Chapter 11: THE SHORTLIST

The announcement was set for Sunday morning, 10:00 sharp.

That whole weekend, the Royal Midrand academy felt like a coffin lined with fireworks—quiet, but always a second from exploding. The trialists barely spoke during meals. Some trained harder than scheduled. Others sat in the showers longer, hoping the hot water would wash off the anxiety.

Stephen wasn't calm.

But he was ready.

He sat on his bunk in Room 213, tying and retying his boots—not because he was going anywhere, but because it kept his hands busy. The shortlist wasn't just a formality. It was the line between a dream extended and a door slammed shut.

Keletso walked in, half-dressed, hair dripping wet from his morning rinse.

"You think they'll say it straight?" he asked. "Or make it dramatic?"

Stephen shook his head. "This place? It is drama."

Keletso chuckled nervously. "They better call my name. I'm not going back to Limpopo to sell tekkies at my uncle's spaza."

Stephen stood, stretching. "They'll call you. You earned it."

Keletso eyed him. "You too, bro. If you don't make it, they're blind."

At 9:58 a.m., the players were herded into the lecture hall. No phones. No whispering. No side-glances.

Just waiting.

At 10:00 on the dot, Coach Du Plessis walked in, flanked by Talent Director Le Roux and a stern-looking official from SAFA's regional board. A large envelope sat in the director's hand—sealed, heavy, final.

"You all gave everything this past week," Le Roux began, voice firm. "Out of 26 players, 8 will be retained for the next stage. 4 will be fast-tracked into the Midrand U20 system. The rest… we thank you, and wish you well."

He unfolded the letter.

The room felt like it stopped breathing.

Names came fast.

"Keletso Mokoena."

Stephen smiled slightly. Keletso buried his face in his palms and exhaled deeply.

"Thabiso Ntuli."

"Gavin Meyer."

"Spike Makhanya."

Stephen flinched. Of course. Politics, aggression, flair—they liked that.

Then silence.

Le Roux hesitated.

Stephen leaned forward in his seat.

"Stephen Smith."

A pause.

"You've been shortlisted for fast-track integration into the U20 development squad. Pending contract finalization."

Time didn't stop—it exploded in his chest.

He didn't react. Not immediately. He just sat there, letting the moment settle like rain on a fire.

The dream had stretched its hand out.

He had grabbed it.

Later that day, as players filtered out—some cheering, others breaking down—Stephen wandered into the gym for space. The shortlist was posted outside the hall, and he'd caught a glimpse of his name again, just to be sure it wasn't a hallucination.

But inside the gym, the air felt colder than usual.

And the silence wasn't comforting.

He moved to the treadmill corner, intending to run the adrenaline off, when a familiar voice stopped him.

"Enjoying your spotlight?"

He turned. It was Coach Du Plessis. But his tone wasn't celebratory.

"Wasn't expecting a guilt trip," Stephen replied, catching his breath.

Du Plessis folded his arms. "You're sharp. I'll give you that. Calm under pressure. Reads the field better than half the signed players."

"Then what's the problem?"

Du Plessis's jaw tightened.

"Midrand's legal has been battling with Oakridge since Thursday. Turns out Rivera's complaint wasn't just sour grapes. He has a signed training agreement with your name from two years ago."

Stephen blinked. "That's not possible. I never signed anything."

"You were underage at the time. Your dad signed it."

The floor seemed to tilt.

Stephen's breath hitched. "But… that was before everything. Before the injury."

"Doesn't matter," Du Plessis said. "SAFA says it's technically still binding."

"So what now?" Stephen asked, trying not to let the storm show in his face.

Du Plessis exhaled slowly. "It means your contract here is… conditional. We can't sign you unless you get Oakridge to release your development rights."

A bitter laugh escaped Stephen's throat. "You think Rivera's going to help me now?"

"No," Du Plessis said flatly. "I think he'll use it to control your next move."

Stephen clenched his fists.

"Can't Midrand fight it?"

"We could," the coach said. "But it'll take months. Legal back-and-forth. And in football, momentum is everything. You'll be stuck in limbo while other names rise."

Stephen's pulse pounded in his ears.

"So what are you telling me? That after everything, I still don't get to play?"

Du Plessis didn't answer directly.

Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card.

"Go talk to him," he said. "Rivera. Make peace. Make a deal. Swallow pride if you have to. This game doesn't wait for justice—it rewards moves."

Stephen sat outside that night on the rooftop again, staring over the dorms and lit training fields.

He'd done it. Played through pain. Outshone favorites. Reclaimed his rhythm.

And yet—here he was again.

Blocked by a piece of paper signed by a man six feet under.

The letter his father signed… how could something so old still control his path?

Keletso joined him, chewing an energy bar.

"They gave you the spot," he said, mouth full. "You're gold now."

Stephen didn't answer.

After a pause, Keletso asked, "What's wrong?"

"I'm still tethered to Oakridge," Stephen replied quietly. "Rivera could freeze me out."

Keletso whistled low. "Damn. That's dirty."

Stephen's eyes narrowed.

"No… that's football."

To be continued…