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Chapter 16 – Among Giants
London Colney, Hertfordshire – May 2003
The academy minibus rattled down the narrow lane before pulling into the training ground. Jeremy slung his boots over his shoulder, stepped out, and didn't bother hiding his smirk. This wasn't Hale End anymore—Colney, where the first team trained.
Two security men by the entrance scanned the sheet clipped to their board. One gave Jeremy a quick nod. "You're on the list. Go on in."
Jeremy walked through like he owned the place.
Inside the first-team building, everything looked sharper. The walls were spotless, the air smelled of fresh polish instead of damp kit bags, and even the silence felt heavier.
He found the dressing room door, pushed it open, and walked in. Conversations dipped for a second. Thierry Henry leaned against his locker, laces loose, long frame relaxed. Bergkamp sat upright, folding his socks with that same precision he had on the pitch. Vieira stood by the mirror, stretching his arms. Robert Pires leaned casually against the wall, smirking at the interruption.
Jeremy dropped his bag at the nearest empty stall. He didn't rush. He started tying his boots slowly, like he'd been here for years.
"Un petit nouveau?" Pires asked, eyebrow raised.
Steve Bould, watching from the doorway, answered. "Academy striker. Wenger wants him to train today."
Henry tilted his head, studying Jeremy. "Name?"
"Jeremy Lynch," Jeremy replied, not looking up.
Henry's mouth curled into a grin. "You score goals, Lynch?"
Jeremy finally looked up, expression cool. "That's all I do."
A few of the players chuckled. Bergkamp's eyes flicked over, unreadable.
"Then show us," the Dutchman said. His tone wasn't mocking. It was a challenge.
---
The rondos snapped into life. Two touches maximum, sharp angles, ball pinging between Henry, Pires, Cole, Vieira. Jeremy stepped into the middle. His chest tightened, but he didn't let it show.
The ball zipped its way. He slipped it between Vieira's legs and out to Pires without thinking.
The whole circle burst into laughter.
Vieira turned, mock outrage on his face. "Petit merde!"
Henry slapped his arm, laughing. "The kid's got balls."
Jeremy just smirked. "Not balls. Vision."
Vieira shook his head, but even he couldn't hide the grin.
---
Small-sided games followed. Bibs tossed, pitch marked out. Jeremy found himself with two reserve defenders and Kolo Touré. Against him: Henry, Bergkamp, Vieira.
A massacre waiting to happen.
The whistle blew. Jeremy got the ball early, twenty yards out. He didn't hesitate—dropped a shoulder, skipped inside, lashed a shot. It sliced wide.
"Doesn't pass," Henry called, amused.
Jeremy shot back instantly. "Neither do you."
The sideline erupted in laughter.
Two minutes later, Henry showed him how it was really done. Ball at his feet, sudden burst, glide past two defenders, finish bottom corner. He jogged back, grinning. "That's finishing, petit."
Jeremy shook his head, smirk fixed. "Watch me next time."
He kept shooting. Wide, blocked, one rattled off the bar. His teammates groaned. But Jeremy never looked like passing.
Bergkamp kept watching, calm and calculating.
---
Training wound down. Most players jogged in, but Jeremy stayed out, juggling a ball near the sideline. Touch after touch, clean, controlled.
Bergkamp walked past with his boots. He slowed.
"You play with conviction," he said in that soft Dutch tone. "But conviction without control is chaos."
Jeremy kicked the ball under his sole, meeting his eyes. "Chaos is what defenders fear."
Bergkamp's stare didn't waver. "Control wins more." Then he walked on.
Jeremy muttered under his breath, "I'll use both."
The system's voice dropped in, cold and surgical:
> "Analysis: Bergkamp = control. Henry = instinct. Vieira = authority. To surpass, absorb, and subvert. Chaos is leverage."
Jeremy smirked. "Then I'll bend all of them."
---
That evening, back at the flat, the TV flickered with pundits previewing the Champions League final. AC Milan vs Juventus.
Jeremy lay sprawled on the sofa, phone buzzing. Ryan from the academy.
"You betting on this?" Ryan asked. "Most are saying Juve. Buffon's unbeatable right now."
Jeremy snorted. "Nah. Milan takes it. Shevchenko bags. Inzaghi lurking. Maldini won't give Del Piero a sniff."
Ryan chuckled. "You sound sure."
"I'm always sure. It's easy money."
"One day you'll lose, bro."
"Not me," Jeremy said flatly. "I see things they don't."
> "Correct prediction = credibility. Credibility = dominance. Establish inevitability." the system hissed.
Jeremy grinned. "Exactly."
---
The next morning, Wenger was waiting by the touchline. Arms folded, expression unreadable.
"You survived," Wenger said. His voice was calm, almost clinical.
Jeremy smirked. "I did more than survive."
"Thierry was not impressed."
"He'll come around."
"You have talent," Wenger admitted. "But talent without discipline is dangerous. You will train with them again. We will see how long this… approach lasts."
Jeremy tilted his head, defiant. "It's not an approach. It's who I am."
Wenger held his stare for a long moment. "Then we will see if who you are fits Arsenal."
The system's voice cut sharply:
> "Wrong. You don't fit. You reshape. Arsenal bends, or Arsenal breaks."
Jeremy clenched his jaw. "Then I'll make them bend."
---
That night, his mum had tea ready on the table. She sat opposite, eyes tired from work but focused on him.
"They said you trained with the big ones today."
Jeremy shrugged. "Yeah. Handled it fine."
She watched him, quiet for a moment. "It's different there. Don't think it'll all come easy."
"I'm not thinking," Jeremy said. "I'm doing."
She shook her head softly. "Just don't lose yourself in it."
Jeremy didn't reply. He sipped his tea, gaze fixed out the window. The thought was already carved in his mind: I'm not losing myself. I'm becoming myself.
The system echoed the truth back at him:
> "Correct. Nothing else matters."
Jeremy's smirk returned.
---
[End of Chapter 16]