The front door clicked shut behind him.
Leon jogged down the steps two at a time, a light spring in his step. His jacket flapped open as the wind met him at the bottom of the stairs—chill, but not enough to dull the adrenaline rising in his chest.
"Mom! I'm going out to train with Byon!"he called back toward the house.
His mother's voice floated from the kitchen window, warm and steady. "Don't be late, sweetheart… and wear your jacket—it's getting cold!"
Leon zipped it halfway. "Okay, Mom!"
Byon was already waiting at the corner, bouncing a ball on his thigh with one hand in his pocket. His backpack bulged like always—probably snacks, maybe an extra pair of socks, definitely too many footballs.
"You're late!" he called out, grinning.
"You're early," Leon replied, giving him a quick high-five.
The two boys fell into step on the sidewalk, chatting as they walked through the quiet streets of the neighborhood.
"You know," Byon said thoughtfully, juggling the ball beside him, "the best part of playing with you is… I always feel like I'm improving."
Leon glanced at him, a little surprised, but smiled.
"You're talented already. You've just got to believe in it more."
Byon shrugged, trying to play it off, but his grin widened. "Next week's match is going to be awesome."
"Yeah," Leon said, looking ahead. "It's going to be unforgettable."
They arrived twenty minutes later at a cracked, worn-down pitch tucked between two rows of squat brick buildings. Faded lines. Rusted goalposts. One corner of the field sloped down into a patch of rough gravel.
But it had charm.
It had heart.
A cluster of kids—maybe eight or nine—were already deep into a match. Shouts rang out, boots thudded on cement, the ball clacked against the fence. One nutmeg drew a scream from the defender and a burst of laughter from the others.
It was football in its purest form.
No cones. No drills. No adults. Just the game.
Leon's eyes lit up.
"Wanna ask if we can join?" he said, the itch to play already burning in his legs.
Byon stretched his arms. "Of course! Let's try our luck."
Leon jogged up to the edge of the field, careful not to interrupt a pass. As the ball rolled out of bounds near him, he trapped it under his foot, looking toward the group.
"Hey! Mind if we join?"
A kid with a buzzcut and oversized shirt looked them over. He tilted his head, skeptical.
"You guys are kinda small," he said bluntly. "But… if you're good, you stay."
Leon smiled. "Fair enough."
They joined the next round—5-a-side, winner stays on. No bibs. You just remembered your team.
Leon and Byon were placed together, thrown into the mix like ingredients into a pot already boiling.
And just like that… the game began.
The first few touches were cautious. The other kids tested them, expecting the newcomers to trip over their own feet or panic under pressure.
But Leon settled into rhythm instantly.
Byon played a sharp pass to his feet. Leon controlled it with one touch, rolled the ball past his marker with a feint that sent the kid the wrong way, and flicked it back to Byon with the outside of his boot.
Byon returned it—quick give-and-go—and Leon burst down the middle, leaving defenders scrambling.
One-on-one with the keeper, he didn't even hesitate.
A drop of the shoulder. A left-footed rocket. Top corner.
THWACK!.
The goal clanged.
Then:
"OOOOOOOOOOOH!"
"Did you see that??"
"What a strike!"
The buzzcut kid from earlier blinked. "Where do you play, bro?"
Byon laughed, hands on his hips. "We're in an academy. Training for an upcoming match."
Leon said nothing, just jogged back to position, his heart thudding—not from nerves, but joy. This was the football he loved!
The rest of the match turned into a show.
Leon pulled the strings—cutting between defenders, dropping back when needed, finding angles where none should exist. Byon danced through tight spaces with elastic control, feeding passes with unexpected timing and flair.
A backheel here.
A cheeky nutmeg there.
A chipped assist that floated perfectly over a defender's head into Leon's path.
Goal.
"These guys aren't normal…" one kid muttered after the game, shaking his head.
The man sitting on the nearby bench—probably a local dad—leaned toward another and whispered, "Did you see their touches? They're like mini-pros."
The other nodded. "That blonde one especially… he's different."
The sun dipped lower as the boys wrapped up.
Leon wiped sweat from his brow, breathing hard but satisfied. He and Byon sat on the edge of the pitch, legs outstretched, watching the orange light fade over the rooftops.
Byon exhaled, almost in disbelief. "That was amazing… best training we've ever done."
Leon nodded slowly, soaking in the feeling. Not just the joy of playing—but the freedom. The creativity. The connection with someone who got it.
This wasn't some fancy stadium or televised match. But it felt like one.
He glanced at Byon, who was busy chugging from a water bottle with both hands like a man lost in a desert.
"You ready for the big match?" Leon asked.
Byon grinned, still catching his breath. "More ready than ever. You?"
Leon looked down at his scuffed trainers. Dirt on his knees. Sweat cooling on his neck. His heart steady.
Then he looked up, the sky turning indigo above them.
"I was born for moments like this."
They sat there a little longer, letting the wind brush past, the pitch emptying behind them.