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Chapter 7: Anonymous Tryouts

作者: Nyaanya
last update 最終更新日: 2026-03-04 18:56:29

Rain came down in silver sheets, driven sideways by a wind that cut through soaked kit like knives. The Westbridge United academy pitch had turned into a battlefield of mud and churned turf. Marc’s boots sank an inch with every stride, sucking at his soles, making every turn feel like wading through quicksand. Forty hopefuls had been whittled to twenty overnight; the rest had been sent home with polite nods and promises of “maybe next cycle.”

Reyes stood under the overhang of the equipment shed
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  • Truth Untold    Chapter 7: Anonymous Tryouts

    Rain came down in silver sheets, driven sideways by a wind that cut through soaked kit like knives. The Westbridge United academy pitch had turned into a battlefield of mud and churned turf. Marc’s boots sank an inch with every stride, sucking at his soles, making every turn feel like wading through quicksand. Forty hopefuls had been whittled to twenty overnight; the rest had been sent home with polite nods and promises of “maybe next cycle.”Reyes stood under the overhang of the equipment shed, arms folded, whistle idle around his neck. He didn’t bother shouting over the storm—his gestures were enough. Sprints first: forty yards up, forty back, repeat until lungs screamed. Then shuttle runs, touching cones set at five, ten, fifteen yards. Marc’s quads burned, calves cramped, but he finished every rep ahead of the pack. Not showing off. Just unable to slow down. He was running from something, and the pitch was the only place he could outpace it.Then came the 5v5 full-pitch scrimmage.

  • Truth Untold    Chapter 6: The City of Second Chances

    Gray dawn leaked through the thin, yellowed curtains like spilled dishwater. Marc Evans—Martin Ostin no longer—woke on the thin mattress laid directly on the concrete floor. His back ached from the lack of support, his quads burned from yesterday’s impromptu trial, and his right calf twitched with the memory of every sprint. The one-room apartment smelled of damp concrete, yesterday’s takeout grease, and the faint metallic tang of old pipes. No marble corridors. No quiet staff gliding past with fresh towels. No legacy pressing against his lungs like humidity.For the first time in years, the silence felt like freedom instead of punishment.He rolled to his feet, stretched until joints popped, then pulled on plain black running gear—no logos, no sponsor patches, nothing that could whisper Ostin. Hood up, cap low. He slipped out the narrow stairwell and hit the streets of Westbridge.The city was grittier than anything he’d known back home. Cracked sidewalks buckled underfoot. Graffiti

  • Truth Untold    Chapter 5: Midnight Flight from Legacy

    The taxi idled at the curb outside the estate’s service gate, engine humming low like a secret. Martin slid into the back seat, cap pulled low over his eyes, hoodie zipped to his chin. He gave the driver the international terminal address in a voice that sounded like someone else’s.“Late flight?” the driver asked, glancing in the rearview.“Something like that,” Martin muttered, eyes fixed on the side mirror. Every headlight that swept past felt like an accusation. Every shadow on the sidewalk looked like Damien stepping out to stop him.At the airport he moved fast—self-check-in kiosk, no luggage to tag, just the black duffel slung over one shoulder. He bought the ticket with cash and the emergency ID he’d kept hidden in the lining of an old gym bag: Marc Evans. Twenty-two. No middle name. No history that could be traced back to Ostin.One-way to Westbridge, a gritty industrial city four hundred miles north, home to Westbridge United—a mid-table rival club known for scrappy, hungry

  • Truth Untold    Chapter 4: Heartbreak at the Reception

    The official family reception was staged in the estate’s grand ballroom—crystal chandeliers throwing diamond light across black-tie elegance, champagne towers glittering like frozen fireworks, a string quartet playing something tasteful and forgettable. Board members from Ostin City FC circulated in tailored tuxedos, politicians flashed practiced smiles, and a handful of carefully invited media snapped discreet photos. The theme was unity. Stability. The perfect blended family.Martin stood near a marble pillar at the edge of the crowd, black tuxedo impeccable, champagne flute untouched in his hand. He watched from the shadows as Damien worked the room—charismatic, effortless, shaking hands, laughing at the right moments, fielding questions about next season’s tactics with that low, confident rasp that made investors lean in closer.Elena clung to Damien’s arm in a floor-length emerald gown that caught every light. Her smile was radiant, proprietary. Every time she leaned in to whispe

  • Truth Untold    Chapter 3: College Echoes

    Four years earlier.The university pitch smelled of fresh-cut grass and fallen leaves, the autumn sun low and golden, turning everything warm and forgiving. Martin Ostin, eighteen, all sharp elbows and restless energy, sprinted down the wing like he was being chased by something he couldn’t name. His first senior practice. He was skinny, still growing into his frame, but his feet were lightning.Damien Vale, twenty-three, final-year captain, stood at the sideline in the navy training top, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded from years of play. Already scouted by three pro clubs. Already spoken of in whispers as the next big thing behind the whistle instead of in front of it.Martin took a through ball, controlled it with the outside of his boot, and cut inside. The defender lunged; Martin dropped a shoulder, let the man slide past, then curled the shot low and hard. Bottom corner. Net rippled.The team erupted.Damien blew the whistle once—short, approving. Then he jogged over

  • Truth Untold    Chapter 2: A Forbidden Gaze on the Pitch

    The training ground of Ostin City FC stretched out under a bruised dusk sky, floodlights slicing through the gathering dark like white knives. The air carried the sharp scent of cut grass, damp earth, and the metallic tang of impending rain. Players in crisp navy-and-white first-team kits moved in disciplined patterns—cones, passing triangles, finishing drills. The session was winding down, but intensity still crackled.Martin Ostin, number 9 stitched across his back, waited at the edge of the box. Sweat already darkened his hair at the temples, clinging in damp curls. He bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, cleats digging into the turf. Every muscle felt wired, over-tight, as if his body knew something his mind refused to admit.Damien Vale paced the sideline in a black club tracksuit, whistle dangling from a cord around his neck, clipboard tucked under one arm. At twenty-seven he still moved like a player—long strides, coiled power in every step. His voice cut across the pitch,

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