The extra training session ended and the players parted ways and went to their respective houses leaving Alex alone on the pitch.
Alex, however, did not follow the rest of his team. Instead, his feet led him away from the noise and chatter of the first-team squad, guiding him instinctively toward the far pitch, the one where the Under-18s were training. It was not the first time he had wandered over there. In fact, he had done so once before, the previous day, maybe out of idle curiosity or something less explainable. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was something in his blood pulling him there again, a whisper of the past disguised as a hunch.
He leaned against the same rusted railing as before, the metal cool beneath his hands. The floodlights above were humming quietly even though the sky had not completely darkened. There was a weight in the air, not oppressive, just expectant. A silence filled with motion and breath and unspoken dreams.
The teenagers on the pitch were already deep into their session, balls zipping back and forth between cones, voices rising as they called out for passes. The air buzzed with the rhythm of youth football, all high-energy touches and hopeful chaos.
At first, it was the same blur of limbs and movement as any youth training session. He saw the same frantic pressing, the overhit passes, the ambitious dribbles. Some decent touches, sure. A nice switch of play here, a well-timed tackle there. Nothing groundbreaking.
But then, he saw him again.
Number 8.
The boy with tightly wound curls, his socks defiantly rolled down to his ankles, shirt slightly oversized as if it could not quite keep up with how quickly he was growing. Luca Ferretti. The same kid he had noticed the first time, the one who had briefly lit up the field like a flare in the darkness. Back then, Alex had tried to brush it off. A good moment, he had told himself. A flash. These kids all have flashes.
But now, seeing him again, Alex realized it wasn't a fluke. It wasn't luck.
The boy was special.
He froze without meaning to, arms crossed now, eyes narrowed, watching with the same focus he gave to analyzing Serie A matches. And again, it happened. Luca took a bad pass in stride with a single touch, turned into space like he had already mapped out the next ten seconds, and slotted a diagonal ball through a crowd of bodies that somehow found a winger in full sprint. It was not just the execution. It was the vision. The calmness.
A beat passed before Alex muttered to himself, "He really does play like I used to."
There was no pride in the statement. Just something bordering on wonder.
Luca did not look up to see who was watching him, but that only made the moment feel more pure. Every movement he made was natural, not for show, not for praise. He dropped between the center backs to collect the ball, then danced past a pressing midfielder without even looking flustered. His body leaned into the motion like it was part of the earth itself, as if the ball was drawn to him rather than the other way around.
Another play unfolded. This time, it was pressure on his back, the kind that usually makes most kids panic. But not Luca. He leaned into it, used it to roll the defender off his hip, then cut the ball sideways to a teammate before immediately spinning into space to receive it again. There was a flow to his play, a rhythm that everyone else seemed to follow without realizing.
Alex exhaled, blinking slowly.
This was the second time he had seen the kid do things that players twice his age struggled with. Not tricks or fancy flicks, but decisions. Reading the field. Understanding tempo. Knowing where to be and where the ball should go next.
He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly aware of how quiet it was around him. All the noise and shouting from the first team felt miles away now. Out here, there was only the sound of boots against turf and the occasional instruction from the youth coach.
Alex kept watching. Luca kept playing. Number 8. Most eights were box-to-box monsters who could run for the entire ninety minutes but this kid wasn't your traditional one. Eight was the engine room, he beating heart of any midfield, while he played like an eight and ten hybrid. He dictated play, controlled the tempo of he game while not neglecting his defensive duties. He was really the beating heart of his team.
And Luca wore it like he was born for it.
It was strange. A part of Alex felt like he was staring into a mirror from the past. Back when he was a kid, full of belief, not yet broken by the brutal edges of professional football and the cruel twists of life. There was something unshaped but pure about Luca's style, and at the same time, something impossibly refined.
This wasn't just talent. It was intuition.
And now, watching him for the second time, Alex could not deny it any longer. This boy had something. A spark. No, more than a spark. He had the flame.
He watched a few more plays unfold. Simple sequences. Nothing flashy. Luca drifted into half-spaces, adjusted his body to open passing angles, anticipated pressure before it arrived. He barked a quick instruction to a teammate, sharp and confident. The voice of someone who saw the pitch differently.
It was the kind of vision you could not teach. The kind of presence you could not fake.
Alex stepped away from the railing slowly, exhaling like he had just emerged from a dream. He looked over toward the youth coach, then back at the field. Luca was still moving, still orchestrating quietly from the middle, unaware of how many thoughts were spinning in the mind of the man watching him.
Alex knew what he had to do.
He turned back toward the first-team building, feet crunching softly on the gravel path beneath him. The cold evening breeze tugged at his jacket, but he felt a strange warmth building in his chest. Excitement. The good kind. The kind he hadn't felt in a long time.
Tomorrow, or maybe the day after that, he would pull Luca aside. Not just for a chat. Not just for encouragement. But for an invitation.
As he walked, a faint smile formed on his lips.
"I think he can come and train with the first team," Alex said quietly to himself, the words barely audible over the wind.
He was watching the future, and this time, he was not going to let it slip through his fingers.
A/N: Bonus chapter if we make it to 50 Power Stones this week, or three reviews. Two if we smash both targets