Chapter 14: The Gravity of the Outlier
The scoreboard at the SV Sloten grounds flickered to 1-0, but the atmosphere on the pitch had shifted into something far more predatory. As Luuk walked back to the center circle, he didn't look at his teammates who were celebrating the goal. He didn't even look at the scoreboard.
His silver-gray eyes were locked onto the AFC Amsterdam captain. Luuk wasn't looking at the boy's face; he was watching the way his weight shifted, the way his jaw tightened, and the frantic way he gestured to his fellow defenders.
Luuk didn't need a screen to tell him what was happening. His mind, refined by the "100 Ball Sense," was already deconstructing the opposition's panic. He could see the "vectors" of their fear. They were no longer playing to win; they were playing to stop him.
"Triple-mark him!" the AFC coach bellowed, his voice cracking with desperation. "I don't care about the wings! Lock down the Ghost!"
The game restarted, and the intensity immediately spiked. Three AFC players swarmed Luuk the moment the ball left the center spot. They were larger, heavier teenagers, their faces flushed with the effort of trying to physically intimidate a fifteen-year-old.
One defender lunged with a reckless shoulder barge, intended to knock Luuk off his stride.
Luuk didn't fight the impact. He used his 95-rated Balance to absorb the energy, his body swaying like a willow tree in a storm. As the defender bounced off him, Luuk performed a Weightless Spin. He didn't touch the ball until the last possible micro-second, using the defender's own momentum as a pivot.
The three markers collided into one another, a chaotic mess of limbs and grass stains. Luuk emerged from the cluster with the ball glued to his laces, his movements so efficient they appeared lazy.
In the stands, the AZ Alkmaar scout stopped writing. He gripped the railing, his knuckles turning white. He wasn't watching a youth player anymore; he was watching a director.
Luuk drove into the final third. He saw the "Void"—the space behind the defensive line that only he seemed to perceive. He could see the gap opening as the center-back stepped up, thinking he could intercept a pass.
Luuk didn't pass.
He didn't need to look at the ball to know exactly where it was. He could feel the friction of the leather against his boot through his socks. He performed a Micro-Touch Feint, a movement so subtle it barely registered to the human eye. The defender committed his weight to the left, and in that heartbeat of a second, Luuk was already gone to the right.
He was now thirty yards out. The crowd held its breath.
Most 15-year-olds would have looked for a teammate or tried to dribble closer. But Luuk knew the geometry of the goal better than the keeper did. He didn't need a massive run-up. He didn't need to swing his leg with brute force.
He executed the Chambered Snap. His knee rose, and his lower leg moved in a lightning-fast blur.
THWACK.
The sound was sharp, like a whip cracking. The ball didn't curve; it took off in a perfectly straight line, a "Knuckleball" that vibrated in the air. The keeper dived, but the ball shifted three inches to the left mid-flight, evading his fingertips and slamming into the stanchion of the goal.
2-0.
The stadium was deathly quiet for a moment before the Sloten fans erupted. It wasn't just a goal; it was a statement of absolute technical superiority.
Luuk turned and walked back to his half. He could feel a dull throb in his quad—the physical cost of demanding such power from a body that was still catching up to his mind. He ignored it. He was a detective on a trail, and the mystery of AFC Amsterdam's defense was already solved.
"Luuk! That was... how did you even see that angle?" Jonas Dekker gasped, catching up to him.
"The keeper was leaning on his heels," Luuk said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "He was dead before I even touched the ball. Don't slow down, Jonas. They're going to start foul-playing now. Be ready for the press."
Luuk was right. For the rest of the second half, AFC gave up on football. They began to hunt him. They clipped his heels, elbowed him in the ribs, and tried to drag him down.
Luuk used it all.
He used their aggression to draw fouls in dangerous areas. He used his Anticipation to sense a tackle coming from his blind side, skipping over the lunging boots with a grace that made the defenders look like amateurs. He didn't just play the game; he manipulated the very gravity of the pitch.
In the 75th minute, he received the ball near the touchline, surrounded by four players. It was a "dead-end" trap.
Luuk didn't panic. He used a Blind-Spot Scoop, flicking the ball over his own shoulder and the head of the closest defender. He let the ball drop onto his chest, then his knee, and before it could hit the grass, he volleyed a 60-yard diagonal pass to the opposite wing. It was a pass that bypassed the entire AFC structure, landing so perfectly on the winger's foot that the boy didn't even have to break his sprint.
The winger scored the third.
When the final whistle blew, the score was 4-0. Luuk stood in the center of the pitch, his hands on his knees, his breathing deep and controlled. He had played with such efficiency that he had barely broken a sweat while the opposition was shattered.
As he walked toward the dugout, he saw the AZ Alkmaar scout walking toward him. The man didn't look at Coach Visser. He didn't look at Jonas. He looked straight into Luuk's silver-gray eyes.
"Luuk van den Berg," the man said, his voice low and intense. "I'm Bram van Geel. I've seen enough of this league. You're wasting your time here."
Hendrik, Luuk's father, stepped forward, looking nervous.
Bram didn't hand over a flyer for an academy trial. He pulled out a black business card with a gold embossed logo. "I want you at the AFAS Trainingscomplex on Monday morning. You're not trialing for the U-19s. I'm putting you in a closed-door session with Jong AZ. The professional reserves."
Hendrik gasped. Jong AZ was the doorstep to the Eredivisie.
Luuk took the card. He looked at the logo, then back at Bram. He didn't smile. He didn't thank him.
"Monday," Luuk said, his voice cold. "I'll be there."
As the scout walked away, Luuk looked down at his legs. He could feel the "Lag" finally subsiding as his Hyper-Recovery kicked in. He had dominated the day, but he knew the truth. On Monday, he wouldn't be playing against kids. He would be playing against men who were faster, stronger, and just as desperate as he was.
"Dad," Luuk said as they walked toward the truck. "We need more steak tonight. And the heavy weights. I'm still too weak for the pros."
[SYSTEM LOG]
User: Luuk van den Berg (Age 15)
Performance Rating: 10/10 (Masterclass)
--- [PHYSICAL & TECHNICAL ANALYSIS] ---
**[I. Physical Attributes]**
Pace: 62.9 (+0.1)
Acceleration: 62.2 (+0.1)
Agility: 60.3 (+0.1)
Stamina: 65.9 (+0.5)
Strength: 56.5 (+0.3)
Balance: 95 (LEGACY)
**[II. Technical Attributes]**
Ball Control: 100 (MAX)
Ball Feel: 100 (MAX)
Dribbling: 73.5 (+0.7)
Short Passing: 62.5 (+1.3)
Shooting Technique: 80.2 (TOP)
Weak Foot: 4★ (81.5% Efficiency)
**[III. Sense & Mental]**
Ball Sense: 100 (MAX)
Spatial Awareness: 78.4 (+3.0 — High Load Activation)
Anticipation: 84.0 (TOP)
Tactical IQ: 72.4 (+2.5)
Spatial Synchronization: 18.5/100 (+2.1)
**[IV. Defensive Attributes]**
Defensive Positioning: 60.0 (+0.5)
Interceptions: 66.0 (+0.8)
Pressing Intelligence: 70.0 (+0.5)
Tackling: 58.2 (Unchanged)