Chapter 10: PAST AND PRESSURE

The sky over Midrand was unusually dark for midday.

Storm clouds gathered like a curtain being drawn across the sun. Inside the academy, tension buzzed like static—one of those days where the air itself felt like it was holding its breath.

Stephen had just finished a two-hour tactical drill under Coach Du Plessis. His calves burned. His throat was dry. But his mind? Sharper than ever. The rhythm of his new life had begun to settle. He was no longer the outsider scrambling for space.

He was the pulse of the midfield now—coaches knew it. Players felt it. Even Spike had started passing to him during scrimmages, if only because he knew Stephen would deliver.

Then, in the quiet hum of the mess hall later that afternoon, it all cracked.

Keletso came jogging in, brows furrowed.

"Bro… you have a visitor."

Stephen looked up from his protein shake. "Who?"

The winger shook his head. "Said her name's Leah."

Time stopped.

Stephen nearly dropped the cup.

Outside, standing in the shadow of the administration block, was the last person he expected to see.

Leah Daniels.

The girl he'd grown up with. His first crush. His first heartbreak. She'd been there before the injury. Before the collapse. She was there when he was dreaming with stars in his eyes—and disappeared just when those stars started falling.

She hadn't changed much—still sharp eyes, brown skin glowing against the gray clouds, hoodie pulled up over her braids. But something about her presence made the past surge forward like a wave trying to drown him.

He walked up slowly.

"What are you doing here?" His voice was measured. Too calm to be casual.

She looked at him, unreadable. "I heard you made it to Midrand."

"How?"

"I've got eyes," she said. "Besides… my brother's trialling for Musgrave now. Word spreads."

Stephen folded his arms. "Why now?"

Leah sighed. "Because you need to know something. Before it catches you off guard."

His heart thumped louder.

"What is it?"

She glanced around, lowered her voice. "Oakridge. Rivera. They've filed a complaint with SAFA."

Stephen blinked. "What kind of complaint?"

"They're claiming Midrand's offer violated development rights. That they had first claim on you."

Stephen's stomach dropped.

"That doesn't make sense. I wasn't under contract."

"They're arguing verbal commitment," she continued. "That you were part of their development pipeline. And since Midrand scouted you during their match, they're requesting compensation. Or to block your final signing."

Stephen felt the walls closing in.

All this time, he'd been preparing for the final evaluation, thinking the only thing standing in his way was performance. But now?

Politics. Bureaucracy. Jealousy.

Leah looked at him, sincere.

"They're trying to slow you down, Stephen. Maybe even sabotage you."

Later that night, he stormed into the lounge, finding Coach Du Plessis reviewing match footage on a tablet.

"They're saying I was Oakridge's player," Stephen snapped. "That they want to block my signing."

The coach didn't look surprised.

"We heard."

"You knew?"

Du Plessis put the tablet down. "These things happen. Clubs feel entitled to players they couldn't help when it mattered. It's noise."

"But can they block it?"

The coach leaned back. "Only if we let them. Midrand has a legal team. This won't be your battle. It's ours. Yours is to play."

Stephen clenched his jaw. "Still feels like a knife in my back."

Du Plessis gave a small nod. "That means you're getting closer."

But the pressure didn't let up.

The next day during training, Stephen was off.

Passes were late. Touches were heavy. Even Spike noticed.

"Where's your spark today, golden boy?" he muttered.

Stephen snapped back, "Why don't you worry about your own first touch?"

Still, the fire wasn't the same.

By evening, Keletso pulled him aside.

"You let her get in your head?"

Stephen sighed. "It's not her. It's everything."

Keletso nodded slowly. "Look, some of us have families who've already made peace with failure. You're lucky. People still expect something from you."

Stephen looked at him.

"That's not luck," he muttered. "That's pressure."

That Saturday, the second evaluation match loomed like judgment day.

Stephen's nerves were raw. Scouts would be there again. And the coaches had made it clear—this match would heavily influence who stayed and who got sent home.

And now, with Oakridge trying to throw shade, he had to not just impress—but dominate.

Coach Du Plessis gave them their instructions. Shorter halves. Tactical focus. He wanted to see more than flair—he wanted solutions under stress.

The whistle blew.

Stephen started slow, feeling the weight of the week on his shoulders. Missed one pass. Then another. Keletso shot him a glare from the left flank.

"Wake up!"

Then it happened.

A long ball came over the top. Stephen tracked it, eyes sharp. A defender lunged. He cut inside, dragged the ball back, then… curled a shot with the outside of his right boot.

It soared.

Top corner.

Goal.

Just like that, the shackles shattered.

He roared, chest heaving. The scouts leaned forward. The players turned heads.

Now he was locked in.

He controlled the rest of the match. Not by scoring—but by creating. Three key passes. Four interceptions. Movement like silk across steel.

When the final whistle blew, the scoreboard read 2–0.

But for Stephen, it wasn't the score that mattered.

It was the control.

The proof that pressure didn't break him.

Later that night, his phone buzzed.

A text from Leah:

"They won't stop coming for you now. Just stay sharper than their whispers."

He stared at it for a long time.

Then deleted the message.

And for the first time in days, he slept like a man with nothing to prove—but everything to take.

To be continued…