Paul sat alone in his room. The room was silent. The faint sound of the wind outside brushed against the window glass and bounced back. A few scattered items, books, and a pen lay on the desk. He sat on the chair in the middle of the room, leaning slightly forward.
He held a piece of paper in his hands. He held it with both hands, but the tightness of his fingers showed how focused he was. His eyes scanned the lines, carefully examining every word. His expression was serious.
"Starting with this program for now should be good." His voice was low but determined. He continued speaking without looking away from the paper. "I'll make changes once my body is fit enough to play football."
With this sentence, he took a deep breath, as if making a promise to himself. He brought the paper closer. What was written on it was simple, yet beneath that simplicity lay heavy discipline.
10-kilometer run every day.
100 push-ups.
100 sit-ups.
100 squats.
This list was the first step toward a goal. Paul stared at it for a few seconds. As his eyes moved over the lines, he visualized himself performing those movements in his mind. Running, being out of breath, his muscles burning...
Then he looked up. He glanced at the computer on the other side of the room. There were only a few steps between them, but that distance seemed to represent the weight of a decision.
"Now all that's left is to see which team's trials I can attend."
With this thought, his body stirred. He pressed his feet to the floor, pushed the chair back, and slid himself toward the computer using his feet. The chair's legs made a light scratching sound against the floor. He reached the computer, extended his hand, and pressed the power button. The screen slowly lit up, illuminating Paul's face.
He moved the mouse, opened the internet browser, and placed his hands on the keyboard. His fingers hovered over the keys for a few seconds. Then, he began to type: "Which team's trials make sense to enter to become a professional football player?"
He typed every letter carefully. When he finished, he paused for a moment and hit Enter. The screen refreshed. He looked at the results. His eyebrows shot up.
"SL Benfica and Manchester United?" There was surprise in his voice. He tilted his head to the side. "If a 17-year-old kid goes to their trials, he'll just be a laughingstock." A serious look settled on his face. He kept his eyes fixed on the screen. "To play in clubs like these, I would have had to enter their academies first." His voice was thoughtful. "Then I could have slowly risen to the A-team. But I'm too late for that."
The sentence hung heavily in the room. Paul leaned his head back and looked at the ceiling. The ceiling was empty, but his mind was full.
"I could start from the amateur league." His eyes remained fixed on the ceiling. "But then it will be very difficult to move up."
This thought created a small sense of unease within him. He put his hands behind his neck, his fingers interlacing in his hair. He closed his eyes. Hmm... His thoughts deepened. Could I make it if I went to the trials of my old team?
The idea echoed in his mind. He opened his eyes and turned back to the computer. He moved the mouse, clicked the search bar, and typed: "Southampton"
He hit Enter. The screen changed. Paul looked for a few seconds without saying anything. His face was expressionless. Then his lips parted.
"Southampton has been relegated to the Championship..." This information surprised him. His eyes narrowed slightly. In my time, we were striving to be first... A slight sadness appeared on his face at that thought.
But the expression didn't last. He suddenly composed himself. "Actually, this is a good thing." His voice was clearer now. "Being in the Championship means I have at least a small chance."
A light reappeared in his eyes. He looked at the screen more carefully. Then he cleared the search bar. His fingers returned to the keyboard. He typed slowly: "Grant Evan"
He hit Enter. The screen loaded. A photo appeared. Paul froze. His eyes were locked on that photo. Time seemed to stop for a few seconds. His hand trembled slightly.
"My friend..." His voice was almost inaudible. "Not a trace of that handsome face left." A bittersweet smile formed on his lips. "Time has no mercy for anyone..."
The thought was heavy. He held the mouse and slowly scrolled down. New information appeared on the page. A heading caught his attention: Grant Evan – Player Profile (Transfermarkt)
Without thinking, he clicked on it. A new page opened. Statistics, information, numbers... Paul's eyes scanned quickly, then stopped at one point. A slight smirk formed on his face.
"So you did what I told you." His eyes were fixed on the screen. "But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't surprised that you quit football in 2002." His voice was a mix of pride and surprise. He scrolled down again. His expression changed, turning serious. "Grant..." His eyebrows furrowed. "Are you serious?"
His eyes were glued to the screen. "Even though I died... you didn't transfer to another team?"
The question hung in the air. Paul blinked. "Wait..." He took a breath. "So they won trophies after I died."
This thought surprised him. He turned his head slightly to the left. Of all the luck... But he didn't finish the sentence. He looked at the screen again and suddenly stood up. The chair slid back behind him.
"I've made my decision." His voice was firm. "I'll do everything to play for Southampton again." The words echoed in the room. He turned and began to walk toward the door. His steps were determined. But this time, I won't play to become a legend. A slight shadow crossed his face. My goal is to progress step by step.
This thought made him more realistic. A devilish smile appeared on his lips. The moment an offer comes from a good team, I'll accept it immediately.
With this thought, he reached the door. He placed his hand on the handle. As he opened the door, his expression turned flat. "These actions really don't suit me..." It was like a confession to himself. He opened the door. He was about to step out.
Time for... He took a step. Time for train—
Just then, a voice came from the kitchen. "Son, if you're going out, could you take out the trash?"
Paul stopped. He froze for a moment, then turned around. "Of course, Mom!"
His voice was faster this time. He ran toward the kitchen, his steps hurried. A short time later, he returned with a trash bag in his hand. He headed for the door and stepped outside. The cold air hit his face. He held the trash bag tightly.
Now... He took a deep breath. Time for training.
And suddenly, he started running. With the trash bag in his hand. His steps quickened. His heart found its rhythm. And in that moment... everything had truly begun.