Julian stepped into his dorm room after a long day of classes.
Well, calling it a room was not the right word, it was more of a house.
The dorm was in Dorm Block 1S, exclusive to first year children of the most elite families or with the most promise in a certain field.
The dorm itself was fitted with polished wooden floorboards, a kitchen area with the state-of-the-art appliances and a fridge that was constantly full.
The bedroom was made for comfort.
Soft and spotless purple linens, a large golden rug with smooth white curtains hanging by the windows, a walk-in closet with uniforms and clothes, a adjacent bathroom draping with luxury.
Julian didn’t waste time taking in the sights, already used to his new life of luxury, instead he went straight into the bedroom.
“Thank God Mira didn’t forget.”
His eyes fell on the sports bag in his bed as he spoke.
Large and black in color, with the silver wolve of the Valecrest Family proudly displayed on both sides.
[There is no way she would forget a order from her master.]
Mini-ball spoke, floating next to his head
“I hear you.”
Without ceremony, Julian slipped out of the uniform, standing only in his boxers for a few moments, the air cool against his delicate pale skin.
He went into the closet and came out a minute later dressed in a comfortable baggy shirt, black shorts, with white sneakers and white socks that clung tightly to his calves.
“Let’s go.”
He slung the sports bag over his shoulder and headed to the door like a man on a mission.
[Aren’t you going to eat something first?]
Julian’s hand paused on the handle, only now realizing that he was indeed a bit hungry.
He only ate something earlier that morning, brought to him by the hotel’s room service.
He went to the fridge and grabbed a quick but fulfilling bite, eager to get the trials started.
The door closed with a soft click behind him, automatically locking.
********
The cart slid over the walkway like butter in a hot pan, smooth and effortless.
Julian sat in it, eyes tracing over the expansive academy grounds, still amazed by the architecture.
The grounds was filled with students going about their day, with a lot of them having sports bags slung over their shoulders.
Julian noticed a girl walking by in a short white skirt, a tennis racket sticking out of her sports bag.
‘Seems like almost everyone is partaking in a trial today.’
[Yes.] Mini-ball nodded.
[There is not just sports trials, but also piano, chess, music, maths, you name it.]
‘Really?’ Julian turned his head to Mini-ball.
‘Which trial were you going to participate in?’
[None.]
‘Why not?’ This story is hosted at g.com.
[I would’ve been too busy with my inventions and helping out with the businesses.]
‘What inventions?’ Julian’s brows creased.
[You see that artificial intelligence in your phone.]
‘Yes?’
[The phone is a Valecrest Family product and I made the AI.]
Julian was at a lost for words.
He may not know the full magnitude of it, but he knows that back on Earth, people spent billions investing in AI, and that is enough to prove its power and importance.
And here a 16 year old was, caiming that he invented one of those AI’s.
Either Mini-ball was a liar, or a genuis.
He believed the latter.
But then the question resurface again:
‘Why did he commit suicide?’
[I’ll tell you in due time.] Julian forgot that Mini-ball could hear his thoughts.
[For now, let’s focus on football.]
As Mini-ball said that, the cart came to a smooth stop at the edge of the walkway.
[>Arrived at destination<] The mechanical voicebox announced.
Julian stepped onto neatly trimmed grass, and the cart pulled away, returning to its parking spot for the next customer.
The sports grounds stretched as far as the eye could see, with spaces dedicated for each sport.
Off to the side, Julian could see tennis courts, jumping pits, rugby fields, cricket pitches, and even buildings that either had indoor swimming pools or basketball courts.
All around he could see students hurrying towards their respective sports, ready to take the trials.
Julian turned his head and in the distance he could see several football fields surrounded by wired fence with a crowd slowly gathering close to it.
He made his way over with confident steps, eyes facing forward, head held high, shoulders square and back straight.
His presence draw curious gazes, no one expecting him to participate in sports trials, much less football.
The whispers started.
“Julian Valecrest… what is he doing here?”
“Isn’t he at the wrong place?”
“Doesn’t he know that the nerd-trials are on the other side?”
“Yeah. What is he doing at the men’s side of things?”
Julian paid the whispers no mind, continuing his confident strides.
[Tch.] Mini-ball clicked it’s non-existent tongue at the whispers.
[Calling themselves men when we nerds and readers are the real men.]
‘Yeah.’ Julian internally agreed.
‘They don’t know how it feels having the urge to brush your teeth to quell your rotten breath but then postponing it into later because you found a interesting novel.’
[And then later turns into tomorrow, and tomorrow into tomorrow.]
‘That is some real manly shit right there.’
Mini-ball and Julian’s internal conversation came to a stop at the same time Julian arrived at the crowd, making the atmosphere descend into silence.
Julian stood at the center of the crowd, unbothered by the attention focused on him, one arm holding the sports bag behind his back, deep blue eyes staring forward behind black strands of hair.
“Alright, everybody!”
–clap–
A loud female voice followed by a clap disrupted the quiet atmosphere.
At the front of the crowd stood a young woman with long purple hair, smooth pale skin, and a sharp purple gaze.
She stood behind a desk, on the desk was a tablet and several purple bands in a metal box.
“My name is Irene Grey,” she began.
“And I am the manager of the U/17A football team of the Ashton Imperial Academy. Now, I know there is not a lot of women in my position in the men’s side of football and that that could allow for discrimination and prejudice against me.”
Irene’s stern gaze traced over the crowd, pausing for a fraction of a second on Julian, recognition behind her gaze, before traveling along.
“But before you guys are drawn into that circle, I want you to remember; I am a manager at the Asthon Imperial Academy.” She paused, letting her words settle.
“That should be more than enough to prove my credentials and any doubts you may have about whether I’m qualified or not.”
The crowd of kids were quiet, hanging on to her every word, but one could clearly see that neither of them cared about what gender she was, listening without a change in expression.
“This is how things are going to work,” Irene spoke again, seeing that no one had complaints about her being their manager.
“You’re going to come up to me, tell me your name and your position, and I’m going to register it into this tablet I have here.”
She reached into the metal box, pulling out a purple band, lifting it into the air.
“Then, I’m going to give you one of these trackers. It does exactly what it says it does; tracking your movements as well as how many touches you have on the ball, how many chances you created, how many goals you scored, how many assist, and the list goes on and on.”
She paused again, checking if everyone was listening; they were.
“And after the trials ended, you’re going to get a score, or a rating, out of ten. Your rating depends on which team you’ll be playing in.” She lifted three fingers.
“The U/17’s has three teams: a A-, a B-, and a C-team and the higher your rating is, the better the team is you’re going to play in.”
Irene put the tracker down in the box, giving the children a moment to digest the information.
“There’s at least two hundred of you here and if you’ve done the math, you will realize that only 84 of you will be selected. So, I want you to give your all in today’s trial.”
A nervous wave spread through the gathered players, eyeing each other with wary in their eyes.
“And, please, for the love of the goddess,” Irene’s tone changed to something between begging and stern advice.
“Play as the position you registered yourself in. If you said you’re defender and the data shows that you went forward more times than the attacking midfielder, all it’s going to do is tell me that you’re a selfish and goal hungry player. Something like that will instantly disqualify you no matter how good of a defender you were. And if you’re a midfielder; pass the ball. Every year we have kids thinking that the more goals they score, the better their chances are of making the teams, but the trials isn’t about who scored the most goals, it’s about who played the best in their positions.”
Irene’s words already made some players change the way they were going to play, the guilty expression on their faces a clear indicator.
“With that said,” Irene grabbed the tablet.
“Let’s begin registrations.”