Chapter 3

Malik arrived at eight sharp, his bike clattering to a stop outside the glass door. He wore a clean red jersey and carried a duffel bag over one shoulder. “Ready, Biba?”

She stepped out into the bright morning. “Ready.”

The field was already busy. At least twenty kids milled around the grass, some in matching club jerseys, others in plain T-shirts like her. The goals had fresh nets, and orange cones marked off a grid for the drills. Near the center circle stood a man with silver-streaked hair and a clipboard: Coach Kimura. He was shorter than Benio expected, with a calm face that did not smile.

Malik nudged her. “He looks serious.”

“Good,” Benio said. “I am serious too.”

They found a spot near the sideline to stretch. Benio watched the other players juggle and pass. Some were fast, some were sloppy. A few had the same controlled touch she had seen in Japan. She felt small among them, but not afraid.

Ross arrived ten minutes later, his laugh cutting through the chatter before he even reached the group. “Ha-ha-HA! Look who actually showed up. The girl and her sidekick.”

Malik’s jaw tightened, but Benio ignored him. She kept her eyes on the ball at her feet, tapping it softly from one foot to the other.

Coach Kimura blew his whistle. “Listen up. Tryouts are two hours. We’ll do a warmup, technical circuit, then small-sided games. I’m looking for first touch, vision, and the ability to finish. One lazy pass and you’re out. Understood?”

A murmur of “Yes, Coach” rippled through the group.

The warmup was simple: jogging, dynamic stretches, a few short sprints. Benio stayed near the middle of the pack, not showing off, not hiding. She saved her energy.

The technical circuit came next—passing through gates, dribbling past cones, then a shot on goal from eighteen yards. Each player ran it twice. Coach Kimura stood near the goal with his clipboard, marking something for every attempt.

When it was Benio’s turn, she took a breath. The first run was crisp: she passed through the gate with one touch, weaved through the cones without looking down, and struck the ball clean into the side netting. Low, driven, hard.

Coach Kimura did not nod. He just wrote something.

She repeated it on the second run. Both shots on target. Both exactly where she aimed.

Ross went after her. He had decent pace but rushed his finishing. His first shot soared over the bar. His second skimmed wide. He laughed it off, but Benio saw the way his eyes flicked to Coach Kimura’s clipboard.

The small-sided games split the group into four teams of five. Benio and Malik were on the same team. Ross was on the opposite side.

The first game was ten minutes. Benio dropped deep to receive the ball, kept it moving with one- or two-touch passes. She threaded a pass to Malik who cut inside and shot—low, just inside the post. Goal.

Malik pumped a fist. “Yeah!”

Ross snorted from across the field. “Lucky shot.” But his voice was thinner than usual.

The game continued. Benio scored twice herself: once from a tight angle after dribbling past two defenders, once on a half-volley from the edge of the box. Each time, the whistle blew, Coach Kimura wrote something, and the game restarted.

With two minutes left, Ross got the ball near the sideline. He shielded it from a defender and then, instead of passing, deliberately kicked the ball at Benio as she moved toward the goal. It struck her ankle, hard.

She stumbled but stayed on her feet. The ball rolled out of play.

Coach Kimura blew his whistle. “Watch your aim, Ross.”

Ross shrugged. “Accident.”

Benio said nothing. She rubbed her ankle, tested her weight on it, and walked to her position for the restart. But her eyes met Malik’s. He was fuming. She gave a tiny shake of her head. Not worth it.

The final whistle ended the games. Coach Kimura called everyone to the center circle. His clipboard was full of notes. He looked at the group, then began reading names.

He listed eight players. Malik’s name was there. Benio’s was not.

Her heart dropped. Had she done something wrong? She replayed every touch, every pass, every shot. Nothing felt off.

Coach Kimura paused. “That’s the core. I need one more player.” He looked up from the clipboard. “Benio Kiyomizu and Ross Higgins—you two are the final candidates. There’s a spot on the roster, and it goes to whoever proves they want it more. Tomorrow, four o’clock, this field. You’ll face off one-on-one. Five chances each. Score more goals, and you’re in. Miss, and you’re out.”

Ross grinned. “Easy.”

Benio felt the weight of everyone’s eyes. She swallowed and met Coach Kimura’s gaze. “I’ll be here.”

Coach Kimura nodded once. “Good. Everyone else—if your name wasn’t called, come back in the spring. Dismissed.”

The group scattered. Malik walked over to Benio, his face full of concern. “You okay? Your ankle—”

“It’s fine,” she said. But she could already feel a dull throb. Tomorrow at four. One-on-one against Ross. She had twenty-four hours to prepare—and one poorly timed injury that could ruin everything.

Ross passed them on his way out. “Better practice your penalties, little girl. You’re going to need them.” He laughed his obnoxious laugh and walked away.

Malik turned to Benio. “We’ll work on it tonight. I still owe you for those drills.”

Benio nodded, but her mind was already racing. Not just about scoring—about stopping Ross. And about her ankle. She picked up her father’s ball and held it close. The scuff mark from her first day in America was still there. She touched it with her thumb.

“Let’s go,” she said. “I need to practice.”