Chapter 21: The Calibration
The steam from the showers had barely cleared when Luuk stepped back into the Jong AZ locker room. It was 8:45 AM. The rest of the squad was just trickling in, their voices loud and sleepy, complaining about the morning chill.
Luuk sat in front of his locker, his skin still humming from the Hyper-Recovery. While the others were just waking up, Luuk felt like he had already lived an entire day.
"You're here early," Mo El Hamdi muttered, dropping his bag. He looked at Luuk, then at the damp training gear hanging in Luuk's locker. "Wait... you already went out? On a Tuesday morning?"
"I needed to calibrate the pivot," Luuk said, pulling his clean jersey over his head.
Mo just shook his head, a mix of pity and awe in his eyes. "You're going to burn out, kid. Even the pros don't grind like that."
"I don't," Luuk replied.
Before Mo could ask what that meant, the door swung open. It wasn't the usual kit manager or a trainer. It was Maarten Martens, and he wasn't looking at the squad. He was looking straight at Luuk.
"Van den Berg. Leave your gear. You're not training with us today."
A heavy silence fell over the room. Jasper de Wit paused with a sock halfway up his leg. Everyone knew what that sentence usually meant: You're being cut. Or worse.
"Coach?" Luuk asked, standing up.
"The First Team is doing an 11-on-11 tactical drill on Pitch 1," Martens said, his voice unusually tight. "Pavlidis has a tight hamstring, and they need a body to play the '9' for the B-squad. Pascal Jansen asked for a Jong player with 'composure.' I told him you were the only one who wouldn't piss himself the moment Jordy Clasie yelled at him."
The locker room erupted in a low hiss of whispers. Jasper's jaw dropped. To be called up for a "body-fill" session was rare, but for a fifteen-year-old on a trial? It was unheard of.
"Go," Martens barked. "And Luuk—don't try to be a hero. Just be a target man. Hold the ball, pass it back, and stay out of the way of the senior defenders. If you get injured today, my season is ruined."
Pitch 1 was a different world. The grass was shorter, the air felt colder, and the players were massive.
Luuk stood on the touchline, watching the AZ First Team finish their warm-ups. These were the men who were currently tearing through the UEFA Conference League. Sam Beukema was a mountain of a man near the goal; Milos Kerkez was a blur of energy on the left; and in the center, Jordy Clasie was directing traffic with the eyes of a general.
"You the kid?"
Luuk turned. Vangelis Pavlidis stood there, a bag of ice wrapped around his leg. The Greek international looked him up and down, his gaze landing on Luuk's frame.
"I am," Luuk said.
"Listen to me," Pavlidis said, leaning in. "Beukema and Hatzidiakos... they don't like guests. They're going to try to rattle your bones in the first five minutes. If you show them your back, they'll eat you. Stand your ground, use your frame, and for God's sake, keep the ball moving."
Luuk nodded once. He wasn't nervous. He felt a cold, sharp focus. He could feel the Status Screen settling into the background of his vision, the numbers steady.
[Current State: Peak Efficiency]
[Neural Lag: 6.7% — Warning: Motor speed is below elite defensive reaction time]
The whistle blew. Pascal Jansen, the head coach, stood in the center with a clipboard. "Alright! 11-on-11. Tactical press. Red bibs are the A-squad. Blue bibs—you're the opposition. Let's move!"
Luuk pulled on the blue bib. He moved into the striker position, directly between Beukema and Hatzidiakos.
The first ball came in from the midfield—a zipping, low-driven pass from Jordy Clasie. It was a test. A ball hit with enough pace to break the wrist of a weak player.
Luuk didn't fight the ball. He used his Ball Feel. As the ball reached him, he simply cushioned it with his instep, letting the momentum die instantly. The ball dropped to the grass, perfectly still, as if it had hit a velvet curtain.
Beukema's eyes widened for a fraction of a second. He hadn't expected a youth player to have a "dead-stop" touch like that.
"On him!" Clasie yelled.
Hatzidiakos lunged. He used his veteran weight, a heavy leaning shoulder intended to ground Luuk. It was the "welcome" Pavlidis had warned him about.
Luuk felt the impact. His Balance kicked in, his core locking like a steel bolt. Instead of falling, he used Hatzidiakos's momentum as a pivot. He leaned back into the defender, felt the center of gravity shift, and spun.
It was silent. It was efficient. In one movement, Luuk was facing the goal, and Hatzidiakos was left clutching at the air.
Luuk didn't sprint—he knew his 6.7% lag wouldn't let him outrun Beukema. Instead, he waited until Beukema stepped up to cover the gap.
He didn't fake. He just stopped.
The total lack of motion made Beukema stutter for a micro-second. That was the opening. Luuk didn't take a long wind-up. He used a short, violent snap of his quad—a whip-like flick of his lower leg that required almost no back-lift.
THWACK.
The ball hissed across the damp grass, staying low and flat. It went through Beukema's legs before he could even drop his weight. Mat Ryan, the First Team keeper, didn't even dive. He just watched the ball tuck into the bottom corner.
The training ground went silent. Pascal Jansen stopped writing on his clipboard.
Luuk didn't celebrate. He just turned and walked back to the center circle, his silver-grey eyes already looking for the next ball.
"Who invited this ghost?" Mat Ryan muttered, kicking the ball out of his net.
Jordy Clasie walked toward Luuk, wiping sweat from his face. He looked at the kid—not with anger, but with a sharp, professional curiosity.
"That snap," Clasie said. "No back-lift. Where did you learn to shoot like that?"
"The cage," Luuk replied quietly.
Clasie nodded slowly. "Well, kid... the cage is over. You're welcome here ."