Jamie woke before the alarm.

He lay still and looked at the ceiling. Miles was asleep on the other bed, one arm hanging off the side, the duvet half on the floor. Jamie’s legs ached from the hip down, the deep kind of sore that came from four days of running he was not used to.

His boots stood against the wall where he had left them, studs still flaked with dried grass. The room smelled of damp kit and cheap soap.

It was the fourth day, and the camp did not feel new anymore.

That’s worse.

Because by now everyone knew the truth. The coaches had stopped testing them on the first two days. They were deciding now. Deciding who could be trusted on Friday, in front of the people who came to watch and write things down.

He turned his head and looked at his boots again, and did not get up.

Breakfast was quieter than the first night.

The hall had been loud on the Monday, all new faces and trial nerves hidden behind jokes. Now the noise came in patches. A few players laughed too loud at one table. A few said nothing at all, eating with their heads down.

Jamie filled a bowl he did not really want and sat near Tomi and Bilal.

Reece Mallory was two tables away.

He sat the way he played, easy and unbothered, eating like Friday was already arranged for him and he was only waiting for it to arrive. He did not look around the room. He did not need to.

Jamie told himself to stop looking.

He looked anyway.

Has he done enough, Jamie thought, or have I just done enough to survive the week.

It was not the same question, and he knew it.

The morning session was not a drill anymore.

The coaches split them into working groups and ran shape instead of skills. Build-up patterns from the back. Defensive recovery. Wide overloads, where two players tried to drag a defender out and break in behind him. Pressing triggers. What to do in the first three seconds after losing the ball.

The whole thing felt sharper, and Jamie understood why. A mistake no longer belonged to him alone.

In the first drills of the week, if he misjudged a touch, it was his touch and his problem. Here it spread. If he opened his body late, the midfielder lost a passing option. If he played backward too early, the move died in front of everyone. If he won the ball and then cleared it anywhere, the whole pattern reset and his team had nothing.

He started tense. He started safe.

But he did not fold.

When a coach called, "Forty-seven, open earlier, you’re hiding the pass," Jamie set his feet differently on the next rep and showed for it sooner. When he played one ball backward and the pattern stalled, he did not drop his head. He looked annoyed instead, jaw tight, and demanded the next one.

He felt the difference in himself before he could name it. Two weeks ago a correction would have shrunk him. Now it landed and moved through him, and he got on with it.

They’re not just watching what I can do. They’re watching what I do after I get it wrong.

Reece was in a different group for most of the morning, but the rotations kept bringing him across Jamie’s eyeline.

He received clean every time. He spoke before the ball arrived, pointing, organising, telling a teammate where the runner was. He played like a boy who had been trusted his whole life and had never once been surprised by it.

He did not brag. He did not have to. The football said it for him.

Jamie’s improvement was real. He could feel it in his legs and in the speed of his decisions. But next to Reece he still looked like the rougher version of the same idea, and he knew that mattered, because Friday would not be decided on potential or sympathy. The men with the notebooks needed boys who could survive under pressure right now.

Miles caught him looking across the pitch again at the water break.

"You’re doing it again," Miles said.

"Doing what."

"Watching him like you bought a ticket."

"I’m not."

"You are." Miles squeezed water over his own head, not really mocking him, because his own knee was bouncing and his voice was too quick. "Worry about your own channel, mate. He’s not getting in your team or whatever you’re scared of."

"I’m not scared."

"Right," Miles said, and drank, and did not push it.

It was two trial players hiding the same nerves behind the same small jokes, and they both knew it, and neither of them said so.

The watching area sat behind the rope on the near touchline, and Jamie kept his eyes off it during the drills the way the coaches expected.

He could still see it.

His dad stood with the other parents, quiet, arms crossed, the way he stood at the back of every room he was nervous in. Garcia was a few feet along with the folder under one arm. He watched the pitch without once trying to catch Jamie’s eye, which Jamie had learned, by now, was the point.

Rafi stood beside Garcia with his arms folded and his usual face on, like the whole camp had personally let him down.

Oliver was the only one of them who looked at home.

He moved along the rope, said something to a member of staff, nodded, came back to Charlotte. He was there for Reece. Everyone knew he was there for Reece.

But once, between drills, Jamie caught Oliver looking straight at him.

Not at the group. At him.

It lasted a second and then Oliver turned back to Charlotte, and Jamie went cold for a reason he could not explain.

He’s not supposed to know who I am.

Nobody from outside the rope said a single word to him. That was the rule and he could feel it. Once the drills started, the only people he answered to were the coaches with the whistles.

The eleven-against-eleven came after the shape work, and it was where Jamie got his moment.

His side lost the ball in midfield, a heavy touch and a turnover, and the game flipped in a breath. The winger on the far team broke into the channel down Jamie’s side, and Tyler Grant drifted off his line toward the same space, the two of them folding a half-second of nothing into a real chance.

Jamie was a step the wrong way when it started.

He turned. Go. His recovery had always been the quickest thing about him, and it answered now, two long strides eating the gap before the winger could set his feet for the cutback.

THUD.

Jamie got across the line and blocked it, the ball bouncing up off his shin and dropping near his own feet instead of skidding out for a corner.

The old Jamie cleared it anywhere then. The old Jamie passed backward before he had even looked, just to be rid of it.

This time he opened his body, took the touch away from Tyler Grant’s pressure, and lifted his head.

Tomi had peeled into space.

Jamie played it into his feet, clean and forward, and the move kept going up the pitch without him.

Nobody cheered. It was not a goal and it never would be on a highlight. But one of the coaches looked up properly, found the number, and marked something on his sheet beside it.

Jamie saw it.

He did not let himself react.

Behind the rope, Rafi’s arms came unfolded, just slightly, and dropped to his sides. He did not shout or wave or say a word.

That was enough.

The break between sessions was when Jamie saw Oliver speaking to his dad.

They stood near the viewing area, a little apart from the other parents. Oliver was talking, calm and unhurried, the way he had talked across the grass the day before. Jamie was too far to hear any of it, but he could read the shape.

Oliver: relaxed, hands easy, a man who did this for a living.

His dad: listening, not smiling, arms still crossed.

Garcia stood close enough to step in.

He did not.

Jamie watched him not do it. Garcia let Oliver finish, let his dad listen, and kept his own face still, and somehow that was worse than if he had marched over and argued. An argument would have meant Garcia was worried. This calm meant Oliver was a real thing, big enough that you could not just talk him away.

His dad listened and did not nod and did not commit to anything Jamie could see.

Then a coach blew the whistle for the next block, and Jamie had to turn his back on all of it and run.

The afternoon session stopped feeling random.

Jamie kept ending up in the same group. Kacper Zielinski and Harry Cole at centre-back behind him. Mason Clarke at left-back. Tomi Adeyemi and Noah Bennett in the middle. Miles ahead of him on the right. Bilal Haddad floating between the lines, Malik Johnson wide on the left, Elliot Ward up top.

The first time he thought it was chance. The second time too.

By the third rotation, the players started to notice.

"They’re picking the teams," Bilal said quietly, jogging back beside him. "Watch. Same lot every time."

"You don’t know that," Jamie said.

"I’ve done four of these," Bilal said, which was Bilal’s answer to most things. "They’re picking."

"He’s right," Miles said from in front, not even turning round.