Three weeks into his time at the academy, Soma had established himself as the most talked-about player in his age group. Coaches from other teams lingered after matches to watch him warm up. Video clips of his goals circulated on academy social media. There was even talk of fast-tracking him to the older age groups.
But he'd also established himself as the most isolated.
The morning of their match against Liverpool's academy, Soma arrived at the training ground to find his usual spot in the changing room taken. Not deliberately, perhaps, but Jamie was sitting there, deep in conversation with Marcus about defensive positioning.
"Sorry, mate," Jamie said when he noticed Soma standing there. "Didn't realize this was your spot."
"It's fine," Soma replied, but it wasn't fine. The small gesture felt like a statement, a line being drawn.
He dressed in the corner, listening to the pre-match chatter that seemed to swirl around him without including him. Talk of Liverpool's strengths, their tactical setup, how City would need to maintain their shape and stick to the game plan.
"Their left-back pushes forward a lot," Marcus was saying. "If we can win the ball in midfield and switch it quickly to Soma on the right wing, he might find space behind him."
It was the first time anyone had mentioned using his pace tactically rather than just tolerating his individual moments. Soma felt a flicker of something—belonging, maybe.
Coach Thompson entered, his pre-match intensity filling the room like electricity.
"Right, lads. Liverpool are technically sound, disciplined, and they don't make many mistakes. We need to be patient, work our patterns, and wait for our chances. No heroics, no individual adventures. We play as a team, we win as a team."
His eyes found Soma's. "That means everyone, Adebayo. Today, you follow instructions."
The Liverpool academy team was everything Thompson had promised—organized, efficient, and frustratingly difficult to break down. Their defensive shape was pristine, their pressing coordinated, their transitions swift and purposeful.
For thirty minutes, City's passing patterns found no joy. The ball moved sideways, backward, sideways again, but never seemed to find the final pass that would unlock the defense.
Soma, stationed on the right wing, found himself increasingly frustrated. Every time he received the ball, he was immediately doubled up on, forced to pass backward or lose possession. The few times he tried to take on his man, he was crowded out, sometimes fouled, always stopped.
From the sideline, Thompson's voice was constant: "Patience! Work the patterns! It will come!"
But it wasn't coming. And with each passing minute, Soma could feel his teammates' confidence ebbing away. Their passing became more cautious, their movement less incisive. They were playing not to lose rather than playing to win.
The breakthrough came in the thirty-eighth minute, but not the way Thompson had drawn it up.
Soma received the ball deep in his own half, with Liverpool's high press bearing down on him. The safe pass was backward to the center-back. The tactical pass was square to the central midfielder. Both options would have maintained possession and kept the pattern intact.
Instead, Soma turned and ran.
He sprinted straight up the touchline, using his pace to outrun the first press, then cutting inside to avoid the sliding tackle of Liverpool's fullback. Suddenly he was in space, with half the Liverpool team behind him and only two defenders between him and goal.
"Soma!" Marcus called from the center, making a perfectly timed run into the box.
But Soma barely heard him. Tunnel vision had kicked in—that familiar sensation where the world narrowed to just him, the ball, and the goal. The first defender approached cautiously, aware of Soma's reputation. So Soma helped him out, dropping his left shoulder and going right, leaving the defender on his backside.
The second defender was the goalkeeper, rushing out to narrow the angle. It was a brave decision, but Soma had been in this situation a thousand times on the streets of Lagos. He waited until the keeper committed, then lifted the ball gently over his outstretched hands.
Goal.
The City supporters erupted. His teammates mobbed him. Even Thompson allowed himself a small smile from the touchline.
But the celebration felt different somehow—smaller, lonelier than his street football triumphs had ever felt.
The second half brought more of the same. Liverpool, stung by the goal, pushed forward in search of an equalizer. Their high line left space behind, and Soma was perfectly positioned to exploit it.
When the opportunity came, he didn't hesitate.
A misplaced Liverpool pass fell to City's defensive midfielder, who immediately looked to release Soma down the right wing. The pass was perfect, the space was there, and once again Soma found himself alone against the Liverpool defense.
This time, Marcus was screaming for the ball, making a run that would have left him one-on-one with the keeper. The pass was on, the finish would have been easier, the outcome more certain.
Soma chose to shoot from twenty-five yards instead.
The ball flew like a rocket, dipping and swerving, striking the crossbar so hard it bounced back out to the halfway line. The Liverpool keeper could only watch in amazement.
But as Soma stared at the goal in disbelief, he became aware of another sound—not cheers, but frustrated groans from his own teammates.
"Why didn't you pass?" Marcus demanded, jogging over with his arms spread wide. "I was through! I was completely through!"
"I nearly scored," Soma protested.
"Nearly isn't good enough! This is a team sport, Soma. Start playing like you understand that!"
The argument might have escalated, but Liverpool chose that moment to mount a dangerous attack down their left flank. Both boys had to sprint back to defend, leaving their disagreement unresolved but not forgotten.
City held on to win 1-0, Soma's goal proving to be the difference. In the changing room afterward, Thompson addressed the team with a mixture of satisfaction and concern.
"Good result, lads. Soma, that first goal was excellent—pace, composure, clinical finish. Well done."
Soma felt a warm glow of approval.
"However," Thompson continued, "there were moments today when we deviated from our game plan. Individual moments that could have cost us dearly. We need to remember that football is about making the right decision, not just the spectacular one."
The warm glow faded.
As the boys filed out to meet their families, Soma found himself walking alone. Marcus was surrounded by his usual group, discussing the match in low voices. Tunde had left early for a family commitment. Even Jamie, usually friendly, seemed distant.
Outside, Kemi was waiting by her car, a proud smile on her face.
"I heard you scored the winner!" she said, pulling him into a hug. "The other parents were talking about it—said it was a fantastic goal."
"Yeah," Soma said, but his voice lacked its usual enthusiasm after scoring.
"What's wrong? You should be celebrating!"
Soma looked back at the academy building, where his teammates were still chatting in small groups, their body language excluding him even when they weren't trying to.
"I'm starting to think they don't want me to score goals," he said. "They want me to help other people score goals."
Kemi considered this as they drove home through Manchester's evening traffic.
"Maybe," she said finally, "they want you to do both. Maybe that's what makes the difference between being a good player and being a great one."
That night, Soma lay in bed replaying the match in his mind. The goal had been perfect—exactly the kind of moment that had made him famous on the streets of Lagos. But somehow, here, it felt like it wasn't enough.
Or maybe it was too much.
He pulled out his phone and watched highlights of Premier League matches, studying how the best players moved, when they shot, when they passed. For the first time, he noticed something he'd never paid attention to before—how often the superstars made their teammates look good.
But as he drifted off to sleep, one thought kept circling through his mind: if he passed the ball every time someone else was in a better position, when would he ever get his chance to become a legend?