The world had acquired a new, sharper focus. The green of the pitch seemed greener, the white of the goalposts brighter. But for Armani, everything was now viewed through a single, life-altering prism: *A Premier League scout knows my name.*
Ian Croft's business card was hidden under his mattress, a secret talisman. He didn't touch it, but he knew it was there, its presence a constant, low hum in the back of his mind. He replayed the scout's words daily: *"That pace… a rare commodity... I'll be keeping an eye on the DaCosta Cup results."*
It fueled him. Practice was no longer just about impressing Coach Reynolds or beating out Marcus for a starting spot. It was an audition for a life he'd only dreamed of. He ran the suicides with a frenetic energy that left even Kofi gasping. He stayed late after every session, practicing his first touch against the concrete wall of the gym until his toes were numb.
Coach Reynolds watched him with a hawk's silent intensity. He saw the transformation, the fire stoked to a potentially dangerous blaze. He pulled Armani aside one evening as the sun bled orange over the Montego Bay hills.
"The eyes are on you now, Wilson," he said, his voice low. "But remember. They watch how you lose the ball as closely as how you win it. They watch how you treat the kit man who washes your jersey. Character is not shown in the spotlight; it is revealed in the shadows. Don't run for the scout. Run for the badge on your chest. The rest will follow, or it won't. But you will still have your character."
The words were wise, but they were a quiet murmur against the roaring chorus in Armani's head.
His new focus paid off on the pitch. In the next friendly, a home game against a lesser opponent, Coach Reynolds started him alongside Marcus in a two-striker formation. The tension between them was palpable. Marcus, feeling threatened, demanded the ball constantly. But Armani played a different game.
He used his speed not just to run onto through balls, but to create space for others. He dragged defenders out of position, opening gaps for the midfielders. He didn't score, but he was instrumental in two goals, including a simple tap-in for a scowling, grateful Marcus. The team won 3-0. The local sports write-up in *The Gleaner* the next day mentioned "the lively and unselfish play of young Armani Wilson."
It was a single line. But it felt like a coronation.
The first real test of the DaCosta Cup group stage arrived. They were away to a tough, physical team from Clarendon. The match was a brutal, gritty affair on a bumpy pitch. It was a game for fighters, not artists.
In the 60th minute, with the score tied 0-0, a long ball was played over the top. Armani gave chase, his speed turning a lost cause into a fifty-fifty challenge with the opposing center-back. He got to the ball a fraction of a second earlier, poking it past the onrushing keeper before the defender's desperate, clumsy tackle took him out.
The whistle screamed. A penalty. And a red card for the defender.
The Cornwall players erupted. Armani got to his feet, mud staining his maroon and gold jersey, a fresh bruise already blooming on his thigh. This was the moment. The chance to be the hero.
Marcus grabbed the ball, placing it firmly on the spot. He was the captain. He was the penalty taker.
But Coach Reynolds was shouting from the sideline. His voice cut through the noise. "Wilson! You earned it. You take it."
The instruction was clear. A shockwave went through the team. Marcus stared at the coach, his face a mask of disbelief and fury. He threw the ball down at the spot and stormed away, not even looking at Armani.
The weight of the moment descended on Armani like a physical force. The pressure from the opposing fans, the expectant silence from his own, Marcus's seething anger, and the ghost of Ian Croft watching from somewhere in the stands—it all converged on the twelve-yard spot.
His heart was a drum solo in his chest. His hands trembled. This was more than a penalty; it was a transfer of power. He placed the ball, took six steps back, and tried to quiet the noise in his head.
The referee blew his whistle.
He took a deep breath, ran forward, and struck the ball with pure instinct. It wasn't clean. It was low and to the keeper's right, but with enough power to squirm under his diving body and into the net.
Goal.
The relief was so profound it felt like weakness. His teammates mobbed him, their cheers loud in his ears. But over their shoulders, he saw Marcus, alone, clapping a slow, sarcastic applause on the sideline.
They held on to win 1-0. It was an ugly, hard-fought victory, the kind that builds character. In the locker room, the mood was celebratory but tense. Marcus dressed in stony silence and left without a word.
That's when his phone buzzed. A new message from an unknown UK number.
> **Unknown:** Composed under pressure. A necessary skill. Well done today, Armani. Keep it up. - IC
He stared at the screen. Ian Croft. He *was* here. He *was* watching. The validation was a drug, more potent than any goal celebration. He'd passed another test.
The high lasted all the way home. He replayed the penalty, the goal, Croft's message, over and over. He walked into his house, still buzzing, ready to relive the glory for his mother.
But the atmosphere inside was heavy, silent. His mother was sitting at the small kitchen table, her head in her hands. The electricity bill was spread out in front of her, a final demand notice stamped in angry red ink. The disconnection notice was paper-clipped to it.
"Mama?" Armani said, the euphoria draining from him, replaced by a cold dread.
She looked up, forcing a brave smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Is nothing, pickney. Just grown-up business. How was the match? Mi hear yuh score the winning goal! Mi son, the hero!"
She hugged him tightly, her pride genuine but edged with a fatigue he'd been too self-absorbed to notice lately. He looked at the bill, at the number that seemed impossibly large. His prize for man-of-the-match was a voucher for a patty and a soda. It wouldn't even make a dent.
He thought of Ian Croft's message. *"Composed under pressure."*
He thought of the Premier League. The life-changing money. The ability to fix a bill like this without a second thought.
For the first time, the dream wasn't just about glory on the pitch. It was about salvation off of it. The scout's interest wasn't just a path to Old Trafford; it felt like a lifeline for his family.
And in that moment of vulnerability, the hook that Ian Croft had delicately set began to sink in, deep and undeniable.