CHAPTER 68 — ON THE LIST
The first sign was the kit.
Not the shirt itself, but the place it appeared.
Kweku noticed it when he walked into the building on matchday morning, boots slung over his shoulder, breath still fogging slightly from the cold outside. The corridor smelled of detergent and disinfectant, sharper than usual. First-team days always did.
Along the wall near the equipment room, several kit bags were lined up in neat rows, each tagged and ready for use.
One of them had his name.
He stopped walking.
Not abruptly—just enough to confirm he wasn't imagining it.
K. Mensah.
The letters were printed cleanly, officially. No asterisk. No "academy" tag. No temporary marker.
His heart skipped, then settled into a slower, heavier rhythm.
So this was real.
No one gathered him aside.
No coach pulled him into an office to deliver a speech about trust or patience or opportunity. No teammate clapped him on the back.
The inclusion happened the way many things at the club did—quietly, without ceremony, as if this were the most normal thing in the world, which in some way made it harder.
Kweku changed in silence, folding his academy jacket carefully before placing it in his locker. The first-team dressing room felt different on matchday. Quieter. More deliberate. Music played low, not to hype but to steady.
He sat on the edge of his bench space, lacing his boots slowly, aware of everything and nothing at once.
He was not nervous in the way he had been before big reserve matches.
This was something else.
This was proximity.
---
When the squad list was posted, Kweku read it from bottom to top.
Substitutes.
His name sat near the end.
Not last, not noticeable but it seemed to scream at him.
He exhaled.
The head coach addressed the room briefly. Tactical notes. Roles. Warnings about transitions and set pieces. The message was pragmatic, stripped of drama.
No mention of youth.
No reference to injuries beyond necessity.
As the team filed out toward the tunnel, Kweku took his place on the bench, coat zipped tight, gloves pulled on. The stadium noise rolled over them in waves, the Velodrome alive despite the season's struggles.
He sat still and watched.
---
The match unfolded with intensity but little fluidity., You could literally feel the struggle.
Marseille pressed when they could, defended in numbers when they had to. The opposition tested them early, probing the midfield, exploiting tired legs. Kweku saw it immediately—the gaps, the moments where a calmer pass might have changed the rhythm.
On the bench, players leaned forward, shouted instructions, slapped their thighs in frustration.
At the thirty-minute mark, a midfielder went down briefly, clutching his ankle.
Kweku's breath caught.
The physios rushed on. The crowd murmured. The player stood again after treatment, jogging tentatively, then more confidently.
Kweku leaned back.
Not relief.
Something closer to acceptance.
This wasn't his moment.
Yet.
At halftime, the score was level.
In the tunnel, the coach spoke more urgently now. Adjustments were made. Names were called. One substitute began to warm up immediately.
Not Kweku, obviously, but he still had some faith.
He stayed seated, eyes fixed on the pitch as the second half began.
---
By the hour mark, fatigue crept back in.
Marseille's passes lost crispness. The opposition pressed higher, sensing vulnerability. The bench grew restless.
Kweku felt it in his chest.
Not impatience, readiness. Everyone wanted a chance to prove themselves.
He imagined what he would do if called. Where he would stand. How would you receive the ball? He rehearsed it without emotion, like a drill.
Ten minutes left.
Another substitution.
Still not him.
The match ended in a draw.
Applause came, polite but restrained. The players acknowledged the crowd, faces tired, expressions unreadable.
Kweku stood when the whistle blew, clapping with the others, heart steady again.
He had been there, he hadn't played but it was such a big milestone.
That mattered.
---
Back in the dressing room, the mood was flat but not bitter. Conversations were short. Ice packs were applied. Recovery routines resumed immediately.
As Kweku packed his things, the head coach passed behind him.
"You're patient ... very good," he said.
Just that.
Kweku nodded. "Thank you, coach."
The man moved on.
No promises were made, no encouragement, nothing like that was needed.
---
Night had settled over Marseille by the time Kweku stepped outside. The air was colder now, sharper. He pulled his jacket tighter and walked toward the bus, the noise of departing fans fading behind him.
He didn't feel disappointed.
He felt anchored.
Later, in his room, he called his mother.
"I was on the bench," he said.
There was a pause.
"So you didn't play?"
"No."
Another pause.
"And how do you feel?"
Kweku thought for a moment. "Closer."
She smiled through the phone. He could hear it.
"That's enough for now, if he's called you then maybe he has faith in you so do whatever you're doing" she said.
He lay back after the call, staring at the ceiling again.
His name had been on the list, but it wasn't in the story yet.
But it was no longer outside it either.
---
A/N : Chale, we're almost about to hit 100k views, thanks for the support. We're at over 65 collections and about 50 power stones, the growth means more to me than you can imagine so I just want to thank you guys.
I'm hoping to get contracted sometime this year, maybe get a patreon account because I'm a student with expenses but the most important thing is that you guys enjoy the story, I know it's slow but I'm trying to make it realistic. I might just do an ishowspeed and use this to tell you about Ghana. Bye and I hope you enjoyed the chapter.