The morning after victory should have felt like glory. The trophy gleamed under the soft light of the academy's common hall, its polished surface reflecting the flashes of teammates' phones as they posed for photos, laughing as though the night's adrenaline had followed them into the new day. Medals clinked like tiny bells with every movement, reminders of what they had achieved. Everywhere, there was life—high-fives, exaggerated retellings of the final goal, and the lingering electricity of triumph.
Yet Noah sat apart, medal laid flat on the table like an ornament someone else had earned. He watched as Leo replayed his winning strike for a group of teammates, each showing mock amazement as though they hadn't all seen it already. Riku was nearby, fielding praise about his pressing and intensity, his name echoing across conversations. Noah's phone buzzed relentlessly, but every clip, every tagged post, told the same story: Leo the hero, Riku the engine, and Noah… mentioned only as the one who "played the assist."
He tightened his grip on the edge of the table. He had controlled the rhythm of the match, pulled strings in silence, yet no one seemed to see it. That was the way of midfielders who stayed quiet, who didn't score or roar or wave their arms to command attention. It was a bitter truth that even victory couldn't sweeten: the game celebrated noise, not subtlety.
"Why the face?" Riku's voice cut through the room's noise as he slid into the seat opposite Noah, tray in hand. "You look like we lost yesterday."
Noah forced a smile, one corner of his mouth barely lifting. "Just… thinking."
"About what?"
Noah hesitated. "Feels like I'm invisible out there. I make the plays, but people only remember who scores."
Riku leaned back, folding his arms, eyes narrowing slightly as though weighing the words. "Welcome to football. People don't love balance; they love fireworks. You want attention? Score or lead. Make them feel you."
The words settled in Noah's chest like lead. He had spent his entire playing life avoiding mistakes, being safe. Even his passing—yesterday's match-winning thread through defenders—had come from discipline and caution honed over years. But charisma? Leadership? Shooting? Those weren't safe. Those were risks. And risks scared him more than defenders ever did.
Coach Harper summoned him to his office not long after breakfast. The coach's expression was unreadable, as always, but there was a weight in his voice when he spoke. "You played well, Noah. Better than well. But do you know why the scouts weren't swarming you?"
"Because I don't score," Noah answered, his voice flat.
Harper nodded once. "That's part of it. But it's more than goals—you don't command. You control, but you don't own. You let the game flow through you, but you don't grab it by the throat. If you want to be recognized, you need to step beyond comfort. Take shots. Speak up. Lead."
Noah stared at the floor, the words gnawing at him. "How do I even start?"
"By failing a few times," Harper said simply. "And learning to like it."
That evening, Noah found himself walking past the empty pitch, still replaying Harper's words. He was pulled from his thoughts by a voice, smooth and accented: "You are Noah Carter, yes?"
The man standing there was tall, sharp-featured, with eyes that missed nothing. He extended a hand. "Jeroen Veldman. I work with Ajax youth scouting. Your vision yesterday… it's rare. We like players who see the game differently."
Noah blinked, caught off guard. "Ajax… like, Ajax Ajax?"
Jeroen's lips curled slightly. "The same. We value intelligence, tempo control, and passing creativity. In our league, players like you are not invisible. You would grow there—faster, smarter, stronger. We are interested, if you are willing to leave England behind."
Noah hesitated, taking the card offered. "I'll… think about it."
"Please do," Jeroen said, before walking away with the calm certainty of someone who knew the value of what he offered.
Later, Noah lay on his bed, staring at two cards on his desk—Jeroen's Ajax card and Halford's Premier Division contact from yesterday. Both were real offers, both held the promise of something new, yet both felt distant, unreal.
He closed his eyes. He had just won a trophy, yet the people around him barely noticed his name. His country didn't seem built for someone like him—not yet, not as he was. Maybe the Dutchman was right; maybe he did need to go somewhere his game would be appreciated. But another thought twisted in his chest: leaving now might just be running away from what he feared—his lack of shooting, his lack of charisma, his quiet nature.
He whispered into the stillness of his room, "Am I really good enough… or just hard to notice?"
The medal on his table caught the faint glow of the hallway light, but to Noah, it felt heavier than the trophy it represented. For the first time since stepping onto a pitch, victory didn't feel like enough.