The Ajax U-23 squad stepped into Schiphol Airport to a roar that shook the glass ceilings. Flares bloomed crimson and white, smoke curling around banners that read "LEGENDS COME FROM THE CRUCIBLE." Youth academy players swarmed them, their eyes wide as Josip hoisted the trophy overhead one last time, its silver gleaming under the fluorescent lights. He thrust it into Femi's arms with a bark of laughter, shouting, "Carry your own damn glory, Jet!"
Liam lingered at the edge of the chaos, hands tucked into his hoodie, his smile thin but genuine. He clapped as Souleymane signed a boy's jersey, the striker's quiet humility a stark contrast to the adulation around him. Bakker stood apart, arms crossed, his usual scruff replaced by a rare clean shave. When a reporter shoved a microphone in his face, he grunted, "Maybe they're ready for the next step," before slipping into the crowd like a ghost.
---
Femi's dorm room felt smaller now. The medal lay on his desk beside his frayed Lagos wristband, its gold surface catching the pale afternoon light. He traced the engraving—UEFA Youth League Champions—as memories flickered like old film: the penalty miss that haunted his first days at Ajax, Liam tossing him a ball with a smirk, Guillén's cruel step-over in their first clash. He hadn't expected the quiet that followed victory. No sirens, no fireworks in his chest—just the hum of a truth he could finally name.
The dream wasn't the final. It was proving I belonged.
A knock shattered the silence. Dekker leaned in, tossing him a training jersey. "Bakker's calling a meeting. Says we're not done yet."
---
In a sunlit Barcelona office, Lars de Groot flipped through a scouting report, Femi's face staring back from the cover. The boy's stats were underlined in red: tackles won, interceptions, leadership metrics. A club official tapped the page. "He's no longer our project. He's our problem… or our future."
Lars' phone buzzed. A message lit the screen: Oshodi confirmed for summer camp. Full evaluation. He slid the report into a drawer, the weight of it lingering like a vow.
---
Liam's boots echoed in the empty training center. Through the glass, he watched Souleymane lead drills, his voice steady as he corrected a teenager's stance. A ball rolled toward Liam's feet—he let it pass, hands stuffed in his pockets.
"Souleymane's earned the spotlight," Bakker's voice carried from the hallway, sharp and unyielding. "Let's not forget who got us there either."
Liam didn't turn. The ball settled against the wall, motionless.
---
Guillén's gym was silent save for the whir of a treadmill. He paused the screen on his tablet, Femi's winning penalty frozen mid-flight. The boy's expression was unreadable—calm, certain, kingly.
"One goal doesn't crown a king," Guillén muttered, fingers brushing the broken crown pendant hanging on his locker. "Next time, I make him bleed."
He restarted the tape, the flicker of the match painting his face in shadows.
---
In Lagos, the sun baked the dirt pitch behind Femi's old apartment. A boy in torn shorts reenacted the penalty a hundred times, bare feet sending up puffs of dust. When the ball finally kissed the rusted goalpost, he sprinted to the wall, yelling, "Naija Jet!"
His mother watched from the doorway, a tear cutting through the sweat on her cheeks. Somewhere overhead, a plane hummed, carrying dreams even it couldn't name.
Dreams don't end, Femi's voice seemed to whisper in the wind. They pass forward.