CHAPTER 67 — CALLED CLOSER
The call didn't come dramatically.
No late-night knock. No urgent summons. No sudden buzz of excitement running through the academy corridors.
It arrived on a Tuesday morning, tucked quietly between routine.
Kweku Mensah — first team training, Wednesday 10:00. Full session.
That was all.
No emojis. No explanation. No promise.
Just an instruction.
Kweku read it three times, then folded the paper and slid it into his bag. He finished his breakfast slowly, forcing himself to keep the same rhythm as always. He tied his boots with care, double-knotting the laces like his mother had taught him years ago.
Only his body betrayed him, fingers slightly stiff as he zipped his jacket and the large smile on his face he couldn't get rid of.
---
Marseille lost again that weekend.
A frustrating 2–1 defeat, decided by a late set piece when tired legs failed to track runners. The post-match analysis was brutal without being loud. Pundits didn't shout; they sighed. They spoke of structure, depth, and planning.
Injuries remained the headline.
Two players were ruled out longer than expected. Another was trained individually. One returned but clearly wasn't ready. The bench looked thin; the rotation was even thinner.
Inside the club, the calendar was merciless.
Matches didn't wait for recovery so the club had to adapt fast.
---
At school, nothing looked different.
That almost made it harder.
Camille complained about an upcoming exam. Someone argued loudly in the hallway. Snow melted into dirty slush along the pavement outside. Teachers moved through lessons with practised indifference.
Kweku sat in his seat, pen moving steadily across his notebook, but his thoughts drifted.
Tomorrow.
Camille noticed.
"You're somewhere else again," she said quietly as they packed up.
"Training," he admitted.
She raised an eyebrow. "That sounds serious even from an expressionless child like you."
"Maybe and I don't think you can call me a child."
She giggled, softer this time. "Good luck."
That was all she said.
It was enough.
---
Wednesday arrived wrapped in cold.
The training ground looked sharper than usual under pale winter sunlight. The pitches were immaculate, lines crisp, cones already set. Kweku arrived early, as he always did, heart steady but alert.
The first team dressing room felt heavier.
Not hostile—just dense with routine and fatigue. Players moved with the familiarity of men who had shared battles, even when bodies betrayed them. Some greeted him with nods. Others barely noticed.
Kweku changed quickly, quietly.
On the pitch, the tempo hit immediately.
Rondos were faster, tighter. Pressing drills demanded instant decisions. When Kweku lost the ball, pressure came from two directions at once, forcing him to react faster than he was accustomed to.
He adapted.
He stopped trying to impress.
He played simple football.
Receive. Scan. Release. Move.
That was his language.
The head coach watched from the sideline, arms folded, expression unreadable. Assistants spoke occasionally, murmuring observations. Nothing was said aloud to Kweku.
This meant that everything was being discussed internally.
Midway through the session, the coach altered the drill.
"Switch sides," he called out.
Kweku found himself between senior midfielders now, players whose matches he had watched from the stands weeks earlier. Their passes carried weight, confidence, and expectation.
One of them barked at him. "One touch."
Kweku nodded.
He adjusted.
The ball came again, tight to his feet. He cushioned it, flicked it forward into space, and spun away. The movement wasn't flashy. It was correct.
The drill flowed.
Later, during a small-sided game, Kweku intercepted a pass and threaded the ball through three bodies into the path of a runner.
The finish was missed.
No applause followed.
But the coach looked up.
---
Training ended without ceremony.
No handshake. No word. Just instructions for recovery and schedules.
Kweku showered, changed, and left the dressing room feeling strangely hollow. Not disappointed. Not elated.
Suspended.
Outside, he exhaled deeply.
He texted his mother later that evening.
Training with them went okay.
She replied almost immediately.
That's good. Eat well and pray.
He smiled.
---
The reserve match that weekend came with unfamiliar eyes watching.
Kweku noticed them immediately—coaches standing slightly apart, notebooks out, attention fixed. Not just on him, but on patterns. On responses.
He felt it in the way teammates passed him the ball more quickly, trusted him to dictate.
He didn't force anything.
The match unfolded slowly, physically and stubbornly. Kweku worked between lines, absorbing contact, releasing the ball before pressure swallowed him. Late in the second half, he slipped a pass into the box that should have been converted.
It wasn't.
Marseille still won, narrowly.
After the match, Coach Devereux clapped him on the shoulder.
"Good game, I see the first team training has done something," he said. Again, nothing more.
---
That evening, the first team coaching staff met.
Injury updates came first. They weren't good.
"Next two fixtures are tight," an assistant said. "We're short in midfield."
The sporting director leaned back. "We have options below."
Silence followed.
The head coach tapped his pen once against the table.
"There's one," he said. "he's not ready yet but he's much closer than the rest."
Then he paused.
"We might have no other choice".
---
Kweku felt it before he was told.
A schedule change. A different recovery slot. A longer look during drills. Nothing official—just a shift in gravity.
He was still a reserve player.
Still attending school.
Still training in the cold.
But the distance had shrunk again.
Now it wasn't about whether someone noticed.
It was about when someone would decide.
That night, lying in bed, Kweku stared at the ceiling, breath slow and controlled.
He thought of the Velodrome.
Of empty seats on the bench.
Of opportunity born not from glory, but from need.
He wasn't asking for it.
But he was no longer running from it either.
---