Winston finished fixing his boots and scanned the training ground. Every youth player had been separated into groups. The defenders were working with their coaches, as were the midfielders, while the strikers had their own section.
There were only four strikers in the group, with Winston and Maximilian clearly being the most skilled among them. As Winston approached the striker group, he noticed that the striker coach was focusing almost exclusively on Maximilian while barely paying attention to the other two strikers.
Winston joined the group. They were doing basic finishing drills—passing the ball before shooting, followed by penalty kicks.
The striker coach glanced at the other players with his arms folded and shook his head before giving them a sinister smirk. Of course, the other coaches had noticed what was happening, but none of them dared to voice their opinions. The striker coach was well connected within the club, and rumors claimed that the only reason he had gotten the position was because he had something on the club director.
"No, boy. Lean your body to the side when you strike the ball. Like this." The coach crouched down and held Maximilian's boot. "Hit the ball with this side, then caress it with the inside of your foot as you make contact."
Winston watched closely, imitating the striker coach's instructions as he demonstrated them to Maximilian. The other two strikers soon began copying the technique as well. After practicing it for several minutes, Winston glanced at the ball.
Will this be effective when combined with the skill I acquired from the Skill Shop?
[Acquired Skills]
[Activated skill: Dead ball]
[No skills]
[No skills]
[No skills]
[No skills]
Winston prepared to incorporate Dead Shot, remembering to lean back as he positioned himself several steps away from the ball. He took a short run-up and struck it cleanly.
Thump!
The ball rocketed toward the goal and slammed against the upper post before ricocheting away. The striker coach chuckled at Winston's form, but there was a hint of nervousness behind his expression. Winston's rapid growth was becoming concerning, especially considering how poor his technique still was.
With a heavy sigh, the coach realized something. Winston still hadn't found a mentor. Everything he had learned so far had come from basic training, observation, and his own natural ability.
The coach turned away from Winston and walked over to Maximilian, patting him on the back. "You're coming along fine. You'll be the best striker in this club." He paused before adding, "Stay back after training. We'll do some more drills and shooting practice."
Maximilian glanced at Winston and the other youth strikers with a sinister smirk. "Thank you, Coach."
A sharp whistle suddenly blew, startling Winston and his teammates. They turned toward the sound and saw the head coach gesturing for everyone to gather around him. As Winston jogged across the training field, the assistant coaches began putting away the training equipment.
Once everyone had gathered in front of the head coach, he addressed them. "Okay, great session today. Hit the showers and prepare for departure. Our upcoming match is expected to be our most difficult one yet. As you're aware, we'll be playing the team that's fighting us for third place in the league table."
The players listened attentively. "Make sure you get plenty of rest over the next couple of days once we reach our destination. We'll do some more training when we get there, so rest up and prepare yourselves. The tour bus will arrive in a couple of hours." He clapped his hands. "Okay, that's all for now. Go hit the showers."
The players began dispersing. "Winston, you're also free to head home and collect your belongings. The club personnel will keep them with the rest of the team's luggage."
Winston nodded. "Yes, Coach."
With that, he made a swift dash toward the building exit. He didn't look back, afraid that the head coach might change his mind. He had barely made it outside when a familiar voice startled him. "Winston, where are you going?"
Winston nearly slipped in his training boots. He grabbed onto an iron pole to steady himself before turning around. "Mom? Why are you here?" A beaming smile spread across his face as he strode toward his mother and pulled her into a hug.
"I wanted to drop off your suitcase," she said, placing it in front of him. "Please promise me you'll keep yourself safe. Promise me."
"Cough… cough… cough…"
Winston immediately rushed toward his mother, but she held up her hands.
"I'm fine. I think I'm just coming down with the flu. Just promise me you'll keep yourself safe."
With a slight nod, Winston held out his pinky. "I promise. But you have to give me your word that you'll look after yourself if you do come down with the flu."
"Oh my God, when was the last time we made a pinky swear?" his mother said, reminiscing about the old days.
Seeing her son, who had grown into such a resolute young man, filled her with profound satisfaction. Winston's mother fondly remembered watching him take his first attempts at kicking a ball around the yard of their old home. He would always call her over to watch him whenever he practiced. Tears welled up in her eyes.
"Mom, are you okay?"
Winston pulled her into a comforting embrace, gently rubbing her back.
"I'm okay. I'm just reminiscing about the old days. Make sure you behave yourself while you're there. And please, get some rest."
"Will do, madam." They both laughed. "Your sister tells me you met a young lady. She says it's getting serious."
"She's noisy."
"I'd like to meet her."
"Mom, it's still early. We have plenty of time before I introduce her." The two of them walked toward his mother's car. "All right, but when you get back, I'd really like to meet her—or at the very least, see a picture of her."
"Make sure you call me when you arrive."
Winston gave her a quick wave before maneuvering his suitcase toward the group of club staff members responsible for storing the players' belongings. As he headed toward the showers, one of the club staff members stopped him.
"There's a lady outside asking for you."
Assuming it was his mother, Winston immediately jogged toward the entrance. But when he stepped outside, he stopped. A black SUV was parked in front of the club.
Its tinted window slowly rolled down. A stunning woman in her mid-thirties sat inside, wearing a pair of black sunglasses. Winston couldn't make out her full appearance with the window only halfway down.
Then a delightful yet potent fragrance drifted toward him. Before Winston could say anything, a voice broke through his thoughts—gentle, yet carrying an unmistakable air of authority.
"Winston?"
"I was looking for you. Call me Diana," she said, handing Winston a black envelope.
The envelope bore an unfamiliar crest. Maybe this was one of the senior clubs putting in a bid for him. Yet Winston had never seen this woman before.
Why is she being so ominous? Shouldn't she introduce herself properly? And shouldn't she tell me which club she represents?
While he was still muttering to himself, Diana snapped him back to reality. "I'll call you."
"Wait. Which team do you represent? If you're going to give me an envelope, it would be better if you told me what kind of scout you are."
"Everything that needs to be said is on the envelope. Once you open it, it means you accept the invitation."
"Invitation to what exactly? Could you please explain?"
Diana stared at him through her black shades. A chill ran down Winston's spine. He tried to peer into the vehicle, but Diana let out an annoyed sigh. With a weary tone, she said, "Your father is running out of time. With your family history, if I were you, I'd accept the invitation."
Before Winston could ask another question, the black SUV suddenly pulled away. He stood there in bewilderment, watching the vehicle disappear.
"Father running out of time… Family history…" He murmured the words to himself. They raised more questions than they answered.
What does she mean by my father's running out of time? And what family history is she talking about?
For the first time, Winston wondered whether his parents had been hiding something from him—something they had kept secret for years.
How long have they been keeping this from me?
He raised the envelope toward the sunlight, trying to examine it for any writing or other details. He wasn't even sure what he was looking for. With a disappointed sigh, he tucked the black envelope against his hip. His shorts didn't have pockets, so he awkwardly held it against his underwear.
I guess I'll have to wait until I'm somewhere private.
Winston turned and made his way back toward the club building, the mysterious envelope weighing heavily on his mind.