Ray Arlon, as instructed, decided to head to the locker room. They had three hours before the next set of trial sessions began. His legs moved slowly at first, as though his body still carried the weight of the last drill. The morning had drained him, but it was his mind that felt heavier than his muscles. Every step toward the locker room echoed with questions and doubt.
On his way there, something caught his eye.
Just outside the training pitch, by the bench near the tall hedges, he saw Ibrahim Salem talking with Zhang Wei. They were standing close, speaking quietly. Ray's first instinct was to stop, maybe eavesdrop, just for a second. But even as he slowed down, his conscience whispered that it wouldn't be right to listen in. It wasn't his place to pry into someone else's conversation, especially not in the open like that.
Still, it troubled him.
It wasn't the conversation itself, but the feeling—the way Ibrahim stood with Zhang Wei, like he already knew Zhang would be the one picked. Ibrahim looked relaxed, comfortable, maybe even impressed. Zhang Wei had been flawless this morning. Ray hadn't forgotten the way he headed all three balls into the net, or the way his movements during the positioning drill were almost like poetry. He had six points. Ray had none.
Ray's eyes lingered on them longer than he meant to. The way Zhang Wei spoke, how Ibrahim listened, it all felt too familiar. Too easy. Like they already belonged to the same team.
Then it happened.
Zhang Wei turned his head slightly and met Ray's eyes. For a brief moment, the two locked gazes. Ray quickly looked away, pretending he hadn't been watching. His heart skipped. He didn't want to look like a stalker. He quickened his pace and entered the locker room.
Inside, the other trial players were scattered across benches, leaning against walls, gulping water, or just resting their legs. But the room wasn't quiet.
"Did you see Zhang Wei's finish on the last drill?" someone whispered from a corner.
"Man's like a machine," another replied. "Little Iniesta feeding the new Pelé."
"New Pelé? That's pushing it," someone else muttered, but no one disagreed too loudly.
Ray sat down and listened quietly. Everyone was talking about Zhang Wei. Some even gave side glances at Ibrahim, who sat at the far end, focused on tying his laces. Ray had to admit that Zhang was good, maybe even professional-ready, but Pelé? That felt like a bit much. It was only a trial, after all. Still, hearing those names tossed around only reminded him of how far he still had to go.
Then something unexpected happened.
Zhang Wei entered the locker room, calm as ever, eyes steady, posture straight. He scanned the room for a second, then walked directly toward Ray. The chatter slowly faded as everyone noticed. A few heads turned. Some stopped mid-sentence. The air shifted.
Zhang Wei stood in front of Ray and said, "Can we talk outside?"
His voice was polite. Clear. Not commanding, but not unsure either.
Ray blinked, surprised. He looked around. Almost everyone in the room was staring. Why him? Why now? His heart began to race a little, but he nodded.
"Sure."
****
They stepped outside into the warm noon light. The clouds above drifted slowly across the sky, casting moving shadows across the training ground. The breeze had picked up slightly, brushing past their faces as they stopped by the fence.
Zhang Wei was the first to speak.
"Do you understand football?"
The question caught Ray off guard. It wasn't the kind of thing he expected. Not after such a tense morning. Not after their brief eye contact earlier. He tilted his head slightly, confused.
"That's... kind of a weird way to start a conversation," he said honestly.
Zhang smiled faintly.
Ray thought for a moment, then answered.
"Football is seen by many as nothing more than a sport. Two teams of eleven players, playing for not less than ninety minutes, chasing one goal—score more. But that's what many see. Not all."
He paused to gather his words.
"For me, I see football as hope. The hope that can spark the heart of every child. Every man, old or young. It's the spark that drives a community. A sport where even the dead are immortalized. Before I found this game, I used to fear that I would be forgotten. But now, I know... I'll live on in the memories of people. Through football."
Zhang chuckled softly.
"That's a pretty long answer," he said, "but not entirely wrong."
He looked out at the field, eyes narrowing slightly.
"I can see you love the game, Ray. So do I. But my motives are greater than that. My goals go beyond what most people can understand."
Ray was surprised by his words. There was something odd about the way Zhang spoke—calm, but layered with something deeper.
He asked, "Then why leave Bayern Youth Camp? Bayern Munich is one of the best teams in Europe."
Zhang began to pace slowly in a circle around Ray, hands behind his back.
"But they aren't in the Premier League," he said, as if the answer was obvious.
He continued without waiting.
"I need to play in the Premier League, at least for some time—to complete a stage of my path. My dao. My way."
Ray squinted. "Your... what?"
Zhang turned to him.
"My dao. My journey. Everyone has one, even if they don't realize it."
He looked directly at Ray again and asked, "You a Chelsea fan?"
Ray stood taller.
"Yes. Through and through."
Zhang nodded slowly.
"That's why I'll be the one selected in this trial. Mark my words," Ray added. "I don't care how good you are. I'll best you."
Zhang raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.
"Whoa. A challenge," he said. "It's been a long time since someone's said something like that to me. You have no points, yet you speak like someone leading the pack. Your courage and resilience… they're impressive. They make you a good rival."
Ray blinked. "Rival?"
"Yes. You're my rival now. I didn't initiate it. You did, by challenging me."
Ray smiled. A small one, but genuine.
"Then let's give it our all."
Zhang nodded once. The moment passed in silence.
Together, they walked back toward the field. The afternoon creaped in , and the second half of the trial was about to begin.
Coach Hamilton stood in the middle of the pitch, whistle around his neck, clipboard in hand.
"Alright," he called out. "Next test—penalty proficiency."
He stepped forward and pointed to the white dot near the edge of the box.
"One shot per player. Simple as that. Ball goes in, three points. Miss, and you get nothing. No replays, no do-overs."
He paused, letting the silence do the talking.
"This is the third test. If you haven't gotten any points yet, and you miss here—just know, you won't be selected. There are only five trials. Think about that."
The words sent a wave through the players. Some looked at the ground. Others swallowed hard. Ray felt the tension wrap around his chest like a tight vest.
He clenched his fist. His palms were sweaty. A drop of sweat slid down his cheek, though the sun wasn't even that strong. He reminded himself he had been practicing penalties for two months straight.
The first player stepped up.
He missed. The ball hit the post and bounced out.
The next player sent his shot over the bar. Another tried to be clever with a chip, but the keeper caught it easily.
One after another, hopefuls failed. Some fell to their knees. Others cursed under their breath. A few walked off in silence, heads down, dreams slipping away with every missed penalty.
Then it was Ray's turn.
He stepped up to the spot. The crowd noise faded. It was just him, the ball, and the goal. He closed his eyes and whispered a short prayer under his breath.
Just one shot. You've practiced this. You've done it in the cold. In the rain. In your sleep.
He thought about what Zhang Wei said. Rival. That word echoed in his mind.
He opened his eyes. Took two steps back. One to the side. Breathed in. Breathed out.
Then he struck.
The ball curled low to the right corner, just past the keeper's outstretched hand. It hit the net with a soft thump.
Goal.
Three points.
He exhaled.
He turned, jogged back slowly. A few claps came from the sideline. Nothing loud. But enough.
Then Zhang Wei stepped forward.
There was no nervousness in his walk. No hesitation. He placed the ball on the spot. Took his steps. Looked up.
He shot.
The keeper guessed right. Dove. Stretched out. The ball bounced off the glove and spun just wide of the post.
Zhang missed.
Gasps filled the air. Even the assistant coach flinched. Zhang stood still for a second, then calmly walked back, face unreadable.
Ray watched him. For the first time, Zhang looked... human.
And with that miss, Ray Arlon was still in the game. He still had a chance of being the number one and getting chosen.
He had three points.
Zhang Wei had six.