The team sheet went up at 9 AM.
Adrien's name was there. Not on the bench. Not as a substitute. In the starting eleven. Left wing.
He stared at it for a long moment. Haug appeared beside him, reading over his shoulder.
"About time," Haug said.
Adrien said nothing. He just walked into the locker room and began to change.
---
The match was at home. The stands were half-full—a few hundred voices, the usual crowd. The sky was low and gray, the pitch heavy from overnight rain. Adrien stood in the tunnel, waiting to walk out, and felt something he hadn't felt in months.
Not nervous. Ready.
The whistle blew.
---
The first twenty minutes were tight.
Both teams pressed hard, neither willing to concede space. Adrien touched the ball four times—simple passes, nothing dangerous. He stayed wide, then drifted inside, then stayed wide again. Mixing it up. Keeping the defender guessing.
The opposition right back was young, fast, eager. He stayed close to Adrien, mirroring his movements, not biting on the feints.
Patient. Good.
Adrien didn't force it. He played simple. Kept the ball moving.
---
In the 24th minute, the ball came to him in the half-space.
He received it with his back to goal, the right back pressing from behind. Adrien could feel him—close, physical, hands on his back. A year ago, he would have tried to turn. Would have forced something. Lost the ball.
Now, he played simple. One touch to control. One touch to pass back to Haug.
The ball moved. The attack reset.
But as Adrien drifted into a new position, he noticed something. The right back had followed him inside—leaving space behind him on the touchline.
Pattern. He follows every time I drift.
Adrien filed it away.
---
The 31st minute. Another possession. Same drift inside. The right back followed again.
But this time, Adrien didn't pass back. He held the ball, just for a second. The right back committed—stepped forward to press.
Adrien spun. Not inside—outside. Into the space the defender had left.
He was free on the touchline. The ball at his feet. The byline ahead.
He drove forward. The defense shifted—a center back sliding across to cover, a midfielder tracking back. Adrien looked up.
See it.
The vision came. Not a flood—just a single, clear image. The trajectory. The space between the keeper and the near post. The angle of his body. The spin on the ball.
If I cut inside now, the defender is too close. If I cross, the keeper claims it.
But if I shoot—
He cut inside. Not a dribble—a sharp diagonal run, pushing the ball across the top of the box. The defender stumbled, off-balance. The keeper shifted, expecting a pass.
Adrien's right foot connected with the ball.
Not a powerful strike. Not a screamer. A clean, side-footed shot, low and precise, curving slightly away from the keeper's reach.
The ball traveled fifteen meters. Hit the inside of the far post. Rolled into the net.
---
Silence.
Then the stands erupted.
Adrien stood still for a moment, watching the ball nestle against the net. His teammates ran toward him—Haug first, then Solberg, then Eriksen. Hands grabbed his shoulders, his head, his back. Voices shouted in his ears.
He didn't hear any of it.
I scored.
Not a fluke. Not a deflection. A clean strike, chosen, executed.
The vision had come—but only for a moment. Just enough to show him the path. The rest had been him. His technique. His decision. His finish.
Adrien pulled away from the celebration, jogged back toward the center circle. His chest was heaving, but not from exhaustion.
One goal. Not spectacular. But mine.
---
The match continued.
Adrien didn't score again. Didn't assist. He lost possession twice, made a bad pass that nearly led to a counterattack. But he also tracked back, defended, kept the shape.
In the 58th minute, the opposition equalized—a scrappy goal, a rebound, a tap-in. 1-1.
The game grew tense, physical, desperate. Adrien's legs burned. His lungs ached. The ability flickered—glimpses of passes, runs, spaces—but he didn't force it. He played simple when he needed to. Took risks when the moment asked.
In the 79th minute, he was substituted. The coach clapped him on the back as he walked off.
"Good goal," the coach said. "Now do it again."
---
The final whistle blew. 1-1 draw.
Not a win. Not a perfect performance. But Adrien walked off the pitch with his head up.
In the locker room, the mood was mixed—disappointment at dropping points, but acknowledgment of the goal. Haug sat beside him, saying nothing. Johansen was across the room, not looking at him.
But Eriksen walked over. The striker extended his hand.
"Good finish."
Adrien shook it. "Thanks."
Eriksen nodded and walked away.
First goal. First real acknowledgment.
---
That night, Adrien sat on his bed, the stone in his hand.
He replayed the goal in his head. The drift inside. The spin outside. The cut inside again. The shot.
Not spectacular. Efficient.
That was the key. He hadn't tried to do too much. Hadn't tried to score from thirty meters or dribble through three defenders. He had seen the path and taken it.
The ability showed me. But I finished it.
Adrien set the stone down and picked up his notebook. He wrote:
First goal.
- Created space by breaking pattern (drifted inside, then outside, then inside again)
- Defender hesitated = half-second
- Vision showed trajectory, not the whole play
- Finished cleanly
Lesson: I don't need to see everything. Just enough.
He set down the pen, lay back, and stared at the ceiling.
The old man's voice echoed, faint but clear:
"It doesn't make you better. It just shows you what you could have been."
Tonight, for the first time, Adrien felt like he was becoming what the old man had seen.