Trialist matches were a final opportunity, one last chance for released players to find a new club before becoming free agents, and for young prospects to kickstart their professional careers. Paul was here for the latter.
Watching on from the stands, he glanced at the clipboard in Andre's hand. The list in his grip ranked players from high to low priority.
"Horace Parker, huh?" Paul muttered, scanning the names. "I heard about him back in middle school. Tried bringing him in as a youth player, but he refused."
"Can't blame him," Andre said, eyes flicking across the stadium. "That was six years ago, and his talent's only grown since. Plenty of clubs are here for him."
Paul followed his gaze, noting the number of scouts in the stands, all armed with clipboards. "What are the odds we land him?"
"Considering a Brighton rep is here to watch him?" Andre scoffed. "Pretty much zero."
"Figures." Paul exhaled, returning to his squad list.
He hadn't met the players yet, but he'd seen their numbers on paper—nine in total. Five defenders, two goalkeepers, and two central midfielders. No striker. No natural wingers. Even if he kept the existing players instead of doing a full overhaul, he'd still need at least eight more just to field a proper squad.
"Anyone else you'd recommend?"
Andre flipped a page. "Well, we need a striker, a midfielder, and a winger. For midfield, there's Danny Friedmann. Defensive mid, can also play centrally. They call him 'The Tank.' He was an MK Dons youth prospect before leaving the academy."
"Think we can get him?"
"Depends on your persuasion skills. Danny's gone on record saying he doesn't care about a club's reputation, only the head coach."
"Hm." Paul nodded. "What about the other positions?"
Andre hesitated. "Not many stand out. Maybe Nagisa Aoto. Left winger, decent pace. But there's not much data on him, and most scouts don't think he has what it takes for this level."
"Then we'll have to see for ourselves." Paul sighed.
"Looks that way."
The stadium, nearly empty just an hour ago, had filled as kickoff neared. Commentators settled at their desks, their conversations filling the radio. The weather was perfect. Down on the pitch, the players emerged from their respective tunnels, stepping onto the grass where their futures would be decided.
[Tryout Team A.]
Coach: Haganezuka Kazuya.
Formation: 4-4-2
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Goalkeeper (1) Richard Tellago
Left back (3) Julian Evecree
Center back(6) Dane Orchard
Center Back(4) Winston Shaw
Right back(2) Daniel Murray
Left MF(7) Nagisa Aoto
Center MF(8) Callum Sharpe
Center MF(9) Liam Briar
Right MF(10) Samson Rochdale
Center forward(11) Ashley Richardson.
Center forward(5) Max Basil.
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Subs. GK. Josiah Matthew's. LB. Andrew Cobb's. CB. Leah Mikelson. CM. Jon Daniels.. CM. Demar Gaye. CF. Viktor Hannibal.
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[Tryout Team B.]
Coach: Randall Disani.
Formation: 4-5-1
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Goalkeeper (1) – Matías Kingston
Left Back (2) – Jasper Whitmore
Center Back (5) – Everest Wallflower
Center Back (6) – Colton Frazier
Right Back (3) – Juan Manuel Toledo
Left Midfielder (7) – Ini Ukaze
Center Midfielder (9) – Randall Brickford
Defensive Midfielder (8) – Danny Friedmann
Center Midfielder (10) – Benjamin Parker
Right Midfielder (11) – Dorian Caldera
Center Forward (4) – Horace Parker
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Subs GK. Cecil Saltwaters. CB. Cillian Caldwell. LB. Aldreive Marshton. CM. Quentin Farrier. RW. Vernon Aldston. CF. Angelo Donneiss.
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The stadium erupted in an uproar, but all eyes were locked on Callum Sharpe—a seasoned 24-year-old midfielder who once played for Sky Bet Championship winners Leicester.
"What are the odds of us getting him?" Paul muttered, watching the players take their positions.
Andre scoffed. "Well, the last wages he was paid before getting released were..." He hesitated. "In the six figures."
"Moving on," Paul said, shifting his attention back to the field.
The players moved into formation. Across the stands, the murmur of scouts filled the air, names passing between them like currency. Ini Ukaze. Callum Sharpe. Horace Parker.
Paul knew the chances of landing any of them were near zero. Their club was dead on arrival. But he couldn't afford to give up just yet.
The referee's whistle cut through the noise.
The match was underway.
Team B took possession, Randall knocking the ball toward Danny, who sent it back as they pushed forward.
Paul studied the players closely. Half of them were out of position, unaware of their markers. Everyone except Horace.
The ball moved upfield, carried by Colton. He found Danny, sending a pass toward the right flank. But Team A was already pressing—Samson closing in, his body pressed against Danny, legs stabbing at the ball.
"I'm open!" Juan called, sprinting forward.
Danny barely acknowledged him. He dug in, using his strength to shove Samson back, then spun away, blowing past his man and charging toward the box.
Juan grimaced, but continued his run.
He knew this wasn't a team game—it was a trial. A last chance for some. If they didn't show what they could do, no one would remember their names.
Selfish play was expected. But scoring alone wasn't the goal.
Danny pulled up as two defenders closed in, quickly shifting the ball to Benjamin—originally a striker—who, despite playing as a central midfielder in this match, had instinctively drifted high up the pitch, as if his old role still lingered in his movements.
Benjamin wasted no time, exploiting a gap in the defense and breaking into the box. Only one man stood in his way, Dane Orchard. The Iron Mountain.
Dane stepped back, eyes locked on Benjamin. Once hailed by the press as the next Van Dijk, his career had stalled at Walsall, where a lack of game time had pushed him into obscurity.
"What a fall from grace," Benjamin muttered as he flicked the ball up with both feet, slipping past him with ease.
Only the keeper remained and since Benjamin had cut in from the right, the goalkeeper had sealed the near post. The angle was poor.
But he had to score.
If he didn't, he'd always be Horace Parker's brother. The sidekick. The one who assisted a generational talent.
That would be his legacy.
He wound back, ready to shoot, then hesitated.
A presence surged into the box. Unmarked. A force of nature.
Horace.
Benjamin didn't need to look at him. His entire posture screamed for the ball.
And he obeyed.
The pass curled toward the left side of the goal. The keeper adjusted, tracking its trajectory, but the ball had gone too wide. It was heading out for a goal kick. The keeper saw it, hesitated—
But Horace didn't.
His foot slammed into the turf, a burst of acceleration sending him toward the ball. With one clean strike, he met it at full stretch.
The net rippled.
The scoreboard flipped. 1-0.
The stadium exploded. Cheers thundered through the stands. Scouts scribbled frantically, adjusting their rankings. Some moved Horace up the list. Others placed him at the top.
Paul bit the back of his finger, suppressing a groan. He knew it was impossible, but a small, selfish part of him wished Horace had finished the match with zero goal contributions and a 5.9 rating—just enough to fly under the radar so they'd have a shot at signing him.
But that was wishful thinking.
"Do we push him down the list?" Andre asked.
"Remove him," Paul said flatly. "Let's focus on the others."
Andre glanced at the clipboard. "That kid Benjamin... what do you think?"
"He hesitated. Had a clear chance but passed."
"Maybe he wanted his brother to take the spotlight?"
"Or maybe he's a shadow." Paul's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Add him to the list, might be a hard catch but getting him on our side would be monumental."
The game continued, Team A with the ball as Liam passed toward Callum, the experienced player now walking forward with the ball.
He was arguably the most famous person here, having once played in the premier league, he walked forward, glancing at the entire pitch, he could see the players dashing toward him, most of them slightly scared, avoiding getting blown past.
It was understandable, his reputation did precede him after all.
However not everyone was scared as Danny dashed toward him, leg outstretched as he reached for the ball.
Instantly dragging the ball back, Danny missed his attempt, Callum smiled, now dashing past Danny who quickly turned, his arm wrapped against the midfielder, dragging him as they pushed up the field in a struggle.
"What do you think about Callum?" Andre said, glancing at his clipboard. He hadn't bothered adding the player to his list.
"His vision is good, with just a glance he can understand the entire game." Paul said. Staring at the game. "He's not the type of player you win in a fair fight."
He dragged the ball back once again, but Danny was hot on his tracks, his leg lunging out, but before he could reach it—a flick. The ball left Callum's feet, going to the left flank.
To Nagisa.
Nagisa caught the ball, dashing down the left flank as Callum shook off Danny, the both of them running down the field.
The clock ticked, already fifteen minutes into the game, the players were at peak fitness and it showed.
Jasper and Everest were already blocking Nagisa's path, with Everest blocking the passing lane that would lead to a cross into the box.
Nagisa turned, his left back, Julian already made his run wide. About to pass him and either draw one defender away, or make a dummy run that could leave Nagisa through.
But Nagisa didn't wait.
Danny's earlier play had showed him something, the end product of a goal was only useful for the strikers. Midfielders like them gained points from their assists and key passes.
He dashed toward Jasper. The defender inching backward as Nagisa blasted toward him.
Two strikers lurked on the edge of the box, awaiting the cross, all he needed to do was get passed his man and get a good enough cross into the box, that would no doubt shoot his rating up, it would increase his chances. It would increase his chances!
Nagisa nudged the ball forward, then surged after it, his arm lunging as he and Jasper battled for position. Everest dropped back, hands low and ready, angling his body to block any potential cross.
But Nagisa was quicker. As he reached the ball, his route was cut off, Jasper's leg stretched across his path and Everest held his ground perfectly. A cross from this angle would go nowhere.
Planting his foot hard into the turf, Nagisa yanked the ball back—Jasper's lunge sailing past him. He nearly lost his balance, twisting mid-fall as he whipped the ball across the field.
He glanced up immediately. Had the cross gone through? Had he created a chance? Had he finally made his mark?
The answer came swiftly. Ini, lurking closer to the flank than expected, intercepted the ball just behind Everest. With a sweeping motion, he launched it upfield in a long, powerful clearance.
A mere clearance, that's what everyone else had thought.
But Paul looked onto the field, at the only player on Team B with perfect positioning.
Horace.
The ball got caught in his foot, Horace moving through the scanty defense as he ran toward the keeper.
The team had pushed their defense too far up and had been made to pay for it, however Dane was there again, his face twisted with anger as he stared at the ball.
Horace didn't even look at the defender.
He wasn't worth his time.
With a simple flick, Horace shifted the ball to his right foot. Dane lunged, his leg snapping out in a desperate attempt to poke it away.
But he was too slow.
Horace glided past him with ease, the defender stumbling to the ground—humiliated, just like he had been by the other Parker earlier in the match.
The keeper rushed out, now standing at the very edge of the box, arms spread wide in an attempt to make himself look larger.
It was working.
The pressure, the angle. It would've rattled most players.
But Horace didn't flinch.
With a delicate touch, he chipped the ball upward, lifting it over the keeper's outstretched hands, sending it arcing high into the air... and dropping softly into the net.
"This isn't even enough for a warm-up," Horace muttered.
As the keeper collapsed onto his back, arm still outstretched in vain, Horace turned and began walking toward his half. The crowd erupted in cheers, but his face remained blank. No emotion, no excitement, just calm.
The situation had changed.
Every scout in the stands now had the same name circled at the top of their lists. Horace wasn't just a promising talent anymore, he was a priority. Signing him wasn't a matter of interest; it was a necessity.
Anyone with eyes could see it: this was a player you built a team around. A future star. A world-class engine in the making.
The crowd had burst into cheers, media outlets already lauding the players amazing brace, but all Paul could do was gulp. Horace was the real deal, and he was only eighteen.
"What do we do now?" Andre said, looking over the game.
"Put Nagisa up our list. No one's going for him," Paul said, eyes scanning the field. "He made a selfish gamble, and it didn't pay off. In everyone else's eyes, his career's pretty much dead."
"Bit harsh, no?"
It was harsh, but that was football. If you had the eye, you didn't just see the talent. You saw the fight, the flashes of something deeper. And if you understood people, you could see where they'd be, given the right push, the right system.
Nagisa had that spark. He wasn't there yet, but Paul could see the shape of the player he'd become.
"I'll turn him into a star," Paul said with a quiet laugh. "He's a winger, right? I'll make him my next Cryscensio."