Chapter 13: FLAMES AND FIRST TEAMS

The U20 dressing room smelled like money and pressure.

New boots. Custom duffel bags. Designer cologne covering nerves. The walls were freshly painted with Royal Midrand's signature lion crest—gold, proud, and merciless.

Stephen walked in carrying only his resolve and a duffel bag scuffed from township dust.

Twenty other boys turned to glance at him.

Some nodded.

Most didn't.

Here, he was no longer a trialist. No longer just the comeback kid.

He was a threat.

Coach Du Plessis had made it official the day before.

"You're in the U20 rotation, starting next week. We're testing you at central mid. Don't prove us wrong."

No pressure, right?

⸻

The U20 squad was a different world.

These weren't just academy hopefuls. These were signed youth contracts, boots laced with the weight of expectations. Every player had been scouted, selected, and shaped through Midrand's system. They bled tactics. They spoke in formations.

Stephen noticed it immediately—chemistry like muscle memory. Players moved like synchronized machines. Passes anticipated, runs automatic. Their tempo was brutal.

Coach Le Roux ran the morning session.

"Your job," he barked, "is not to survive out there. It's to outshine."

Stephen locked eyes with the pitch.

That's exactly what he came to do.

⸻

But not everyone welcomed the new addition.

Especially Kwanele "Kwaz" Sithole, Midrand's poster boy.

Tall, fast, and unnervingly slick with the ball, Kwaz was the midfield engine—and a nightmare of a personality. Arrogant. Territorial. The kind of player who smiled while sharpening his knives.

Stephen noticed him from day one.

He didn't talk much. But the body language was loud: "This is my turf."

And by day three, it was clear: Kwaz wasn't going to share the engine room without a fight.

During a small-sided match, Stephen broke free with a one-two and darted into space, calling for the through ball.

Kwaz ignored him. Again.

And again.

Then, when Stephen did get the ball, Kwaz stormed in late with a shoulder barge that sent him flying across the grass.

The coach didn't whistle. He was watching something else.

Stephen got up, wiping mud from his jaw.

"You blind or just insecure?" he muttered as he passed Kwaz.

Kwaz didn't flinch. Just smirked.

"That your Durban heat? You'll burn out soon."

⸻

The tension simmered into Friday.

Stephen was slotted into the starting lineup for a closed-door scrimmage against the U21 reserves—a test match before Midrand's next youth fixture. Coaches from the senior squad were expected to watch.

A big opportunity.

But as the boys got dressed that morning, a strange silence passed through the room. Keletso noticed it too.

"Why's everyone quiet?" he whispered.

Stephen shrugged. "Pressure?"

"No," Keletso said, narrowing his eyes. "It's something else."

When they stepped onto the pitch, Stephen's gut twisted.

The lineup was wrong.

Kwaz had insisted on playing holding mid—Stephen's role. But Coach Le Roux hadn't been told. The swap had been made unofficially, through whispers.

Still, Stephen adapted.

Slotted into attacking mid.

No complaints.

But it didn't stop there.

Kwaz started freezing him out.

Every time Stephen made a run, the pass went wide. Every time he dropped to receive, Kwaz turned the other way. It wasn't random. It was orchestrated.

By halftime, Stephen had only touched the ball five times.

Keletso cornered him near the tunnel.

"They're sabotaging you."

Stephen stared out at the pitch, jaw clenched. "Why?"

"Because you're new. And you're better. That scares them."

⸻

Coach Le Roux noticed something was off.

He stormed into the locker room at halftime.

"What's this? We look like amateurs! Midfield's got zero flow. Who's leading this unit?"

Silence.

Kwaz shrugged.

Stephen stood up.

"Coach, I'm not being given the ball. On purpose."

Kwaz scoffed. "You serious, bro?"

Stephen ignored him. "Look at the tracking footage. I'm making every run. It's not about touches. It's about exclusion."

Le Roux raised a brow. He turned to the analyst.

"Run the first-half heatmap."

The numbers didn't lie.

Stephen's movement was constant. His passing requests lit up like a flare.

But the link-ups? Nonexistent.

Le Roux slammed the whiteboard.

"Fix it. Second half. Now."

⸻

When the whistle blew again, Stephen was back in central mid.

This time—he took over.

He demanded the ball. Commanded tempo. Strung together five consecutive passes in the first four minutes. Cut through the U21 lines with laser vision. Even Kwaz had no choice but to pass when the team started moving around Stephen's rhythm.

Then, in the 68th minute—it happened.

Stephen picked the ball from deep, danced through two midfielders, and lobbed an inch-perfect pass over the top. Keletso chased. Controlled. Finished.

Goal.

The staff stood.

Stephen didn't celebrate.

He just jogged back to position.

Let the performance speak.

⸻

After the match, as the squad walked toward the showers, Kwaz brushed past Stephen.

"You got your moment. But don't get too comfortable."

Stephen turned, face calm.

"I don't need comfort," he said. "Just the ball."

Kwaz smirked. "We'll see if you still talk after next week's fixture. Coaches rotate starters."

Stephen held his stare. "Let them. I don't need protection."

Kwaz leaned in. "Then you better not miss."

⸻

That evening, Le Roux called Stephen into his office.

"You handled that mess well," he said. "That's the first real test. Not on the pitch—but in the room."

Stephen nodded. "There's going to be more, isn't there?"

Le Roux smiled grimly. "You want to be a professional? Learn this now: football is war in a nice kit. Keep showing them you belong. Or they'll show you out."

Stephen didn't blink.

"I'm not here to belong," he said.

"I'm here to lead."

⸻

To be continued…