CHAPTER 69 — MONDAY MORNING
Monday did not care.
It arrived on time, grey and cold, slush lining the edges of the pavement, students funnelling through the school gates with the same tired energy they always had. Jackets were half-zipped, scarves pulled tight, complaints already forming before the first bell rang.
Kweku walked in like he always did.
Backpack over one shoulder. Head slightly down. Steps measured.
Only the echo followed him.
---
He felt it before he understood it.
A pause in conversation as he passed. A glance held a second too long. Phones angled subtly, screens lighting up and dimming again. No one pointed. No one said anything outright.
But the space around him had changed.
In the hallway near the lockers, someone murmured, "C'est lui, non ?"
Kweku didn't turn.
He had learned something over the past months: attention wasn't always loud. Sometimes it moved like cold air, settling quietly, making everything feel sharper.
He reached his locker and began unpacking his books.
A boy he barely knew leaned over to his friend. "He was on the bench."
Kweku closed the locker gently.
---
In class, the teacher continued as usual, tapping the chalk against the board, the lesson flowing without interruption. But Kweku noticed how often eyes drifted toward him when the teacher's back was turned.
He focused on his notes.
French verbs. Historical dates. Equations that demanded precision.
The ordinary felt heavier now.
During a break, Camille slid into the seat beside him.
"So," she said, casual but not careless, "how was it?"
Kweku shrugged. "Cold, I didn't play so I can't really comment."
She smiled. "Figures."
Then she lowered her voice. "Everyone knows."
"I didn't tell anyone."
"I know," she said. "Maybe that's why they're curious."
He nodded, absorbing that.
She didn't ask for details. Didn't push. Just sat there, sharing the quiet, tapping her pen lightly against her notebook and that mattered a lot to him.
---
The day progressed normally, aside from a few probing stares, but nothing major happened until lunchtime.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing that would make headlines.
A group of older students blocked the walkway unintentionally—or intentionally enough to matter. One of them looked Kweku up and down.
"Reserve player already acting important," he said, voice laced with something ugly. "Guess football fixes everything, huh?"
The laugh that followed was thin.
Kweku stopped.
Not out of fear.
Out of control.
Camille stepped forward before he could speak.
"Move," she said. Not loud. Not aggressive. Just firm.
One of the boys scoffed. "Relax. Just joking."
"It's only a joke when everyone laughs," she replied.
There was a pause.
Teachers passed nearby. The moment lost its appetite.
They moved aside.
Kweku exhaled only after they were gone.
"Thanks," he said quietly.
Camille shrugged. "People say stupid things when they're insecure but honestly what would you do without me as a bodyguard, you might just have to hire me when you're famous."
He nodded with a smile, "Sure I'll give it some thought", and filed the incident away.
---
The rest of the day passed slowly.
In math class, Kweku answered a question at the board and felt the weight of attention again—not admiration, not hostility, just awareness. As if people were measuring him now, comparing the version they saw on the bench with the boy holding chalk.
At lunch, he sat where he always did.
Some classmates avoided him. Others hovered, unsure how to approach. A few offered awkward congratulations.
"You're basically famous now," someone said.
Kweku smiled politely. "Not really."
They didn't know what to say after that.
---
When the final bell sounded, the release was physical.
Kweku walked out with Camille, cold air biting at their faces. Snow crunched underfoot, unfamiliar but strangely calming.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said after a moment. "Just… tired."
She nodded. "It gets like that when people project things onto you."
He looked at her, surprised.
"My uncle played semi-pro though the rest of the family sees him as a failure but we were always close," she added. "So I understand a bit it's a different level, same nonsense."
That explained something.
They walked in silence for a while.
---
Training that evening felt grounding.
The pitch didn't care about headlines or whispers. The ball moved the same way it always had. Mistakes were punished. Good decisions were rewarded.
Kweku played cleanly.
Simple.
Effective.
After training, Coach Devereux spoke briefly to the group, then pulled Kweku aside.
"School okay?" he asked.
Kweku hesitated, then nodded. "Yes."
"Good," the coach said. "Keep it that way."
---
That night, Kweku lay on his bed, phone in hand, scrolling past messages he hadn't answered yet.
He thought about the bench.
About the cold air at the Velodrome.
About the hallway at school.
All of it felt connected now, like threads tightening around the same point.
He called his mother.
"I was back at school today," he said.
She hummed. "And?"
"It's… different."
She didn't rush to fill the silence. "Different doesn't mean bad."
"I know."
"You're still you," she said. "Remember that."
He smiled softly. "I will."
---
Outside, the city settled into the night, streetlights glowing against the damp pavement. Marseille carried on, indifferent and immense.
Kweku closed his eyes.
He hadn't played a minute.
But something had shifted anyway.
Attention followed him now.
Not the kind that lifted you up.
The kind that tested whether you were ready to stand.
---