CHAPTER 50 — AFTER THE DERBY WIN
The snow had started falling heavily overnight, coating the Marseille academy grounds with a thin, crisp layer of white. Kweku walked toward the main school building, backpack slung over one shoulder, the crisp air biting at his cheeks. His legs were still tired from the Monaco match, muscles tight, lungs still carrying the memory of sprinting, pressing, and threading those passes that had led to the late winner.
At school, the corridors felt warmer and were crowded with students moving between classes. The buzz about his performance had clearly spread: murmurs, whispers, and glances followed him down the hall. He tried to ignore it, focusing instead on getting to his French class on time.
Louis caught up to him, grinning through the morning frost.
"You're a legend, man. Even the teachers were talking about the second-half magic. Did you see the replay? Incredible passes."
Kweku laughed lightly, brushing snowflakes off his sleeve.
"Yeah… it felt fast. But it's just one match. We have plenty more."
Louis's grin didn't fade. "One match, sure. But people are noticing. Scouts, coaches, and even the older academy boys. They're all talking about the Ghanaian kid running their midfield."
Kweku's smile tightened. Compliments were nice, but he knew it came with expectations — and heavier pressure.
---
Inside the classroom, he settled near the window, watching the snowflakes drift down lazily. Camille sat a few desks away, giving him a small, mischievous smile.
"You look exhausted," she said softly. "I half-expected you to be in a hospital bed after the Monaco match."
"I wish," Kweku replied with a chuckle, trying to hide the fatigue in his voice. "It was… intense."
"You really controlled the midfield," Camille said, lowering her voice so no one else could hear. "Even with the snow, the cold, the pressure… I don't know how you do it."
Kweku looked at her, feeling a small swell of pride but also a pang of nervousness. "I'm still learning. I… I try to read the game."
She nodded. "It shows. Honestly, you make it look effortless. But I know it isn't."
The bell rang, and for a moment, they were pulled back into the rhythm of school — the teacher calling on students, the scribble of pens, the murmur of voices. Yet Kweku's mind kept drifting back to the pitch, to Monaco's pressing wingers, to the moment he threaded the ball to Ndiaye.
---
After school, it was back to the pitch. The cold snow had turned into a thin, slippery layer on the synthetic turf. Coach Devereux gathered the players for a light recovery session, but the emphasis was unmistakable: tactical review, analysis, and preparation for the next match.
"Monaco was good," he said, clapping his hands to get the group's attention. "But we won't always get breaks. The next team will come harder, faster. And I want everyone thinking one step ahead."
Kweku jogged circles around the cones, replaying the Monaco second-half in his head. Every movement he made, every pass he received, he analysed quietly. The coach noticed.
"You," Devereux said, pointing, "Mensah. Excellent second half. You controlled everything between the lines. But remember: you can't do it alone. The team wins together. Understand?"
Kweku nodded. "Yes, coach."
He glanced at Louis nearby. The young friend mirrored his determination, and in that small glance, Kweku felt a sense of solidarity. No matter the pressure, no matter the snow, no matter the expectation — they were in this together.
---
After training, Kweku trudged back toward the locker room, boots crunching over the icy patches of turf. A few older academy players approached him, teasing lightly but also with admiration.
"You ran Monaco's midfield like a veteran," one said, smirking. "Do you even sleep?"
Kweku shrugged. "Not really. Just… focus."
A small group of younger boys gathered, eyes wide, asking for tips. He gave them a few pointers, careful to stay humble. Every compliment, every glance, added to the invisible weight of expectation pressing on him.
By the time he showered and left the academy, twilight had fallen. The streets glowed under lamps reflecting on the snow, Marseille quieting down after the day's bustle. Kweku pulled out his phone and called his mom.
"Hi, mama," he said softly, voice carrying the exhaustion and exhilaration from the day.
Kweku!" she exclaimed, warmth filling the line. "I watched the highlights your uncle sent, you played beautifully! How was the snow?"
Kweku chuckled. "Cold… and slippery. But we won. Monaco didn't make it easy."
"I'm proud of you," she said simply. "Always."
Kweku smiled, letting the sound of her voice wash over him. The pressure, the snow, the academy, the expectations — all of it felt a little lighter now.
"I miss you," he said, quietly.
"I miss you too," she replied. "But you're on your path and it would be selfish to take you off it so just keep going."
After the call ended, Kweku looked up at the snow falling in gentle flakes, glinting under the streetlights. He inhaled, feeling the crisp winter air fill his lungs, and whispered to himself:
Next match. Next challenge. We keep going.
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