Chapter 19 — After the match
The locker room was quieter now, the echoes of cleats and shouting replaced by the low hum of ventilation and distant footsteps in the corridors. Jong AZ players slumped onto benches, towels draped over shoulders, water bottles passed around. Laughter and banter rippled, but Luuk stayed seated on the edge of the bench, leaning forward slightly, elbows on knees.
His boots were caked in mud, socks damp. Every muscle ached, but the burn didn't bother him. Not really. He let his silver-grey eyes roam over the room, cataloging—learning—absorbing.
"Luuk, you insane or what?" Jasper de Wit leaned against the wall, grin wide, hair plastered to his forehead. "That goal… dude, you didn't even seem phased when Van der Meer smashed into you!"
Luuk only shrugged. "He's predictable. Watch his angles, watch his weight. You don't have to fight him—you just move where he isn't."
Jasper blinked. "Yeah… easier said than done."
"Not if you notice the small things first." Luuk's voice was quiet, almost casual, but precise.
From across the room, Daan Visser wiped sweat from his brow and approached. He stopped in front of Luuk, hesitated for a second, then nodded once. No words. That nod carried more weight than a speech. Respect earned, silently.
Mo El Hamdi, still panting from the match, plopped down next to Luuk. "Man… I thought I had a chance to pass to you, but you were already two steps ahead. How? How do you see that stuff?"
Luuk tilted his head, letting a small exhale escape. "Not seeing. Feeling. Timing, rhythm… you feel the ball, the players, everything. It tells you where it wants to go."
Jasper snorted. "Yeah, you make it sound like the ball's psychic or something."
Luuk allowed a faint smirk. Just enough. "Maybe it is."
The trainer entered then, clipboard in hand, eyes sweeping the room. "Good work today, everyone. Jong AZ showed grit, and…" his gaze paused on Luuk, faintly unreadable, "…one player stepped up in a way we'll need to track closely. Recovery, stretches, then showers. Don't linger."
Players began moving, clattering lockers and laughter filling the space again. Luuk stayed for a moment longer, letting the hum of post-match chatter wash over him. His mind replayed every movement, every collision, every split-second decision.
Then, as he reached for a bottle of water, the familiar flicker appeared: the Status Screen.
[STATUS SCREEN — POST-TRIAL]
User: Luuk van den Berg
Height: 183.9 cm
Neural-Physical Lag: 6.9%
Spatial Synchronization: 22.4 / 100 → (+2.3)
[PHYSICAL]
Pace: 63.4
Acceleration: 65.2
Agility: 61.2
Stamina: 67.2
Strength: 62.8 → 63.1 (+0.3)
Balance: 95.0
Flexibility: 59.8
Jumping: 65.4
[TECHNICAL]
Ball Control: 100
Ball Feel: 100
Ball Sense: 100
Dribbling: 74.5 → 74.9 (+0.4)
Short Passing: 64.4 → 64.7 (+0.3)
Long Passing: 58.5 → 58.8 (+0.3)
Shooting (Power): 56.7 → 57.0 (+0.3)
Shooting (Technique): 82.5 → 83.0 (+0.5)
Curve: 52.5 → 52.7 (+0.2)
Weak Foot: 4 Stars
[MENTAL / SENSE]
Spatial Awareness: 79.6 → 80.1 (+0.5)
Anticipation: 85.3 → 85.7 (+0.4)
Tactical IQ: 74.3 → 74.7 (+0.4)
Vision: 71.2 → 71.6 (+0.4)
Composure: 95.0 → 95.5 (+0.5)
Ego: 90.0 → 90.2 (+0.2)
[DEFENSIVE]
Defensive Positioning: 63.5 → 63.8 (+0.3)
Interceptions: 70.0 → 70.3 (+0.3)
Pressing Intelligence: 71.2 → 71.5 (+0.3)
Tackling (Standing): 58.7 → 59.0 (+0.3)
Tackling (Sliding): 42.0
Heading (Defensive): 66.3 → 66.5 (+0.2)
[SYSTEM LOG: TRIAL MATCH COMPLETE — ATTRIBUTES UPDATED]
Luuk exhaled, letting the numbers sink in. Not that they mattered to him—not really. What mattered was understanding the game, feeling it, shaping it with every touch.
He leaned back against the bench, eyes drifting to the small window overlooking the empty pitch. The floodlights had been switched off, leaving the turf in darkness, except for the faint glow from the locker room.
A voice broke his thoughts. "You're going to make it look easy every time, huh?" Jasper's tone was teasing, but there was no bite.
Luuk met his eyes. "I won't make it easy. Not yet."
Mo laughed, shaking his head. "Kid's scary. And it's just a trial match."
"That's the point," Luuk said quietly. "The trial isn't about winning. It's about proving you can survive—and I did."
Jasper clapped him on the shoulder. "Survive, huh? Then dominate next time?"
Luuk let the corner of his mouth twitch. "Next time, we'll see."
He gathered his bag, pulled the wet towel over his shoulder, and started toward the showers. The noise of the other players faded behind him, replaced by the rhythm of his own heartbeat, the mental replay of every pass, every collision, every calculated choice.
This was only the beginning. The Grind had tested him—and he had passed. Now the real work could begin.