The Scott Chronicles

The first full day at Bastion Munich didn't begin with a whistle or a drill. It began with silence.

Scott stood alone beside the touchline, the dew still clinging to the blades of grass. Pitches stretched endlessly across the complex, as if someone had dropped a football paradise in the middle of Bavaria. The air was cold enough to bite, but it didn't matter. His heart was louder than the wind.

Players jogged in quiet formation across the far end of the field, red kits moving with synchronized precision. No idle chatter. No misplaced step. This wasn't an academy—it was a factory. One where mistakes got you cut.

He pulled out his water bottle and took a sip, trying to control the pulse thumping in his throat. Three months. A single preseason window before the 2011/2012 season started. And if he didn't prove himself here, there was no Plan B.

A subtle flicker caught the edge of his vision.

The system's interface returned, smooth and subdued. No sound. No fanfare. Just hard data

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Scott Mason

Overall: 74

Position: CM / CAM

Club: Bastion Munich (Jugendzentrum )

Nationality: French

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Pace: 70

Shooting: 63

Passing: 78

Dribbling: 71

Defending: 65

Physical: 68

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The numbers stared back at him. Honest. Cold. Not spectacular. Not terrible. The stats of a kid with potential—nothing more.

He'd checked them last night in bed, memorized every bar. It wasn't vanity. It was survival. In a place like Bastion, they didn't just assess talent. They measured margins.

The door to the main building hissed open behind him, and a short, broad-shouldered man in full Bastion gear strode out, clipboard under one arm.

"Scott Mason?"

"Yes, sir."

"Erik Voller," the man said briskly. "Youth tactical coach. First thing: forget everything Suns Academy taught you. This is Bastion. We don't play hopeful football. We play structured football."

Scott nodded. "Understood."

Voller motioned toward the pitch. "You're CM, right?"

"CM, sometimes CAM."

"Not here. You're a central cog. Build-up. First receiver. We don't need flair—we need function. You're fighting for the fourth slot behind three established boys. Schäfer, Lukas, and Varela. Know their names."

"I do."

"Good," Voller said, scribbling something. "You're here because Anderson signed off on your vision and passing. But your stamina and decision-making are being questioned."

Scott didn't flinch. "I'll change that."

"You'll try. That's enough for now."

The coach turned away and walked toward the group assembling by the benches. Training was starting. First light drills. Then position games. No fanfare. No welcome speech. Just pure evaluation.

As Scott jogged over to the cluster of players, a few heads turned. Most didn't react. Some gave polite nods. A few ignored him entirely. Every one of them had the same look in their eyes: Prove you belong. Or don't.

He took a spot near the edge, beside a wiry midfielder with buzzed blond hair and long sleeves pulled over his hands.

"New one?" the boy asked without looking at him.

"Yeah. Scott. Mason."

"Lukas. Been here since U13s. Don't expect a warm welcome." His German accent was faint, almost tired.

"I wasn't."

"Good." Lukas motioned toward the other side of the pitch, where Dominik Schäfer and the other regulars were warming up separately. "You'll be fighting Schäfer for scraps. Don't let the stats fool you—he plays like he's owed a future."

Scott followed Lukas's gaze. Schäfer was taller than him. Broader. Carried himself with the confidence of someone who'd already been told yes too many times.

"Anyone ever beat him?" Scott asked.

"Not yet. But we watch."

Voller blew the whistle.

The drills began with rondos—tight space, one-touch control. Simple, brutal, unforgiving. Scott stepped into the circle, feeling the ground under his boots like he was stepping into a furnace.

One touch. Pass. Receive. Rotate.

He moved cleanly. Nothing flashy. Just effective.

But Schäfer was watching.

And so was Voller.

The midday sun had started to burn away the clouds when they moved to tactical breakdowns.

Each group was assigned a small half-pitch grid. Short-sided formations. Instructions barked in clipped German. Scott's understanding was decent—enough to catch the tempo triggers and spacing cues.

His group struggled at first. Mismatched players. Overlapping instincts. But Scott saw the gaps. Called early. Dropped deep. Played into the blindside.

"Tempo!" Voller snapped.

Scott switched it. One-touch. Long diagonal to Lukas. The drill reset with a nod from the assistant coach.

Later, on the sideline, Lukas nudged him. "Not bad for a London boy."

Scott wiped sweat from his brow. "Grew up learning with less space."

Lukas chuckled. "You'll need more than that. Schäfer's starting the A-team scrimmage tomorrow. If he shines, you stay right here."

"I'm not in a hurry."

"That's good," Lukas said. "Because this place crushes the impatient."

Scott didn't reply. He already knew that. He'd seen it back home—kids burning bright, then burning out.

He took a sip of water and looked at Schäfer again. The boy moved like gravity bent for him—always central, always present. Bastion's golden path was paved with kids like that.

But Scott wasn't here to follow paths.

He was here to carve one.

The ball zipped across the grass, faster than it should have.

Scott's studs dug into the turf as he turned sharply, intercepting the pass and redirecting it with his instep. It bounced awkwardly—Munich's spring ground, damp from morning mist—but he adjusted quickly, shifting his body and sliding a measured through ball into space. The midfielder it was meant for hesitated.

"Too slow, Dominik!" came the clipped bark of Coach Voller. "That pass was early. Read it, not wait for it!"

Dominik Schäfer scowled but said nothing. His jog back into position was sluggish. Scott didn't miss the glance—dismissive, almost irritated.

He was the new face here, and some didn't like that he was already catching the coach's eye.

They'd started with rondos in tight triangles that morning, gradually building to eight-a-side press-and-break drills. The standard was high—clean touches, sharp movement, relentless transitions. Every session so far had felt like a matchday.

No one shouted. No one complained.

The only sounds were the thuds of boots, sharp whistles, and the occasional clipped correction in German or accented English.

Scott had been quiet, careful. Not because he was shy—he couldn't afford to be—but because he was observing.

He knew the kind of place this was. Bastion Munich didn't select you to "develop your game." They chose players they believed could slot in, survive, and eventually elevate the first team.

 "A week of punishing rondos and sprints had honed Scott's passing, the gain a quiet victory over exhaustion."

Eleven weeks remained before the coaching panel reviewed internal stats and video logs for possible A-team integration. And Scott's name, right now, was barely floating in the mid-table of the midfield rotation.

Coach Voller blew his whistle. "Final drill. Transition wave—start with the reds."

Scott took his spot. The drill was simple: three phases, building from midfield. Quick recoveries, then fast decision-making to transition into attack.

The first two waves were clean. Dominik made a smart dummy run in the second one, letting a pass roll through him. But in the third, Scott found himself at the heart of it.

He nicked the ball off a loose touch and, before the defender could close down, spun into space.

"Options!" Voller shouted.

Scott didn't look. He chipped the ball over the collapsing press—two defenders beaten—and sprinted forward. The return pass came from Lukas, their tall striker, whose first touch was clumsy but salvageable.

Scott didn't hesitate. A curling low shot aimed for the bottom corner.

Post. Out.

Lukas groaned. "Unlucky."

Voller waved him off. "That's what we want. Fast, decisive. Mason—next time, glance first."

Scott nodded. The disappointment lingered, but so did the coach's tone. It wasn't disapproval. It was correction. A sign that he'd been noticed.

They rotated out. Dominik was on the same bench. He didn't speak.

The next batch of midfielders took the pitch, and Scott wiped the sweat from his neck.

The work had just begun.

In the locker room, the sound of cleats against tile echoed as players changed out of soaked gear. Some chatted in German. A few grunted at one another in Bavarian dialects Scott barely understood.

Lukas sat beside him, unwrapping a protein bar. "You play like a Frenchman."

Scott raised a brow. "That's supposed to mean…?"

"Smooth touches. Too calm. Makes the rest of us look like headless chickens."

Scott smiled faintly. "I've seen chickens with better hold-up play than you."

Lukas laughed. A full, loud bark that drew a glance from Schäfer across the aisle.

"He's not a fan of yours," Lukas added.

"I figured."

"You'll have to beat him in more than drills. Matches are where it counts. Internal scrimmage is on Friday. Coaches will track decision-making. Win that one, and the rankings change."

Scott leaned back. That was the thing—this wasn't Suns anymore. No grudges, no messy politics. Everything here fed into the machine. You proved yourself on the pitch, or you were gone.

He liked it.

Even if it was brutal.

The youth cafeteria was mostly silent. Players filed in, scanned their cards, grabbed high-protein meals, and left.

Scott sat near the far wall. Alone at first.

Then came Mira. Clipboard tucked under her arm, phone in the other hand.

"You're improving," she said without looking up.

Scott paused, fork mid-air. "Thanks."

"Passing efficiency up seven percent. Positioning flags down from last session. Still lags behind Schäfer in recovery runs."

So she did watch the tapes.

"You have three more weeks before your assessment hits the senior desk. After that, it's out of my hands."

Scott nodded. "Understood."

Mira glanced up. "Don't let quiet faces fool you, Mason. A few of them want your spot more than they let on."

"I figured."

"Good. Make them work for it."

She turned and left, clicking away in sharp-heeled boots.

Scott returned to his meal. The pasta had gone cold. Didn't matter.

Friday couldn't come fast enough.