Chapter 20: A Field with No Echo
The first thing Sheik noticed about West Bay wasn't the pristine turf or the massive dorms or even the ridiculous vending machines that accepted contactless payments like something out of a tech commercial.
It was the silence.
Not complete silence—there were kids yelling across the quad, whistles echoing from distant fields, the rumble of buses unloading new players. But none of it sounded like home.
Everything here had an edge. Voices were louder, but less familiar. Smiles came quicker, but didn't last as long. It felt like everyone had something to prove—and no one had the time to really see you.
Sheik adjusted the strap on his duffel bag and followed the rest of the recruits through the gates. They were led past rows of perfectly painted lines on the practice field, past banners of past champions and photos of players who looked like they were born to win.
He didn't feel like that. Not today.
Coach Valerio, the camp director, gave them the usual orientation speech—discipline, excellence, hustle, blah blah. Sheik barely heard any of it. His mind kept drifting.
To Naga.
To his room back home, where the fan clicked every third rotation.
To Andrea, who was probably sketching in the corner of some classroom right now, unaware that he hadn't stopped thinking about her since the bus hit the expressway.
He'd already tried texting her once during the ride.
You up?(7:14 a.m.)
She replied ten minutes later.
Barely. Hope you didn't forget your water bottle. You always forget your water bottle.
Just reading that felt like a small anchor in a sea of strangers.
Now, standing on the edge of the dorm hallway, he pulled out his phone again. No new messages. No calls.
He didn't know what he expected. A countdown? A signal?
He was rooming with a kid from Davao named Eli—friendly, fast-talking, and already sponsored by a minor gear company. Eli had posters of pro players taped to his wall by the time Sheik unpacked his second sock.
"You play striker?" Eli asked.
"Yeah. Usually."
"You any good?"
"I try to be."
Eli laughed. "That's what the bad ones always say."
Sheik grinned out of reflex, but inside, something deflated. Everyone here had that edge—that I'm-here-to-dominate energy. Sheik didn't.
He was here to survive. To learn. To grow.
But also to remember why he loved the game in the first place.
Later that afternoon, they ran drills.
Not just the usual ones. These were brutal. Precision-heavy. Timed and scored. Every mistake was written down.
By the end of the session, Sheik's legs burned and his shirt clung to him like a second skin. He lay on the grass afterward, eyes to the sky, trying not to think about how far away Andrea felt.
It wasn't just the kilometers.
It was the part of him that belonged to her—his laughter, his quiet, the version of himself that didn't need to win to feel worthy.
The sunset at West Bay was different, too. Less orange, more blue. Less warm, more cold.
That night, lying on the bottom bunk, he stared at the ceiling and whispered her name once under his breath.
He didn't want to lose her. But he also didn't want to lose this.
And maybe the hardest part of growing up was realizing that chasing your future sometimes meant walking alone for a while.
Still, before falling asleep, he texted her.
First day done. Not gonna lie—it's tough. I miss you.
The reply came ten minutes later.
Miss you too. You've got this. And don't forget—hydration, dumbass.
He smiled at his screen.
And for the first time all day, West Bay felt a little less foreign.