The assist changed things.
Not dramatically. Not overnight. But Adrien noticed the shift the moment he walked into training the next morning.
Haug nodded at him from across the locker room. Solberg, the midfielder, said "nice ball yesterday" as he passed. Even Eriksen, the striker who had scored the goal, gave him a brief clap on the shoulder.
Small things. But real.
Adrien changed into his kit quietly, trying not to read too much into it. He had been here before—brief moments of acceptance, quickly withdrawn after a bad performance. He knew better than to trust a single good pass.
But as he stepped onto the pitch, he caught something else.
A look.
Two players—a winger named Johansen and a defender named Myhre—were standing near the corner flag, talking in low voices. When Adrien glanced over, they stopped. Johansen's eyes lingered on him for a moment too long. Then they turned away.
Adrien filed it away. Said nothing.
---
The morning drill was a crossing exercise.
Adrien lined up on the left, as usual. The drill was simple: run to the byline, cross into the box, strikers finish. Repetition. Mechanics.
His first cross was decent—curled into the corridor between the keeper and the defenders. Eriksen headed it wide, but the quality was there.
His second cross was better. Low, driven, right to the penalty spot. A different striker—a backup named Mikkelsen—volleyed it into the net.
"Good ball," the coach said.
Adrien jogged back to the line.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Johansen shake his head. The winger was waiting for his turn on the right side. He didn't say anything. Didn't need to.
He's annoyed.
Adrien understood. Johansen had been at the club for three seasons. He was their primary wide player, a direct, physical winger who hugged the touchline and delivered crosses. He wasn't flashy, but he was reliable.
And now the French kid—the flop from Rennes—was getting attention.
---
During a water break, Adrien stood apart from the group, drinking from his bottle.
Johansen walked past. Close enough to speak. Quiet enough that only Adrien could hear.
"Nice assist yesterday," Johansen said. His tone was flat. Not complimentary.
"Thanks," Adrien said.
Johansen stopped. Turned. "You know, some of us have been here a long time. Working hard. Playing simple. Earning our spot."
Adrien said nothing.
"Then you show up. Barely complete a pass for two months. And suddenly the coach is changing tactics for you." Johansen's jaw tightened. "Must be nice."
Adrien met his eyes. "I'm not asking for special treatment."
"No. You're just getting it anyway."
Johansen walked away.
---
The afternoon session was a full-pitch scrimmage.
The coach split them into two teams—Adrien on the blue team, Johansen on the yellow. They would be playing against each other.
From the first whistle, Adrien felt the difference.
Johansen pressed him hard. Not dirty—just aggressive. Every time Adrien received the ball, Johansen was there, body tight, denying him space. He knew Adrien's tendencies—the drift inside, the delayed pass, the pause before the decision.
He's studied me.
In the seventh minute, Adrien tried to cut inside. Johansen blocked the lane, forced him wide. Adrien crossed with his weaker foot. The ball floated harmlessly to the keeper.
"Nice try," Johansen muttered.
---
The scrimmage grew more physical.
Not violent—just sharp. Shoulders into challenges. Arms across chests. The kind of contact that stayed within the rules but sent a message.
Adrien kept his composure. He played simple. Passed quickly. Moved off the ball.
But Johansen stayed with him. Every run. Every drift. Every pause.
In the twenty-third minute, Adrien received the ball in space—a rare moment. He turned, looked up, and saw the pass. A through ball to Eriksen, who was making a diagonal run.
He played it.
Johansen's foot came out. Not a tackle—a deflection. The ball changed direction, rolling safely to the yellow team's keeper.
Johansen looked at Adrien. Almost smiled.
"Now he thinks he's a playmaker."
Loud enough for nearby players to hear.
---
Haug heard it.
The left back was standing ten meters away, hands on his hips. He glanced at Adrien, then at Johansen. Said nothing. But his expression shifted.
At the next stoppage, Haug walked over to Adrien.
"Ignore him."
Adrien shrugged. "I am."
"No, you're not. You're forcing things now. Trying to prove something." Haug's voice was low, matter-of-fact. "Just play. He'll tire himself out."
Adrien wanted to argue. But Haug was right. He had been trying too hard—trying to show Johansen that he belonged. And it wasn't working.
Just play.
---
The scrimmage ended 1-1.
Adrien had no goals, no assists. Completed most of his passes, but created little. Johansen had successfully neutralized him.
After the final whistle, the coach gathered them.
"Good work today. Tomorrow, we rest. Match in two days."
Players dispersed. Adrien walked toward the locker room alone.
Johansen was ahead of him, walking with Myhre. They were talking quietly. Adrien caught fragments.
"... thinks he's the star now..."
"... one assist..."
"... wait till he has a bad game..."
Adrien slowed his pace. Let them get further ahead.
---
In the locker room, the atmosphere was different.
Not hostile. But not warm either. A few teammates—Haug, Solberg, Eriksen—acknowledged him as they changed. Others avoided his eyes. Johansen sat across the room, laughing at something on his phone.
Adrien untied his boots in silence.
Internal team tension begins.
He had expected this. Knew that success would create friction. But knowing it and feeling it were different.
Haug sat beside him.
"You handled that well."
"Did I?"
"You didn't punch him. That's a start."
Adrien almost laughed. Almost.
Haug stood, slung his bag over his shoulder. "Johansen's been here a long time. He's not used to competition. Give him time. Or don't. Either way, keep playing the way you played yesterday. Not the way you played today."
He walked out.
Adrien sat alone for a moment, the empty locker room humming with fluorescent light.
Keep playing.
He stood, grabbed his bag, and left.
---
That night, Adrien sat on his bed, the stone in his hand.
E. Ravn.
He thought about the old man. About the way he had disappeared. About the way his name had been erased.
Did he have teammates like Johansen? Did he face the same resistance?
Adrien didn't know. The records were too fragmented, too incomplete.
But he knew one thing: he couldn't let the tension distract him. Couldn't let Johansen's resentment push him into bad decisions.
Just play.
He set the stone down, lay back, and closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, rest.
The day after, another match.
One step at a time.