Chapter 22: Signed
The walk back to the Jong AZ lockers was quiet. My legs felt like lead. That thirty-minute session with the first team wasn't just a run-around; it was a beating. Those guys don't move like teenagers. They move like machines built to take your space and your breath.
Every time I took a step, I felt a sharp pull behind my kneecaps. I'm growing too fast. My bones are getting longer, but my muscles feel like they're being stretched to the breaking point. It's a dull, nagging ache that reminds me I'm still just fifteen, no matter how many times I nutmeg a pro.
I found Hendrik in the lobby, sitting on a wooden bench near the trophies. My father looked out of place in his heavy work jacket, his boots still dusty from the docks.
"Maarten said we need to go upstairs," Hendrik said, standing up. He looked at the grass stains on my legs. "You okay? You're walking a bit stiff."
"I'm fine, Dad. Just a knock."
We took the elevator to the top floor. Max Huiberts' office was at the end of a long, quiet hallway. Inside, the Technical Director was already waiting with a folder open on his desk. He didn't stand up. He just pointed to the chairs.
"Pascal Jansen wants you registered for the squad by tomorrow morning," Huiberts said, getting straight to the point. "That means the trial is over. We're offering a three-year professional contract."
He turned the folder so Hendrik could see it.
"€2,800 a month as the base. If he makes the bench for the senior team, there's a bonus. If he plays, it's more. We'll also cover his travel and help with a place to live if you move closer."
Hendrik didn't look at the money first. He leaned forward, his eyes scanning the paragraphs. He'd spent thirty years reading union papers at the port; he knew how to look for traps.
"The extension clause," Hendrik said, pointing his thick finger at a line in the middle. "It says you have the right to add two years at the same salary. I want that out. If my son is a starter in two years, he shouldn't be making academy money."
Huiberts looked at my dad, then back at the paper. "Fine. We'll keep it at a flat three years."
"And the release clause," I said. I saw the blank space at the bottom. "What is it?"
"Usually five million for players your age," Huiberts said, leaning back.
"Make it fifteen," I said.
The room went silent. Huiberts' pen hovered over the paper. He looked at my face, probably trying to see if I was joking. I wasn't. There was no "anime" intensity, just a kid who felt like he was stating a price for a piece of machinery.
"Fifteen million?" Huiberts asked. "That's a high bar, Luuk. It makes it harder for you to get a move to a bigger club later."
"If I'm not worth fifteen, I'm not doing enough," I said. "I want the club to have a reason to play me. If I'm an expensive asset, you can't afford to leave me on the bench."
Huiberts shrugged and scribbled the number in. "Your choice. Sign here."
We both signed. It took less than ten minutes to change my life. No one cheered. No one shook hands. It was just a transaction.
I went back to the Jong AZ locker room to grab my bag. It was mostly empty now, the smell of deep-heat and old socks hanging in the air. Mo and Jasper were the only ones left.
"Signed?" Mo asked, not looking up from his bag.
"Yeah," I said. I opened my locker—Number 42—and started pulling out my street clothes.
"Three years?"
"Three years."
Mo zipped his bag with a sharp clack. "Well, I guess that means you're definitely on the bus for Friday. Venlo away. It's a pit. The grass is usually long to slow down teams like us."
"Martens told me to be ready," I said.
"They'll play dirty," Jasper added, leaning against the locker. "Rick Ketting and the rest of their backline... they've played hundreds of games in this league. They know how to use their elbows without the ref seeing. Just keep your head up."
"I will," I said.
The train ride back to Amsterdam was quiet. Hendrik sat with the folder tucked under his arm. He didn't look like he'd won the lottery; he just looked relieved. The weight of the world had shifted off his shoulders and onto mine.
"We need a better place, Luuk," Hendrik said as we walked from the station. "Somewhere with a kitchen that actually works. You need to eat better than what I can make on a hot plate."
"We'll look this weekend," I said.
When we got home, I ate a quick meal and went straight to my room. I didn't celebrate. I sat on my bed and opened my laptop, watching the footage the club had sent me of VVV-Venlo. I watched their center-backs. I watched how they tracked runners.
My phone buzzed. A group text from the manager: Friday: VVV-Venlo (A). Bus leaves at 15:00. Wear the club suit. Squad list attached.
I scrolled down.
42. Luuk van den Berg
I lay back and closed my eyes. I could feel a dull warmth in my legs—the system working, or maybe just my muscles trying to repair the damage from the morning. The talk about money was over. On Friday, it would just be me and the ball.
I fell asleep before ten, my mind finally quiet, wondering if the grass in Venlo was really as long as they said.