GEM TALENT

The loud, sharp blast of the whistle signaled the start of the tactical session, and the players moved quickly to their assigned positions on the field.

Coach Lincoln stood in the center with his arms crossed over his navy-blue tracksuit while Adams held the clipboard and began to shout out the instructions for the first drill of the day.

The focus of the session was a complex attacking transition where the midfielders had to link up with the attackers, who would then spread the ball to the wingers for crosses into the strikers. It was a drill designed to build rhythm and chemistry, but for William, it felt like he was trying to run through deep, thick mud.

As the ball started to move, William took his place in the heart of the midfield, but his mind was not on the game because he was still shaking from the mockery he had heard earlier. He couldn't stop thinking about Reed, the veteran defender who usually acted like a professional leader, and the way he had

whispered those cruel things to Bennet.

" Why are they doing this to me?" William thought

William had always believed that football was a team sport where everyone worked together, so seeing a senior player like Reed turn against him felt like a sharp betrayal. He kept replayng

the scene in his head, wondering how someone he respected could treat him like a

complete stranger just because he was on loan from Chelsea.

"Ball's live! Move it, William!" Adams shouted from the sideline, his voice cutting through William's thoughts like a knife.

William snapped back to reality just as a ball was fizzed toward his feet by one of the defensive players. Normally, his first touch was soft and perfect, but today his boots felt like they were made of heavy lead.

The ball hit his foot and bounced away a few yards, forcing him to scramble forward to recover it before a defender could step in. He managed to poke the ball wide to Bennet on

the wing, but the pass was slow and lacked the accuracy needed for a quick counter-attack. Bennet didn't even try to reach for the ball; instead, he watched it roll out of bounds and let out a loud, dramatic groan that everyone

on the field could hear.

"Is that the best they teach you at the London academies?" Bennet shouted, throwing his hands in the air while looking back at Reed with a wide, mocking grin. "I thought you were supposed to be the star boy!"

The drill continued, and the players shifted into a pattern of quick passing and overlapping runs. William tried to focus on his movement, but he felt like he was walking on eggshells because he was so worried about making another mistake that would lead to more laughter.

When he received the ball again, he looked up

to see a striker making a run toward the box, but his vision was blurred by his own anxiety. He hesitated for a split second, trying to decide whether to pass to the wing or go for a through-ball, and in that moment of doubt, the

opportunity vanished. He tried to force a pass through the middle, but it was easily intercepted by a defender, who immediately cleared it down the field.

"Focus, William! Get your head in the session!" Coach Lincoln roared, his voice booming across the complex like a clap of thunder.

William didn't look up; he just jogged back to his position with his head down, feeling the heat of embarrassment burning in his cheeks. He could hear the muffled sounds of side-talk coming from the group near the center circle again, and he knew it was Reed and Bennet.

As the session progressed toward the crosses and finishing phase, the tension only grew stronger. The wingers were supposed to hit high, curving crosses into the box for the strikers to head into the net, but the timing was completely off because the midfield link-up was failing.

William was the bridge between the defense and the attack, but today that bridge was crumbling. He was so lost in his own thoughts that he wasn't seeing the runs his teammates were making, and his passes were either too long or too short. He felt like an outsider looking in, watching a game that he no longer knew how to play.

Bennet received a ball near the touchline after another poor pass from William, and instead of crossing it into the box, he simply stopped the ball and waited for William to approach.

"You want to try again, London? Or should we just ask the kit man to take your place?" Bennet sneered, his voice dripping with a fake

kind of playfulness that felt like a slap in the face.

Reed, who was standing nearby, didn't say a word, but his stern face and narrowed eyes said everything. He was watching William fail with a sense of satisfaction, and he didn't care who saw it. For William, the field felt like it was shrinking, and the green grass that he usually loved now felt like a battlefield where he was completely alone.

The first session finally came to a grinding halt when Coach Lincoln blew his whistle twice, signaling a break for water. The players began

to walk toward the sideline, talking and joking with each other in small groups, but William stayed back for a moment, staring at his boots while he tried to gather his thoughts.

He felt exhausted, not from the physical running, but from the mental strain of trying to ignore the negativity that was swirling around

him. He knew he had performed poorly, and he knew that Reed and Bennet were currently celebrating his downfall near the water crates.

"William! Over here, now," Adams called out, waving his hand toward the dugout where Coach Lincoln was already waiting.

William's stomach tightened with a fresh wave of unease as he jogged over to the two men. He expected a loud scolding or a lecture about his poor passing, and he prepared himself to take the blame for the messy session.

When he reached them, he stood with his shoulders slumped and his eyes fixed on the grass, unable to look the coach in the eye because he felt like he had let everyone down. The silence between the three of them lasted for a long time, and the only sound was the distant chatter of the other players and the rustling of the wind against the dugout.

"Look at me, William," Lincoln said, his voice unusually quiet and steady.

William slowly raised his head, but he didn't say anything. He wanted to explain that he was worried about the rumors, and he wanted to tell them how Reed had mocked him, but the words wouldn't come out. He felt like if he started talking, he might lose control of his emotions, so he chose to stay silent instead.

He just stood there, his chest still heaving from the exercise, while his eyes darted nervously between Lincoln and Adams.

Lincoln didn't look angry; instead, he had a sharp, piercing look in his eyes that seemed to read every single thought in William's head. He could see the flicker of doubt in the boy's pupils and the way his jaw was clenched in a

desperate attempt to stay professional. The coach looked over at the group of senior players who were still laughing near the center circle, and then he looked back at the young Chelsea loanee.

He saw the "lost" expression on William's face and the way his hands were trembling slightly at his sides, and he realized that the boy was being crushed by the weight of things that had

nothing to do with football.

Adams opened his mouth to say something, perhaps to ask about the missed passes,

but Lincoln raised a hand to stop him. The coach took a step closer to William, his shadow falling over the boy as he studied the worry that was etched into every line of William's face.

William tried to blink away the moisture in his eyes, refusing to let any tears fall, but he couldn't hide the fact that he was deeply troubled. He looked like a soldier who had been sent into a battle without any weapons, and Lincoln could see that the boy's spirit was starting to break.

The coach sighed softly, a sound of understanding that surprised William, and he placed a firm, heavy hand on the boy's shoulder.

"You don't need to say a word, William,"

Lincoln said, his voice cutting through the morning air with a strange kind of gravity. He looked deep into William's worried eyes, seeing the fear of rejection and the pain of being mocked by his own teammates. Lincoln squeezed his shoulder once, a gesture that was both a comfort and a warning, and his expression became incredibly serious.

"I know exactly what is wrong with you."