The headache had faded by morning.
Not entirely—a dull echo remained, somewhere behind his left eye—but the sharp, debilitating throb was gone. Adrien sat on the edge of his bed, the stone cold in his palm, and tested his focus. He stared at the window, at the fog pressing against the glass, and tried to see past it.
Nothing. Just fog.
Good. Rest helps.
He dressed and walked to training.
---
The morning session was light—recovery drills, stretching, a short possession game. The coach kept the intensity low, probably because of the match coming up in three days. Adrien moved through the drills without incident. No visions. No overload. Just football.
But after lunch, the coach gathered them in a small side room.
"Film session," he announced. "We're watching last week's match. Pay attention."
The room was cramped—plastic chairs, a pull-down screen, a projector that buzzed loudly when turned on. Players slumped into seats, some already half-asleep. Film sessions were usually dull. The coach would point out mistakes, rewind the same play ten times, lecture about positioning.
Adrien sat near the back, next to Haug.
"Try to stay awake," Haug muttered.
Adrien didn't respond. He was already watching the screen.
---
The footage began.
Grainy, shot from a single camera high in the stands. The players looked small, distant, their movements reduced to shapes and shadows. But Adrien's eyes adjusted quickly.
The first fifteen minutes were uneventful. The coach let it play without comment.
Then, in the seventeenth minute, the opposing team launched a counterattack.
"Stop," the coach said. He rewound. "Watch the midfield shape here."
The play restarted. Adrien watched—not the ball, but the spaces. The way the opposition's winger drifted inside, pulling the defense with him. The gap that opened on the far side. The run that should have been made.
No one on his team had seen it.
But I see it.
The coach resumed the footage. The counterattack ended in a shot—wide, harmless. The team escaped.
"Lucky," the coach muttered. "Next time, we concede."
---
The session continued.
The coach pointed out mistakes. Poor positioning. Late tackles. Missed assignments. Most players nodded along, bored, waiting for it to end.
But Adrien started noticing things the coach wasn't mentioning.
In the thirty-first minute, the striker made a run that pulled a defender out of position. The space behind him was open for three seconds. No one exploited it.
That was a chance.
Adrien kept quiet.
In the forty-fourth minute, their left back—Haug—held the ball too long, allowing the opposition to reset their shape. A quick pass inside would have opened the defense.
One pass. That's all it would have taken.
Adrien shifted in his seat.
---
At halftime of the footage, the coach paused the screen.
"Questions? Observations?"
Silence. Players stared at the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but the coach.
Adrien opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"Their right back," he said quietly.
The room turned to look at him.
The coach raised an eyebrow. "What about him?"
Adrien stood, walked to the screen, and pointed at a blurry figure near the touchline. "He's slow to recover after pressing. In the seventeenth minute, when they countered—he pushed up, then jogged back. The space behind him was open for almost four seconds."
The coach frowned. He rewound the footage, watched closely.
No one spoke.
Then the coach said, "You're right."
Adrien continued. "And in the thirty-first minute, when their center back stepped to press our striker—the near-side midfielder should have filled the gap. He didn't. That's why the through ball never came."
The coach watched the footage again. Nodded slowly.
"What else?"
Adrien pointed to another moment. "Here. Our right winger. He's hugging the touchline, but their left back is already positioned to block the cross. If he cuts inside instead—" He traced a line on the screen. "—the space opens for the overlapping run. We didn't use it once."
Silence.
Haug was staring at him. So were the others.
The coach turned off the projector.
"Everyone out except Vauclair."
---
The room emptied. Players filed past Adrien with looks he couldn't read—surprise, maybe. Or suspicion. Haug paused at the door, glanced back, then left.
The coach sat on the edge of a table, arms crossed.
"Where did that come from?"
Adrien hesitated. "I've been watching a lot of film. Studying."
"Studying." The coach's voice was neutral. "You saw things I missed. Things our analysts missed."
The ability. The vision. The old man.
"I just see the game differently," Adrien said carefully.
The coach studied him for a long moment. "Different how?"
Adrien chose his words slowly. "I notice spaces. Patterns. Where the ball is going to go before it gets there. Not always—but sometimes."
The coach didn't respond immediately. Then he stood, walked to the whiteboard, and drew a quick diagram—a standard 4-3-3 shape.
"Here," he said, tapping the left wing. "You're here. The ball is on the opposite side. Where do you move?"
Adrien looked at the diagram. The answer came immediately.
"I drift inside. Not to the touchline. The space is in the half-space, between their right back and center back. If I move there, I either pull a defender with me—opening space for the overlapping run—or I receive the ball in a dangerous area."
The coach stared at him.
"That's exactly right."
He set down the marker.
"I've been coaching for fifteen years. Most players don't see that. Not without years of experience."
Adrien said nothing.
The coach walked to the door, then paused. "Tomorrow, we adjust the tactics. You'll have more freedom to drift inside. Don't waste it."
He left.
Adrien stood alone in the empty room, the projector still buzzing, the whiteboard still marked with his answer.
First subtle respect moment.
It didn't feel like victory. It felt like responsibility.
---
That night, Adrien sat on his bed, the stone in his hand.
The headache was gone. In its place, something unfamiliar.
Trust.
Not from his teammates. Not yet. But from the coach.
Don't waste it.
He set the stone down and lay back, staring at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, training would change. He would have freedom—real freedom—to play the way he saw the game.
The way Elías Ravn had played.
Adrien closed his eyes.
One step at a time.