The echo of that single, clean first touch was a tiny, flickering candle in the overwhelming darkness of Leo's fear. He clung to it all night, the memory of the ball obediently settling at his foot playing on a loop in his mind. It was proof. He wasn't completely helpless. But as the black SUV pulled up to David's sleek, glass-walled office building in the heart of Manchester, the candle flame guttered in the wind of reality.
This wasn't a training pitch. This was a boardroom. And the ball he had to control here was his own fate.
David's office was a monument to transactional relationships. Expensive abstract art on the walls, a floor so polished he could see his own anxious reflection in it, and a desk the size of a small boat. David sat behind it, looking every bit the captain. To his right sat Coach Thorpe, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. The air was thick with unspoken verdicts.
"Sit down, Kaelan," David said, not looking up from his tablet. His tone was the same one he'd use to address a disappointing stock portfolio.
Leo sat, forcing Kaelan's body to project a calm he did not feel. He kept his hands on his knees to stop them from trembling.
"We saw the training footage," Thorpe began, cutting to the chase. His voice was gravelly and final. "It's not good. Your spatial awareness is gone. Your first touch is a liability. Your decision-making is… non-existent. You look like a fan who won a competition to train with the first team."
Each word was a hammer blow. Leo said nothing. He just listened, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs.
"The Juventus friendly is in nine days," David interjected, finally looking up. His eyes were cold, devoid of the press-conference charm. "The board sees it as a litmus test. The world will be watching to see if the Phoenix has risen from the crash, or if he's been permanently grounded." He leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "We need to manage expectations. Now."
This was it. The prelude to the burial.
"We've spoken with the club doctors," David continued, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial, clinical tone. "They agree that post-concussion syndrome can manifest in myriad ways. Loss of fine motor skills, cognitive fog, emotional volatility. It's a plausible, and more importantly, a sympathetic narrative."
Leo's mouth went dry. They were already building the coffin.
"My recommendation," Thorpe said, his gaze like flint, "is that we announce your immediate withdrawal from the pre-season tour. You'll go on an indefinite, medically-sanctioned leave of absence. Focus on your health, Kaelan."
Indefinite leave. The polite corporate term for a shallow grave.
They were waiting for him to agree. To nod meekly, to accept the generous, gilded exile they were offering him. To let them quietly erase the problem that was Leo Mears.
But the echo of the football hitting his boot whispered in his memory. Not completely helpless.
He took a slow, quiet breath. He didn't try to be Kaelan. He tried to find that silent place he'd discovered in the garden, the place where the echoes lived. He let the fear wash over him, acknowledged it, and then set it aside. When he spoke, his voice was quieter than Kaelan's usual arrogant baritone, but it had a strange, new steadiness.
"No."
The single word hung in the air, stark and unexpected.
David blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"I said, no," Leo repeated, looking directly at his agent. "I'm not going on leave."
Thorpe's eyebrows shot up. "Kaelan, be reasonable. You're not fit to play."
"I was rusty yesterday," Leo said, the lie feeling more solid as he spoke it. He channeled the frustration he'd felt, the humiliation, but filtered it through a lens of determination. "The first day back. My mind and body weren't synced. It was… disorienting." He looked at Thorpe, pouring every ounce of sincerity he possessed into his eyes. "But it's coming back. I can feel it."
David let out a short, derisive laugh. "Feel it? We have HD video evidence that suggests otherwise. You were a disaster."
"A disaster that can be fixed," Leo shot back, a spark of Leo Mears's stubborn defiance breaking through. "I am not retiring. I am not going on 'indefinite leave.' I am playing against Juventus."
The silence that followed was profound. Thorpe and David exchanged a long, loaded look. This wasn't part of the script.
"That's a massive risk," David said slowly, his eyes narrowing. "If you go out there and perform like you did yesterday, you'll be a global laughingstock. The brand won't survive that. It's better to bow out gracefully."
"Graceful surrender isn't in my vocabulary," Leo said, a line that felt like something the real Kaelan might say. He stood up, placing his palms on the cool glass of the desk. He needed to sell this. Now. He needed a demonstration.
He looked around the office. His eyes fell on a small, decorative stress ball on a shelf, shaped like a miniature football. He walked over, picked it up, and turned back to the two men.
"You think I've lost it," he said, his voice low. "You think the connection is broken."
He tossed the small ball into the air. In the garden, he had the echo of a first touch. He had no idea if anything existed for a simple act of hand-eye coordination. But he had to try. He let his mind go quiet, emptying it of thought, and simply willed his body to react.
The ball reached its apex and began to fall.
< < [Synaptic Echo Located: 'Proprioception - Upper Limb'] >>
**<< [Executing…] >> **
His hand moved. Not with Leo's clumsy haste, but with an economy of motion that was utterly alien to him. His fingers snapped out and plucked the ball from the air with a soft, definitive snap. There was no fumble, no adjustment. It was caught with the effortless precision of a master.
He held it, clenched in his fist, and looked at the two stunned men.
"The connection is fine," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that was far more threatening than a shout. "It was just a bad day. Give me until the Juventus game. I will be ready."
He didn't wait for a reply. He turned and walked out of the office, the door clicking shut behind him with a sound of finality. He made it to the elevator, his entire body trembling with the adrenaline crash. He had done it. He had bluffed his way off the ledge.
Back in the office, David and Thorpe sat in silence for a full minute.
"Did you see that?" Thorpe finally muttered, a frown etched on his face. "The way he caught that… it was pure Valtieri. Instinctual. Perfect."
"I saw it," David said, his expression deeply troubled. He wasn't looking at the door; he was staring into the middle distance, as if seeing a ghost. "That's what worries me."
"What do you mean? It's a good sign!"
"Is it?" David's eyes flicked back to Thorpe, cold and analytical. "The hands were Kaelan's. But the eyes… the voice when he said 'no'… that wasn't the Kaelan I know. The Kaelan I know would have thrown a tantrum or arrogantly assumed he'd be fine. That was… calculated. Defiant in a different way."
He leaned back, steepling his fingers again.
"We'll let him play. The board would never agree to sideline him if he's medically cleared and insisting he's fit. The lawsuit would be monstrous."
"So, what's the problem?" Thorpe asked.
David's lips thinned into a grim line.
"The problem is that the hands said one thing, but the eyes said another. I just agreed to let a stranger, who may or may not be my client, risk a billion-dollar brand on a single game."
He tapped his fingers on the glass desk, the sound like ticking clock.
"And if that stranger fails," David concluded, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper, "the fallout won't just be a retirement. It will be a scorched-earth annihilation. For everyone."