Chapter 6
In the weeks following his first session with Kat, Akin's entire approach to the game began to shift.
Kat hadn't offered him a magic wand to instantly cure his trauma, but she had given him tools.
She taught him grounding techniques to keep his mind anchored in the present when the phantom pain flared up, and she guided him through intense visualization exercises to mentally rehearse taking a hit without his knee shattering.
The results weren't perfectly instantaneous, but the invisible weight on his chest had lifted. He stopped freezing.
When a fourteen-year-old defender charged at him during training, Akin no longer panicked. He didn't always win the physical battle—he was still a five-foot-four eleven-year-old going up against massive center-backs going through their puberty growth spurts—but he learned how to cope. He absorbed the pressure, anticipated the impact, and learned how to fall and roll with the momentum rather than fighting it.
With the fear of injury finally managed, his playstyle became beautifully light.
As a forward, he incorporated more fluid movement off the ball, operating with a joyful, willful creativity in the final third. He had finally rediscovered exactly why he loved football.
But as his mind cleared, a new, invisible pressure began to settle over his shoulders.
Working through the elite tactical drills at Hale End forced his adult consciousness to confront the harsh reality of the timeline he was currently in. It was the year 2000.
While Akin was grinding away in North London, he was acutely aware that hundreds of miles away, two absolute monsters were incubating.
Somewhere in Portugal, a relentless winger was tearing through the ranks of Sporting CP.
And over in Spain, a diminutive, alien talent had just arrived at Barcelona's prestigious La Masia.
Akin knew exactly what the future of football looked like, and it was terrifyingly dominant.
If he wanted to eventually lead Arsenal's frontline to the pinnacle of Europe and combat those future dynasty-level players, simply being a "prodigy" wouldn't be enough.
He had to push his physical and mental limits far beyond what he had achieved in his past life.
He couldn't just be a good striker; he had to be revolutionary.
Thankfully, the people around him made sure his ego never got too inflated.
With Kat visiting the flat more regularly, it was constantly filled with laughter.
She and Alicia never allowed him to forget his dramatic "I'm terrified" confession, relentlessly teasing him over Sunday dinners.
To make matters worse, Billy had somehow caught wind of his psychological block.
"You were scared of getting crunched?" Billy had laughed during a kickabout at the park, nearly dropping his water bottle. "Mate, you're the smartest attacker on the pitch! Just shoot or pass the bloody ball before the massive blokes can get to you. It's not rocket science!"
Akin had shoved him into the bushes for that, but the banter only further normalized his fears, making him feel like a regular kid rather than a broken adult.
Despite his massive improvements on the training ground, however, his adult pride took a sharp hit when the squad list was pinned to the dressing room board on Saturday morning.
It was match day against the Chelsea Youth Academy from West London, and Akin wasn't in the starting eleven.
The Hale End changing room was thick with the smell of Deep Heat, damp grass, and anxious teenage adrenaline.
The clatter of studs on the tiled floor echoed loudly as the Under-15 boys strapped on their shin guards and pulled the iconic red and white jerseys over their heads.
Akin sat in the corner, staring down at his boots, his jaw tight.
He knew he was sharper than every other forward in the room.
Brian, noticing the boy's dark expression, stepped away from the coaching huddle and crouched down in front of him, keeping his voice low.
"I know that look," Brian murmured, offering a sympathetic but firm smile. "You're frustrated."
"I should be starting," Akin muttered, his eleven-year-old petulance bleeding through his mature facade.
"I'm faster than Gordon, and my finishing is twice as clinical. I should be leading the line."
"You're also eleven years old, Akin," Brian reminded him gently, tapping the boy's knee. "The fact that you are even dressed in an Under-15 kit for a London derby against Chelsea is historic. Don't let your pride blind you to the reality of the game. West London center-backs play incredibly physical football. The boss wants you to sit, watch the flow of the game, and find their weaknesses. When the time is right, and their defenders are heavy on their feet, you'll get your moment to strike. Be patient."
Akin took a deep breath, the logic of his godfather's words cutting through his boyish frustration.
Brian was right. Tactical delegation. He nodded slowly, his shoulders relaxing.
"Alright, lads! Bring it in!"
Coach O'Sullivan clapped his hands loudly, instantly commanding the room's attention.
The nervous chatter died down as the players quickly gathered around the tactical whiteboard.
But it wasn't O'Sullivan who stepped into the center of the room.
The boys parted respectfully as Academy Director Liam Brady walked into the circle.
Brady looked around the room, his eyes sharp and serious as he made eye contact with the young, hopeful faces of his squad.
"We are playing the blue boys today," Brady began, his voice low and incredibly focused.
"I look around this room, and I can tell you're confident. That's good. We are a brilliant side. But this is football, and talent alone doesn't win a London derby. Chelsea's academy is polished. They think they run the capital. So, do not let your guard down for a single second."
He stopped to assess the boys, a fierce, competitive fire burning in his eyes.
"Chelsea is in a transitional period, but they still practice a highly technical, aggressive game," Brady continued, his voice rising in volume, echoing off the locker room walls.
"Be prepared for a physical fight. Keep your heads cool, control the ball, and keep it fluid. Show them the Arsenal way. I want to see you dictate the pitch, and I want to see you score some absolute beauties today, lads!"
The speech struck a match in the room. Impassioned by the legendary Irishman's words, the North London boys erupted.
"Come on!" Sam Oji roared, clapping his massive hands together.
"ARSENAL! ARSENAL! ARSENAL!" the boys began to chant, the rhythmic, booming sound vibrating in Akin's chest.
Despite his initial frustration about the bench, Akin felt his blood boil with pure, undeniable excitement.
The tactical adult faded, completely overpowered by the thrill of the atmosphere.
He jumped to his feet, joining the lads in their booming chant, his eyes bright as he pictured the hallowed grass of Highbury.
Just give me ten minutes out there, Akin thought, a fierce, eager smile stretching across his face.
I'll show them exactly how lethal I can be.