written on it, along with one phrase: "Come ready."
My heart pounds. Is it her? Is this an opportunity?
I decide not to tell my team. It could be a coincidence or something trivial. But deep down, I know it's not.
At the designated time, I arrive at the address. A small training pitch, secluded, surrounded by high fences. On the field, she's there, accompanied by another man I don't recognize.
"Ready to prove you're not just another player?" she asks, her gaze as intense as ever.
And in that moment, I realize this could be the turning point of my life.