Chapter 14: TRIALS AND TEAMMATES

There's a rule in every academy:

Earn the shirt. Defend the locker. Survive the politics.

Stephen had done the first. Now, he was being tested on the other two.

Coach Du Plessis made it official after the team's Monday review.

"Starting XI for Saturday's U20 league opener against Pretoria North United:

Smith—central mid."

The words dropped like a hammer in the squad room.

Some clapped. Others glanced at Kwaz, waiting to see his reaction. Kwaz didn't flinch—but the vein in his jaw tightened.

Stephen sat in silence. Calm outside, calculating inside.

He knew this wasn't just a chance. It was a declaration.

Midrand was backing him.

And not everyone liked that.

That afternoon, training had teeth.

Kwaz tackled harder. The defenders doubled up on Stephen during passing drills. Even Keletso got clipped in a shoulder challenge that felt more personal than tactical.

But Stephen stayed composed. Precise. Cold.

Coach Le Roux watched closely, nodding slightly after each sequence.

Stephen didn't need validation.

He needed momentum.

That night, back in the dorm, Keletso dropped onto his bed with a grunt.

"They're turning into hyenas, bro," he muttered.

Stephen unzipped his boots, expression unreadable. "Let them."

"They're not just mad. They're plotting," Keletso said, voice low. "I heard Sipho and Kwaz whispering earlier. Something about 'humbling the golden boy.'"

Stephen sat up, eyes narrowing. "When?"

"Didn't say. But… they're not dumb. They'll wait till it hurts."

He didn't have to wait long.

Thursday night. Just after lights-out.

Stephen was in the hallway vending area, pouring hot water into his recovery tea, when the ambush happened.

The fluorescent lights flickered.

Two shadows stepped in.

Kwaz and Sipho.

No smiles. No threats. Just presence. The kind that makes your back straighten.

Stephen turned slowly.

"You boys thirsty?" he said flatly, motioning to the boiling kettle.

Kwaz leaned against the wall. "Nah. Just wanted to chat. Off the pitch, you know?"

Stephen stayed still.

"I'm listening."

Sipho stepped closer. "You're good, Smith. But you're playing like someone who thinks he's irreplaceable."

Stephen's brow lifted. "I'm playing like someone who was told to lead."

Kwaz clicked his tongue. "Yeah? Because leadership isn't about stats. It's about knowing your place."

Stephen looked him in the eye. "My place? Is above the fear you're showing right now."

The words landed like a slap.

Sipho stepped forward, hand twitching.

"Careful, Durban. We come from here. We built this locker room."

Stephen didn't move.

"Then build it stronger. Because I'm not leaving."

A long pause.

Then Kwaz snorted and turned away.

"Just remember this," he muttered. "You may start on Saturday. But one bad match, and the coaches remember who they groomed."

Stephen smiled coldly. "Then let's not give them a reason."

By Friday night, word of the hallway tension had spread across the dorms.

Most players kept quiet. Others dropped small hints—nervous support, subtle nods, respect behind silence.

Keletso pulled Stephen aside near the outdoor gym.

"You need to watch your back. They don't like that you earned in two weeks what they've chased for two years."

Stephen was wrapping his wrists.

"That's their problem," he replied. "I'm not sorry for being ready."

Keletso tilted his head. "But are you ready to lead them too? 'Cause they won't follow unless you make them."

Stephen didn't answer right away.

Instead, he looked up at the dark sky, stars veiled by city haze.

"I didn't come here to be liked," he said finally. "I came to win. If they follow, good. If not, I'll win alone."

Saturday: Game Day.

The bus ride to Pretoria North felt longer than usual. Silence. Music through earbuds. Jittery hands tightening shoelaces and retying them.

Stephen sat by the window, headphones on, but not listening. His mind was locked into the game plan.

Du Plessis walked down the aisle, dropping words like landmines.

"Eyes up. Body language tight. You're not guests. You're Midrand. You walk in, take what's yours, and walk out clean."

When they arrived at the stadium, fans were already gathering. Not many—but enough to feel real.

Stephen stepped onto the field during warm-up.

Boots kissed the turf. The lights buzzed overhead.

The moment tasted like purpose.

The match started fast.

Pretoria's midfield was compact, physical, and relentless.

Kwaz took the armband, but Du Plessis was clear—Stephen was to dictate rhythm.

At first, it was rocky.

One misread pass. One dispossession. Stephen's heart pounded.

From the sidelines, Le Roux shouted: "Find the game!"

Stephen dug deep. Slowed the tempo. Used the touchline. Drew fouls. Then—sparked movement.

Keletso on the wing. Sipho running a dummy overlap. Stephen dropped a shoulder, sliced a pass through two lines.

Goal.

1–0. Midrand.

And the tension began to thaw.

By the second half, the team flowed through him.

Even Kwaz—reluctantly—linked up.

And then it happened.

83rd minute. 1–1. The game was teetering.

Stephen got the ball just inside the center circle. A Pretoria player lunged. Stephen flicked it behind his standing leg, spun, and surged forward.

He saw Keletso on the right.

But instead—he took it himself.

Outside boot. 22 yards out. Strike.

Net.

The crowd erupted.

2–1. Midrand.

Du Plessis raised both fists.

The bench roared.

And for the first time, even Kwaz clapped.

Post-match, the locker room buzzed.

Stephen sat on the bench, jersey soaked, heart calm.

Kwaz walked over.

He didn't speak right away.

Then: "That was cold."

Stephen shrugged. "It was necessary."

Kwaz smirked. "You lead with fire. I respect that. Even if it burns."

Stephen offered a hand.

Kwaz shook it.

Just once. Firm. Final.

To be continued…