Chapter 90 – Recovery Day
The training ground was quieter after Lens.
Not calm.
Never calm.
But quieter.
---
Victories like that didn't create relief.
They created exhaustion.
---
The players moved more slowly through the halls of the Robert Louis-Dreyfus Training Centre.
Ice packs.
Heavy legs.
Muted conversations.
---
But underneath all of it something else.
Belief.
Someone had left the league table open on one of the screens.
Nobody turned it off.
Nobody needed to.
---
1. Paris Saint-Germain F.C.
2. AS Monaco FC
3. Stade Brestois 29
Then the fight underneath.
And there still there
was Olympique de Marseille.
Now closer than ever.
One match left.
---
Kweku stared at it briefly before walking past.
He didn't want to think about permutations.
Goal difference.
Other results.
None of that.
Win.
That was simpler.
--
"Nice finish."
Kweku looked up.
Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang dropped onto the bench beside him, stretching his legs out.
"The pass was better," Kweku replied quietly.
Aubameyang smirked.
"You're learning."
Not praise.
Not exactly.
But close enough.
---
Across the room, Geoffrey Kondogbia was arguing with another teammate over music again.
Laughter.
Short-lived.
Then the room settled back down.
Everyone was tired.
---
Outside though, the noise had become ridiculous.
---
"Marseille on the brink of Europe!"
"Mensah delivers again!"
"The teenager changing Marseille's season!"
---
Clips of the goal spread everywhere.
Not just the finish.
The acceleration before it.
The confidence.
The decisiveness.
---
Pundits replayed it repeatedly.
"This is the biggest difference now," one analyst said on television.
"Earlier in the season he hesitated there. Now? He already knows what he wants to do."
---
When Kweku arrived at school the next morning, people noticed him before he even reached the building.
Phones out.
Whispers.
Stares.
---
One student shouted:
"Nice goal!"
---
Another:
"Cooked Lens!"
---
Kweku kept walking.
Head down.
But not out of shyness anymore.
Focus.
---
Inside the class, even the teachers looked more distracted than usual.
One of them paused mid-lesson.
Looked at him.
Then shook his head slightly with a smile.
---
"You were on television again."
Small laughter filled the room.
Kweku just rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.
---
Lunch break.
Rooftop.
Same place as always.
---
Camille sat beside him quietly.
No dramatic entrance.
No teasing immediately.
---
"You finally shot early," she said.
Kweku laughed softly.
"You sound like the coaches now."
"They were right."
He leaned back slightly.
The breeze moved softly across the rooftop.
For a few seconds—
Everything felt normal again.
---
Then Camille spoke again.
"One match left."
The words landed differently out loud.
"Yeah."
"You nervous?"
Kweku thought about lying but didn't.
"A little."
Camille nodded once.
Then:
"Good."
He looked at her.
Again with that answer.
"You play worse when you think you're already ready."
Silence settled between them.
And annoyingly—
She was right.
---
The next sessions were brutal.
Not physically, mentally.
---
Possession drills in tight spaces.
Quick decisions.
Immediate pressure.
---
"Move it faster!"
"Again!"
"Don't admire your pass—move!"
---
Kweku felt sharper now.
Not flashy.
Efficient.
---
When pressure came—
He expected it.
When defenders doubled, he moved the ball more quickly.
---
The game looked slower to him now.
Not easy.
Never easy.
But clearer.
---
At the end of training, Jean-Louis Gasset gathered the squad.
No dramatic speech.
No shouting.
---
"One game," he said.
"That's all."
Silence.
"You've already done the difficult part."
He looked around the group carefully.
"Now finish properly."
That hit harder than yelling ever could.
Final Night
That evening, Kweku sat alone in his room again.
Boots beside the bed.
Phone face down.
He replayed the Lens goal once.
Only once.
Then he turned the video off.
Because there was still another match.
Another ninety minutes.
Another chance to lose everything.
---
The season had narrowed down to one final step. And now everyone was watching to see if Marseille could take it.