Chapter 1 : The price of playing
"Manager Dennis, I want to know why I wasn't allowed to play in yesterday's match."
Ken stood in the office, fists clenched, eyes locked onto the pot-bellied man behind the desk. There was no trace of hesitation in his gaze—only stubborn anger.
"Ah… little Ken." Dennis looked up slowly, a stiff, practiced smile plastered on his face. "You're always in such a hurry. Young people should learn to be patient. Calm down a little."
"Manager Dennis!" Ken raised his voice, unwilling to listen any further. Since joining the U17 National Youth Squad nearly two months ago, he had heard this same speech far too many times.
He stared straight into Dennis's eyes and spoke clearly, word by word.
"In yesterday's match against the regional selection team, we were clearly struggling. So why wasn't I sent onto the field?"
The moment he saw the redness creeping into Ken's eyes, Dennis's expression darkened.
"Ken, who plays is entirely the head coach's decision. What does that have to do with me?"
"Enough." Ken snapped. "I've already spoken to the head coach!"
That was the final straw.
Bang!
Dennis slammed the documents on his desk and stood up, his face gloomy. Yet Ken didn't retreat an inch, continuing to stare at him without blinking.
"Tch." Dennis sneered. "Ken, I suggest you learn some manners. Don't forget—just because I'm only the U17 manager doesn't mean you can shout at me."
He leaned forward, one hand pressing against the desk, arrogance written all over his face as he pointed a finger at Ken.
"One word from me. Just one. And I can make sure you never survive in professional football—your club included. Do you believe that?"
Ken's pupils shrank. For a split second, doubt flickered across his face. But he quickly lifted his head again.
"You already took my money," Ken said through clenched teeth. "You can't go back on your word."
"Money?" Dennis scoffed. "You think that was enough? If your uncle hadn't begged on your behalf, do you really believe that amount would've gotten you into the national squad? Don't be naïve."
He leaned back into his chair, watching Ken's eyes redden further.
"Still dreaming of playing?"
Dennis chuckled coldly.
"Don't think I don't know what you're after. You want exposure in next year's Continental Youth Championship, then use public pressure to force your club to promote you to the first team and play in the top domestic league."
He waved his hand dismissively.
"Give it up. If I let you play, how would I explain it to the others? Some of them paid three times—five times—what you did."
Ken's breathing grew heavy.
Pant… pant…
He had grown up playing football on the streets of South America. To him, football was simple: if you were good enough, you played. Yet everywhere he went, it was the same—politics, money, hidden rules.
The club was like this.
The national youth team was even worse.
"Little Ken…" Dennis spoke again, his tone suddenly soft.
"If you ask me, you just can't let go of your past." He shook his head. "Still dreaming about being one of the 'Twin Stars of São Paulo'?"
He smirked.
"Look at Neymar. Record transfer to Barcelona this year. And you? One of the former twin stars, yet you can't even step onto a professional pitch."
"Listen," Dennis continued lazily. "You grew up overseas. You don't understand how things work here, so I won't hold today against you."
"In our system, whether it's a national team or a club, seniority comes first. You're only seventeen. The older players are still waiting their turn. What's the rush?"
He emphasized the word carefully.
"As long as you're sensible, you'll eventually become a starter. Isn't that better?"
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Come in," Dennis said, waving Ken away.
Ken took a deep breath. He knew continuing the argument was pointless. Without another word, he turned and walked out.
As he passed the person entering, he recognized him instantly.
Mendy—Dennis's most loyal follower.
Click.
The door closed.
The moment Mendy turned around, his face twisted into a flattering smile.
"Heh… Manager Dennis still finds time to guide young players even with such a busy schedule. Truly admirable. No wonder that kid always stays behind to train—clearly inspired by your leadership."
Dennis rolled his eyes, grabbed a pack of cigarettes from his desk, and tossed one over.
"Get to the point. I don't have all day."
"Yes, yes." Mendy hurried forward, lighting the cigarette for him first. "It's like this—the Coastal United academy wants to send someone in. What do you think?"
Dennis frowned. "Didn't I tell you the spots were full?"
"I did, but…" Mendy leaned closer and whispered, "They're offering eighty."
Dennis's eyebrows shot up.
"Generous."
"Then… should we remove someone from the current group?"
Dennis raised his hand sharply.
"Careful with your words. Everyone here has already paid. We can't just be sloppy with business."
Mendy froze, shocked. Since when did this man care about integrity?
Before he could speak, Dennis continued calmly.
"But football is a high-contact sport. Injuries happen all the time during training. Completely normal."
He glanced sideways at Mendy.
"What do you think?"
Mendy's eyes lit up.
"Of course. You're absolutely right."
"So… who should—"
Dennis shot him a glare.
"How would I know who gets injured? I'm not a fortune teller."
Thump.
Slap!
Mendy slapped himself instantly. "My mistake, my mistake. Accidents can't be predicted."
Dennis waved him off, then added slowly,
"That Ken earlier… he doesn't look very healthy. He's been with the team for a while and hasn't played a single match. Find some time to check with the head coach. Player health is important, after all."
Mendy straightened immediately.
"Understood. I'll handle it."
Bang!
The office door suddenly exploded open.
"Dennis! You bastard!"
A figure rushed in, kicking Mendy aside before lunging across the desk.
"Ken?! How dare—OW!"
In less than a minute, two swollen, bruised faces stared out from behind the desk.
Under the shocked gazes of the staff outside, Ken grabbed an old mobile phone from beneath the desk, shoved it into his pocket, and walked away without looking back.