Early Thursday morning at Bodymoor Heath.
The moment Zayn stepped onto the training pitch, he could feel the difference.
When the ball rolled toward him, he knew how to receive it.
When his teammates made their runs, he could anticipate where they were going.
His passing, control, and dribbling were nothing special, but at least he now looked like a proper academy player who had trained for seven years.
During the small-sided match at the end of the session, he made two interceptions and completed four passes without giving the ball away once.
But that was all.
There were no eye-catching tackles, no incisive through balls, nothing that stood out.
He was simply an ordinary U16 defensive midfielder.
He got into position, worked hard defensively, and focused on avoiding mistakes rather than making an impact.
For Zayn, however, this was already his best performance since crossing over.
He reviewed the session in his head.
Although the Torres template belonged to a Center Forward, the basic feel for the ball, physical coordination, and control it provided were useful in any position.
He had also spent four days in this body now, and the gap between his soul and his new physical form was gradually closing.
On the touchline, Cowans watched Zayn make a clean interception, play a simple sideways pass, and complete an ordinary run into position.
None of it was remarkable, but compared to the player from two days ago who could barely control the ball, he looked like a completely different person.
Relief appeared in Cowans’s eyes.
Over the past three days, the boy had gone from a complete mess to looking like a normal player again.
The weight on Cowans’s mind had finally lifted.
He had known it.
After coaching Zayn for an entire year, there was no way he could have misjudged him so badly.
The boy had simply needed time to recover.
Cowans still did not know what had caused Zayn’s sudden improvement, but the results were there to see.
If he played well in tomorrow’s friendly against Liverpool, he still had a chance of earning a contract.
The final whistle blew.
The players headed toward the changing room in small groups while Cowans bent down to collect the marker discs from the touchline.
He was already considering his starting lineup for tomorrow’s match against Liverpool U16.
“Coach.”
Cowans straightened and found Zayn standing in front of him.
The boy had only just finished training, and sweat still clung to his forehead.
“What is it?”
“I want to play forward.”
The marker disc almost slipped from Cowans’s hand.
He stared at Zayn for a long moment, making sure the boy was not joking.
“Say that again.”
“Coach, I want to play forward,” Zayn repeated.
Cowans dropped the marker disc onto the ground and planted his hands on his hips.
He could feel his blood pressure rising.
Only a minute earlier, he had been thinking that the boy had finally returned to normal.
Now that thought seemed laughably naive.
Returned to normal?
The boy had merely found a different way to lose his mind.
Two days ago, he had forgotten how to play football.
Today, the moment his form returned, he started talking nonsense.
Cowans had already decided not to hold the last few days against him, yet the boy had somehow managed to walk straight into trouble again.
“Zayn, you’ve been in the Villa academy for seven years.
Seven years.
You’ve played everywhere.
You were a full-back at nine, a center-back at twelve, and by fourteen you had settled into defensive midfield.
Now you’re telling me you want to play forward?”
“You can’t beat a man and you can’t create chances.
What makes you think you can play forward?”
Zayn stared at him.
Why did that sound so familiar?
Still, he did not look away.
“Coach, I’m not joking.” Zayn pulled the zipper of his training top halfway down while gathering his thoughts.
“I’ve played full-back, center-back, and defensive midfielder since I was a kid.
Every position I’ve played has been defensive.
I always thought that meant I was a defensive player.
But after playing so badly these past few days, I kept wondering what had gone wrong.”
He paused deliberately.
“Go on.” Cowans’s voice did not soften at all.
“You’ve coached me for a year.
You know what kind of player I am.”
Zayn spoke calmly.
“My interceptions, defensive coverage, and work rate are decent for my age.
But that’s all.
Even if I train for another year, two years, or three years, the best I can become is a competent Championship defensive midfielder.
The Premier League is beyond me.”
Cowans fell silent.
In truth, if Zayn continued improving at the same slow rate as before, even the Championship might be beyond him.
League Two was probably more realistic.
“But playing forward is different.
“During my year with the U16s, I’ve always found myself thinking about what I would do if I received the ball further up the pitch.
If I got the ball on the edge of the box, how would I lose my marker?
How would I shoot?
“Those thoughts didn’t appear out of nowhere.
They’ve always been in my head.”
Half of that was true, and half was made up.
The truth was that after receiving the Torres template, Zayn had developed an instinct for playing forward that he had never possessed before.
The lie was that this instinct had built up over many years.
He had only crossed into this body a few days ago.
But Zayn delivered the story without the slightest hesitation.
The best lies always contained some truth.
“My ceiling as a defensive midfielder is already clear,” he continued.
“But up front…
I don’t know how to explain it.
I feel like I can do something different.”
Cowans studied him for a long time.
Long enough for Zayn to think his words might have worked.
Then Cowans spoke.
“You make a reasonable argument.”
The old man tossed the final marker disc into the equipment basket and straightened.
At 1.7 meters tall, he was a head shorter than Zayn.
Yet when those time-worn eyes settled on him, Zayn felt much smaller.
“You say your ceiling as a defensive midfielder isn’t very high.
I agree.
You say you have different ideas about playing forward.
Perhaps I could try to believe you.
But Zayn…”
Cowans’s voice grew heavier.
“You’ve spent seven years in Villa’s academy.
Seven years.
Not one coach, myself included, has ever seen you show even the slightest hint of attacking talent in any training session or match.”
“If there had been even one moment over the past year when I thought, ‘This boy might have something in attack,’ I would let you try it during these final few days.
But there wasn’t.
Not once.”
Cowans picked up the equipment basket and tucked it against his side.
There was no anger in his eyes now, only an exhausted calm.
“What have you relied on to play football all these years?
“Running.
Covering ground.
Winning the ball back.
You don’t have the football intelligence for intricate play, so you do the dirty work.
“I’m not belittling you.
Every team needs players willing to do the dirty work.
Those players can help you win matches and trophies.”
“But now you suddenly come to me and say you want to play forward…”
He considered his wording, then chose the most direct answer.
“I don’t believe you.”
“I promised you the full match against Liverpool this weekend, so you’ll play all ninety minutes.
You won’t lose a single minute.
But you’ll play defensive midfielder.”
Cowans walked away with the equipment basket.
Zayn remained on the empty training pitch, watching the old man disappear into the changing-room tunnel.
Forget it.
It had only been worth a try.
Cowans had spent his entire life in football.
It was only natural that a few words would not be enough to convince him.
But Zayn had not given up.
There was still a match at the weekend.
What happened on the pitch would be worth more than anything he could say.