Six months had passed since Ethan's first day at the Lyon academy, and the eight-year-old had become something of a legend among the youth squads.
Not because he was friendly—though he was polite to everyone. Not because he was the loudest or most charismatic—he was actually quite reserved off the pitch. But because every time he stepped onto the field, he did something that made grown men stop and stare.
Today was Saturday, and it was match day.
Lyon U-10 versus Saint-Étienne U-10. The Derby Rhône-Alpes. Even at youth level, this rivalry meant everything.
Ethan sat in the changing room, lacing up his boots with methodical precision. Around him, his teammates were going through their pre-match rituals. Antoine was listening to music, eyes closed, getting into the zone. Thomas was checking his hair in the mirror—always concerned about appearance. Others were stretching, chatting nervously, or reviewing tactics.
"Alright, listen up!" Coach Martineau entered the room, clipboard in hand. "Saint-Étienne are physical, aggressive, and they'll try to intimidate you. But we're technically superior. We play our game, we control possession, and we win." His eyes swept across the room. "Starting eleven: Dubois in goal. Defense: Remy, Lucas, Karim, and Julien. Midfield: Thomas, Antoine, and Maxime. Attack: Ethan at striker, with Pierre and Nathan on the wings."
Ethan's heart rate increased slightly. Striker. His natural position. Where he belonged.
"Ethan," Martineau called out. "Come here."
The young prodigy stood and approached his coach.
Martineau lowered his voice so only Ethan could hear. "Their center-backs are twins—Hugo and Alexandre Moreau. Big kids. Strong. They've been instructed to target you physically. They think if they rough you up early, you'll disappear from the game."
"I won't," Ethan said simply.
"I know you won't. But I need you to be smart. Use your vision. See what they're doing before they do it. That's your advantage. They're bigger, but you're three steps ahead. Always."
Ethan nodded. Three moves ahead. Always three moves ahead.
"And Ethan?" Martineau's expression softened slightly. "Enjoy it. You're eight years old. This is supposed to be fun."
The stadium was modest—just a few hundred seats—but it was packed with parents, academy staff, and scouts from various clubs. In youth football, reputations were built on days like this.
Ethan jogged onto the pitch with his team. The grass was perfect, the goals regulation size, the atmosphere electric despite the small crowd. He could see his mother in the stands, waving enthusiastically. His father had managed to get off work early and sat beside her, his expression proud but controlled.
The Saint-Étienne players emerged from the tunnel opposite. Ethan immediately identified the Moreau twins—massive for ten-year-olds, probably close to five feet tall and built like rugby players. They were staring directly at him, whispering to each other.
They're going to test me early, Ethan thought. First tackle will be hard. Probably within the first five minutes. They want to intimidate me.
Three moves ahead.
The referee blew his whistle, and the match began.
Lyon controlled possession from the start, passing the ball calmly between their lines. Thomas and Antoine dominated the midfield, while Ethan dropped deep to receive the ball, linking play.
Four minutes in, Antoine played a pass to Ethan's feet. He controlled it smoothly and turned, already seeing the space opening up on the left wing.
That's when Hugo Moreau arrived.
The tackle was late, aggressive, and meant to hurt. But Ethan had seen it coming three seconds earlier. He rolled the ball under his foot and spun away, leaving Hugo lunging at empty space. The bigger boy crashed to the ground, coming up with grass stains on his jersey and embarrassment on his face.
"Too slow," Ethan muttered, accelerating forward.
He passed to Nathan on the wing and continued his run into the box. Nathan whipped in a cross—slightly behind Ethan, not quite perfect. But Ethan had already calculated the ball's trajectory. He adjusted his body mid-stride, contorted his frame, and struck the ball with his weaker right foot in mid-air.
The volley was struck with Müller-like precision. It flew past the goalkeeper's outstretched hand and crashed into the top corner.
1-0. Seven minutes played.
Ethan didn't celebrate wildly. He simply turned, pointed at Nathan to acknowledge the assist, and jogged back to his half. But inside, his heart was racing. This feeling—scoring goals—never got old.
Saint-Étienne responded aggressively. They pressed higher, tackled harder, and Alexandre Moreau was now shadowing Ethan everywhere he went.
In the twenty-third minute, Ethan received the ball on the edge of the box with his back to goal. Alexandre was immediately on him, pushing, shoving, trying to muscle him off the ball.
He's too close, Ethan thought. Doesn't see the danger.
Ethan performed a Lavinho special—a quick step-over followed by a roulette turn that sent the ball spinning past Alexandre's left side while Ethan spun past his right. The move was so smooth, so unexpected, that Alexandre didn't even react until Ethan was already gone.
Now it was just Ethan and the goalkeeper. One-on-one. Twelve yards out.
The keeper charged forward, trying to close the angle. But Ethan had already seen it. He saw the keeper's weight shift to his left. He saw the slight opening on the right side. He saw exactly where the ball needed to go.
He dinked it.
A delicate chip with the outside of his left foot, the ball floating over the goalkeeper's head in a perfect arc and dropping just under the crossbar.
2-0.
This time, Ethan's teammates mobbed him. Antoine jumped on his back. Thomas ruffled his hair. Even the normally stoic Pierre was grinning.
"You're a magician!" Antoine shouted.
"Just lucky," Ethan replied, but he was smiling too.
The second half was a masterclass.
Saint-Étienne tried everything—double-marking Ethan, playing a deeper defensive line, even resorting to more physical play. But nothing worked. Ethan was always one step ahead, always seeing the play develop before it happened.
In the fifty-second minute, he assisted Pierre with a perfectly weighted through ball that split the defense.
3-0.
In the sixty-eighth minute, he dribbled past four players—yes, four—using a combination of Lavinho's flair and his own supernatural vision. The run started at the halfway line and ended with a low shot into the bottom corner.
4-0.
In the seventy-fifth minute, Antoine won the ball in midfield and immediately looked for Ethan. The pass was slightly overhit, bouncing high. Ethan chested it down with perfect control, then in one fluid motion, struck it on the half-volley from twenty-five yards out.
The ball swerved in the air, dipping viciously. The goalkeeper didn't even move. He just watched it sail past him into the top corner.
5-0.
Hat-trick. At eight years old. In a derby match.
When the final whistle blew, the scoreline read Lyon 5, Saint-Étienne 0. Ethan had scored three goals and created two more. He'd completed ninety-three percent of his passes, won every dribble he attempted, and made the Moreau twins—supposedly the best defenders in their age group—look like amateurs.
Coach Martineau pulled him aside after the match. "Three goals. Two assists. Flawless performance." He paused. "Do you know what you did today?"
"We won the derby?"
"You announced yourself. Every scout in those stands will be filing reports tonight. Your name is going to spread. Fast."
Ethan looked up at his coach. "Is that good?"
Martineau smiled. "That depends on how you handle it. But based on what I've seen, I think you'll be just fine." He placed a hand on Ethan's shoulder. "Go celebrate with your family. You've earned it."
As Ethan walked toward the stands where his parents waited, he caught sight of a man in a dark suit watching him intently. The man had a badge on his jacket—AS Monaco.
Their eyes met for a brief moment. The man nodded slightly, then turned and walked away.
Ethan felt a shiver run down his spine. Monaco. The principality club. One of the biggest teams in France.
Three moves ahead, he thought. I need to think three moves ahead.
But for now, his mother was waving him over, his father was smiling with pride, and Antoine was calling him to take photos with the team.
For now, he was just eight-year-old Ethan Loki from Bondy, enjoying a perfect Saturday.
The future could wait.
End of Chapter 4