Chapter 11: The Shadow at the Fence
The floodlights of the SV Sloten complex were starting to hum, the massive bulbs flickering as they cooled down. The mist from the nearby polders had settled over the pitch, turning the green grass into a hazy, silver sea.
Luuk stood by the bench, peeling off his sweat-soaked jersey. Every movement felt deliberate. The sharp "Friction" in his hips had settled into a steady, vibrating warmth. He had survived. He hadn't just survived; he had redefined the hierarchy of the U-19s without ever hitting his top speed.
[Recovery Protocol: Phase 1 Active]
[Thermal Output: Decreasing]
[Neural Load: 42% — Optimal Efficiency maintained]
As he reached for his water bottle, he felt a familiar weight in his peripheral vision. Most people at the club had sharp, aggressive silhouettes—trainers in sleek parkas, players in neon kits. But this silhouette was heavy, draped in a worn, diesel-stained work jacket that looked out of place against the polished background of the clubhouse.
Hendrik van den Berg was leaning against the chain-link fence, his hands buried deep in his pockets. He didn't wave. He didn't cheer. He just stood there, the orange glow of a nearby streetlamp catching the weary lines of his face.
"Van den Berg! Great session," Coach Visser called out, walking over with his clipboard. He followed Luuk's gaze toward the fence. "Is that your old man?"
"Yeah," Luuk said, his voice flat.
Visser nodded, his eyes lingering on Hendrik's scuffed work boots and the grime under his fingernails. "He's been there for the last twenty minutes. He saw the lob. I think he's still trying to figure out if you meant it."
"I always mean it," Luuk said.
He grabbed his bag and walked toward the gate. As he approached, the players from the senior team—Jonas and his clique—were also heading out. They were laughing, loud and boisterous, until they saw Hendrik.
The laughter died down to a curious murmur. Jonas Dekker, still nursing the bruise on his ego from being nutmegged, looked from Hendrik's rusted-out old truck in the parking lot to Luuk's silver-grey eyes.
"That your ride, kid?" Jonas asked, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Does it run on coal or just hope?"
Luuk didn't stop. He didn't even look at Jonas. He walked straight to the fence, the 95 Balance making his stride look uncannily smooth even on the uneven gravel.
"You're late," Luuk said as he reached his father.
"Shift ran long at the docks," Hendrik replied, his voice a low rumble. He looked at Luuk, really looked at him. He didn't see the "stiff" boy who had been rejected by Utrecht. He saw a young man who seemed to occupy more space than he used to. "I caught the end of it. The way you moved... you looked like you were waiting for them to catch up."
"I wasn't waiting," Luuk said, leaning against the cold metal of the truck. "I was just being efficient."
Hendrik reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled brown paper bag. "I stopped at the bakery. They were closing up. Thought you might need the fuel."
Luuk took the bag. Inside were two heavy krentenbollen—currant buns—still faintly warm.
[Analyzing Intake: High Carbohydrate / Simple Sugars]
[Status: Sub-optimal for Hyper-Recovery, but Neural Spike detected (Emotional Stabilization)]
[Protocol: Allow Intake]
Luuk took a bite. The sweetness hit his tongue, and for a second, the "System" and the "God-Touch" felt a thousand miles away. He was just a fifteen-year-old sitting in a rusted truck with his father.
"Jonas and the others," Hendrik said, nodding toward the clubhouse where the players were piling into their parents' expensive SUVs. "They don't like you."
"They don't have to," Luuk said, watching Jonas drive past, the headlights catching the silver in Luuk's eyes. "They just have to give me the ball."
Hendrik started the engine. The truck groaned and sputtered, a cloud of blue smoke rising into the Amsterdam night. "Visser talked to me for a second before you came over. He said you're a 'project.' He said he's never seen a kid with your touch who didn't come out of an elite academy."
"What did you tell him?"
Hendrik gripped the steering wheel, his calloused thumbs rubbing the worn leather. "I told him you didn't come out of an academy. I told him you came out of a cage."
They drove in silence through the winding streets of North Amsterdam. Luuk watched the city lights blur. He could feel his body pulsing. The "Elastic Debt" was being paid back with every minute of rest. His bones felt heavy, a deep throb in his shins that suggested another growth spurt was imminent.
[Current Height: 183.4cm]
[Growth Velocity: 0.1% increase detected]
When they reached the apartment, Luuk didn't go to bed. He went to the kitchen and pulled out the Status Screen, overlaying the "Nutritional Blueprint" over the dinner Hendrik had prepared—a simple stew of potatoes and beef.
"Dad?"
Hendrik looked up from the stove. "Yeah?"
"I'm going to need more. More eggs, more meat, more greens. The training... It's demanding more than I have."
Hendrik looked at the sparse cupboards, then at his son. He knew the cost of food. He knew the cost of everything. But he saw the steel in Luuk's eyes, the same steel that had just dominated a pitch full of grown men.
"I'll pick up an extra shift on Saturdays," Hendrik said quietly. "You just keep doing whatever it is you're doing. Don't let the engine run dry."
Luuk nodded. He felt a pang of something—not pain, but a heavy sense of responsibility. He wasn't just playing for himself anymore. He was playing for the extra shifts his father was taking.
He went to his room and sat on the floor, the ball at his feet. He closed his eyes and initiated the Deep Sleep Protocol.
[New Objective: Mastery of the 'Guided Deflection']
[Current Physical Progress: 61% toward Nagi-Baseline]
As the darkness took him, the last thing he saw wasn't the goal or the scouts. It was the silhouette of his father at the fence, standing in the mist, watching his son become a predator.