Chapter 39 — Winter Break
The academy shut down for two weeks at the end of December. For most of the players, it was time to go home — to warm houses, families, and dinners that lasted for hours. But Kweku stayed.
His mother had begged him to visit, but flights were too expensive, and the coaches said the season restart was only a few weeks away. He promised her he'd save enough by summer. Still, when he put down the phone that night, the silence in his dorm felt colder than the snow outside.
Louis was one of the few still around. His parents lived only two hours away, but he often chose to stay near the academy. "My folks talk too much," he joked. "At least here, the walls don't ask about my grades."
So the two of them stuck together.
On Christmas Eve, the dorms were nearly empty. The city outside glittered with lights, golden and white. Marseille was beautiful in winter, but it wasn't home. The cold bit at Kweku's cheeks as they walked through the old port, scarves pulled tight.
Louis pointed toward the water. "See that restaurant? Best hot chocolate in the city."
Kweku smiled. "You've said that about every place we've been to."
"This time I mean it!"
They ducked into a café, their breath misting as they stepped through the door. The warmth hit them like a wave, and for the first time that day, Kweku felt his fingers again.
A TV above the counter showed highlights from the French league. The commentator's voice rolled through the café — familiar, passionate. Kweku's eyes lingered on a young midfielder controlling the game with quiet precision.
"That's the dream, eh?" Louis said, following his gaze.
"Yeah," Kweku murmured. "Someday."
Louis sipped his drink, nodding. "You'll get there. … don't lose yourself trying."
Kweku tilted his head. "What do you mean?"
Louis shrugged. "You came here with something special — the way you play, it's raw, real. Don't let the system grind that out of you. The coaches here… they'll try to make everyone the same."
Kweku looked down at the swirling chocolate in his cup. "Then I guess l'll remind them I'm not the same."
Louis grinned. "That's the spirit."
The next few days slipped by quietly. They trained on their own at the empty pitch, doing drills in layers of sweaters and gloves. Sometimes Kweku called his mother between sessions; sometimes he walked through the city to feel less caged.
The snow began to melt after New Year's, leaving behind slush and puddles that glimmered under weak sunlight.
At school, Camille returned from her family trip to Lyon with rosy cheeks and stories about skiing. She found Kweku at his locker and handed him a small package — neatly wrapped, tied with red string.
"I got you something," she said shyly.
Kweku blinked. "For me?"
She nodded. "Open it."
Inside was a pair of knitted gloves — dark blue, with tiny white lines near the wrists.
"I thought you could use them," she said. "You looked like you were dying last time it snowed."
Kweku laughed, slipping them on. They were soft and warm. "Merci, Camille."
She smiled. "De rien. Happy New Year, Kweku."
That simple gesture stayed with him for the rest of the day.
That night, he sat by the dorm window, the city lights reflecting off the wet streets below. He wore the gloves as he wrote in his small notebook — the one he used to track his goals and thoughts.
January Goal:
Train harder.
Earn the coach's trust.
Get playing time
He paused, then added one more line:
Keep my heart warm.
The next morning, he woke before dawn to jog. The air was icy, but he didn't care. His breath came out in clouds, his steps echoing down the quiet street.
The winter break was almost over, and so was the stillness. The season was calling again — fierce, fast, and unforgiving.
Kweku ran faster, the cold burning his lungs, his gloves tight on his hands.
He smiled.
This time, he was ready.
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