The blaring siren ripped through the dorms at 5:00 AM, loud and merciless. It wasn't just an alarm; it was war drums summoning soldiers.
"Chineke…" Joseph groaned, covering his head with a pillow. "Omo, dis kin training wan kill us o."
"E don show my body shege", Joseph let out an exaggerated sigh.
Mfoniso stretched with a wince, muttering, "If this is a dream, please, wake me up from it."
Frank sat up immediately, smirking while flexing his legs. "Dream? This is reality. Weakness is a choice, boys. I'm already ready."
Prince, the first goalkeeper, was already standing, silent as ever, tightening his gloves even though there was no match. His roommate, Scott, rubbed his eyes and yawned.
"Bro, na 5 o'clock, who dey catch ball this early?"
From down the hall, Hanson's voice floated through the doors. "Alarm dey shout like say EFCC raid us."
The boys stumbled out of their separate rooms, groggy but moving. Miracle was one of the last, dragging his feet, his body aching from yesterday's training.
When they reached the indoor pitch, Kelvin was already waiting. Dark grey tracksuit, arms folded, eyes like steel. He didn't move, didn't smile. He just stood there, the storm in human form.
"Good morning, gentlemen," he said, his voice sharp enough to cut through bone. "On your bedside table, each of you has a mini-tab. It's been updated overnight with your tailor-made regimen. That regimen is your law. Your roadmap. You follow it, or you fall behind. No questions. No excuses. No complaints."
Of course, complaints came anyway.
"Tailor-made ke?" Gideon muttered, scratching his head. "Abeg, who dey design my own?"
"My body's still on strike," Joseph mumbled.
Kelvin's stare sliced through them. "Your feelings don't matter. Your body doesn't matter. Talent doesn't matter. Only your mind and discipline matter. Now… get to it."
And like soldiers under command, they obeyed.
---
The Grind
The next two hours were pure chaos. Sprint drills, weighted runs, precision ball control, defensive positioning. Every boy's tablet buzzed and tracked their times, accuracy, endurance. Kelvin's eyes followed everything — no mistake escaped him.
By the end, sweat poured like rain, lungs were on fire, and legs screamed mutiny.
"Breakfast," Kelvin barked.
They shuffled into the cafeteria, half-dead but starving. That's when they saw it.
A massive leaderboard screen lit up above the buffet. Two sections: Top Performers and Weakest Links.
---
TOP PERFORMERS
1. Frank Anyiam – 9.2 (Lethal finishing & stamina)
2. Prince – 9.0 (Sharp reflexes & command)
3. David Akpama – 8.7 (Aerial dominance)
4. Samuel Esate – 8.5 (Positioning awareness)
5. Hanson Udito – 8.3 (Creativity & flair)
6. Gideon – 8.0 (Technical shooting)
7. Joseph – 7.9 (Energy spark)
8. Mfoniso – 7.8 (Defensive presence)
WEAKEST LINKS
9. Kelechi – 7.1 (Inconsistent wing play)
10. Tega – 6.9 (Delivery issues)
11. Sadiq – 6.7 (Positional lapses)
12. Nnamdi – 6.5 (Discipline problems)
13. Scott Onyejiaka – 6.3 (Conditioning)
14. Godson Edet – 6.0 (Slow transitions)
15. Eric Ekeng – 5.7 (Temper control)
16. Miracle Johnson – 4.8 (Weak stamina & mentality)
---
The cafeteria went still. Eyes darted to Miracle at the very bottom. His face burned.
Joseph leaned over and whispered, "Dead last, bro. That one pain."
Mfoniso tried to chuckle but failed. "At least you made the board sha."
A few boys laughed under their breath. Miracle's fists clenched tight.
Kelvin's voice broke the silence. "You see it now. Top five, you eat real food, then the bottom half of the top wats an average meal." He gestured to the steaming trays of jollof, chicken, plantain, and fresh juice. Then he pointed to the bland porridge and dry bread. "The rest of you eat below average and the last man rats scraps, until you climb. You want better meals? Earn them. You want better utilities? Earn them. You want respect? Earn it. This is war against yourself."
The boys shuffled into lines, pride swallowed with their hunger. Miracle stared at the dry bread on his tray, his stomach boiling more than his anger.
---
The King's Gambit
That afternoon, the battleground shifted to a mahogany boardroom at TechNexus Holdings. Reporters, journalists, CEOs, and former sponsors filled the long table. The air stank of skepticism and money.
Mrs. Abigail Okoye opened the meeting, speaking with passion about investment and redemption. But the men and women across the table weren't buying it.
"Champions?" a telecom CEO sneered. "Your team is a disgrace. We lost money and reputation because of them."
Another journalist leaned forward, venom in her tone. "Mr. Okafor… you were a failed footballer. Why should we trust you won't fail them too? Isn't this just your ego project?"
Cameras flashed. Pens scratched. Laughter murmured through the crowd.
Kelvin finally spoke, his voice low, sharp, deliberate:
"Your questions are a waste of my time. I'm not here to beg for your money. I'm here to tell you this team will not fail. They will win. And you—" his glare swept over the room— "you will be there to watch it happen."
Gasps. Outrage. Some sponsors shifted uncomfortably; others looked insulted.
Before anyone could press further, Kelvin turned on his heel and walked out. No explanations. No apologies. Just silence and the echo of his footsteps.
Reporters erupted in chatter, furious at his arrogance. "Disrespectful!" one shouted. "Unprofessional!" another barked. Articles would flood out within the hour, headlines branding Kelvin as a toxic, reckless coach.
Back at the training camp, the boys would feel the backlash immediately—hate online, pressure in the air, the weight of a country that wanted them to fail.
And for Miracle Johnson, already dead last on the board, the mountain had never looked higher.