Chapter 37 — Pressure and Pulse
The cold crept through Marseille that morning, the kind that made the sky seem sharper, the breaths shorter. Kweku pulled his jacket tighter as he crossed the street toward the training grounds, his boots hanging from his shoulder. The youth team had a big friendly that afternoon — a match that could decide who'd travel with the senior reserves in spring. He wasn't starting, but he'd been told he might come on.
That thought alone made his stomach twist.
Louis noticed it right away. "You've been quiet all morning," he said, juggling a ball on his knees as they warmed up near the sideline. "You always go silent before matches."
Kweku smiled faintly. "Back home, I used to pray before games. Here, I… try to breathe."
Louis grinned. "You can still pray, you know. Just don't forget to breathe while you're at it."
It had been two months since Kweku joined the academy, and Louis had quickly become his anchor — loud, warm, and endlessly teasing. Where Kweku was reserved, Louis was a storm of energy, a striker who never stopped talking. They balanced each other like opposite sides of the same coin.
As they stretched together, Louis tapped Kweku's shin guard. "You've been working hard, my friend. Everyone sees it. Don't let the nerves eat you up."
Kweku sighed. "It's not nerves. It's… everything. School, training, proving I belong here. I feel like I'm always catching up."
Louis nodded, thoughtful for once. "That's because you came from a different world. But you also bring something we don't — hunger. When you play, I can see it."
He tossed the ball toward Kweku. "Come. Let's do some passing drills before the coach calls us."
They started slowly — with short passes, one-touch, and then sharper movements. Their rhythm built like a song they both knew by heart, their boots striking the ball in sync. Around them, the rest of the team buzzed with light banter, but Kweku's focus locked in.
By the time the whistle blew, the tension in his chest had softened.
Inside the locker room, chatter filled the air — music thumping from someone's speaker, the scent of menthol rubs and fresh tape. Kweku sat quietly, lacing his boots. He thought about his mother's voice on the phone the night before.
"Don't worry about who's watching," she'd said. "Just play your football. The same way you played behind our house."
Her words still echoed in him.
Louis nudged him again, flashing a grin. "You're ready, right?"
Kweku nodded. "Yeah. Just nervous."
"Good," Louis said, tightening his armband. "Means you care."
When the coach entered, the room hushed. He went through the lineup — Kweku's name among the substitutes. The first half would be tough; they were facing Lyon's youth side, one of the best in France.
As they walked out toward the field, the crowd small but lively, Kweku took it all in — the flags, the crisp wind, the smell of grass. It wasn't Ghana, but it was football all the same.
Louis leaned close before kickoff. "If I score, I'll dedicate it to your nerves."
Kweku laughed, tension breaking for a moment. Then the whistle blew, and the game began — fast, fierce, full of movement. He watched from the bench, heart thudding with every pass, every near miss.
Even from the sideline, he felt part of it. Every shout, every run reminded him why he was here — not to prove others wrong, but to prove himself right.
By halftime, Louis had scored one and assisted another. As they regrouped, sweat steaming off their foreheads, he turned back to the bench and winked.
Kweku grinned, clapping quietly. Maybe his turn wasn't today. But when it came, he'd be ready.
That night, as they walked home together under the soft glow of Marseille's streetlights, Louis threw an arm around him.
"Next time," he said, "I'll be the one on the bench cheering for you."
Kweku smiled at the ground. "Then I'd better make it worth it."
Louis laughed. "You will, brother. You will."
And for the first time since arriving in France, Kweku believed him.
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