Chapter 41 — The Fire Beneath the Frost
"Welcome back for the second half here in Marseille!" the commentator's voice rang out over the small stadium speakers. "The score stands at one apiece between Marseille and Lille — and if the first half was anything to go by, the next forty-five minutes will be nothing short of thrilling."
Snow dusted the edges of the pitch now, but the players barely noticed. Breath steamed from their mouths, boots clattered against frozen turf, and adrenaline burned warmer than any winter chill.
Kweku jogged to his position at the centre circle, hands briefly cupping his breath before the whistle blew. Louis gave him a small nod from up front. The meaning was clear: We finish this together.
The second half began with a furious tempo. Lille pressed immediately, their forwards snapping at Marseille's defenders like wolves. The crowd's rhythm changed too — anxious murmurs punctuated by sharp cheers whenever a clearance found its mark.
Coach Duret shouted from the touchline, his voice cutting through the cold. "Hold the shape! Kweku — drop deeper if you must, control the flow!"
He obeyed. Kweku pulled back near the halfway line, touching the ball off one player, turning past another. His touches grew braver — small, tight flicks of control, each one carving space where there was none.
"Look at the composure from Mensah," the commentator said, voice rising. "He's dictating play like he's been in this system for years, he had a more attacking role for Ghana in the U-17 World Cup and he's showing more of what he can do. Calm under pressure, smart distribution, eyes always scanning."
At the 52nd minute, Lille almost retook the lead. Their right winger darted past two defenders and unleashed a curling strike that beat the keeper — but not the post. The crowd gasped, the ball bouncing clear as if spared by fate.
Kweku exhaled hard, heart thudding. He clapped his hands, shouting in English, "Wake up! Let's move!"
The next ten minutes were pure trench warfare. Tackles flew, passes snapped, bodies collided. The referee's whistle grew frequent, the tension electric. Every time Kweku touched the ball, two Lille players pressed him — but his confidence didn't waver.
In the 64th minute, he found a gap in the defence. A one-two with Louis, then a feint — and suddenly he was sprinting into open grass. The crowd roared.
"Mensah's through the middle!" the commentator's tone leapt. "He's opened up the defence — plays Louis wide — oh, it's beautiful interplay between the pair!"
Louis's shot thundered toward goal — parried by the keeper's fingertips.
"Denied! What a save!"
Groans and applause mixed from the stands. Coach Duret turned away, exhaling.
"Keep at it," he yelled. "The chance will come!"
By the 75th minute, fatigue began to creep in. The cold punished lungs and legs alike. Kweku's breathing was ragged, but his mind remained sharp. His instincts — honed in Accra's dusty fields — came alive. Every loose ball seemed to find his feet, every ricochet fell kindly, as if pulled by something unseen.
Then came the moment.
Minute 81. Marseille is in possession deep in Lille's half. The crowd's chants had turned rhythmic — muffled, steady, almost a drumbeat in the winter air.
Kweku received the ball near the box, with one defender closing fast. He fainted right, and then left — the Lille player slipped. The crowd gasped.
"Mensah in control, looking for options…" the commentator said, voice tightening.
Kweku lifted his head, saw Louis drifting near the far post — and curled a pass through the crowd. It was perfect.
Louis leapt, meeting it with a diving header.
"GOAL! Marseille takes the lead!"
The crowd erupted. Flags waved. The sound was small but mighty, echoing across the chilly pitch. Louis sprinted straight toward Kweku, grabbing his face with both hands before hugging him tight.
"That's you, brother! That's you!" he yelled over the noise.
Kweku barely heard him. His heart thundered. His knees felt weak — from cold, from joy, from disbelief.
On the sidelines, Coach Duret punched the air. "Excellent! That's what teamwork looks like!"
The commentator's voice rolled over the cheers. "What a moment for the young Ghanaian midfielder — Kweku Mensah with the assist of the season so far! Pure vision, pure class!"
But the match wasn't done.
Lille surged forward, desperate. The final ten minutes were chaos. One of their long-range shots whizzed inches over the bar; another forced Marseille's keeper into a full-stretch save. Every clearance, every block drew roars from the stands.
"Hold it!" Coach Duret barked, pacing the technical area. "Stay calm, boys! Two minutes!"
Kweku dropped deeper still, defending with everything he had — intercepting one pass, tackling another player cleanly, then sprinting the ball thirty yards upfield just to buy time. His lungs screamed, his body heavy, but he didn't stop.
The fourth official's board went up: 3 minutes added time.
Every second dragged.
"Lille pushing hard in the dying minutes!" the commentator's voice strained over the crowd noise. "Can Marseille hold their nerve?"
Kweku glanced toward the bench — Coach Duret clapping, shouting orders. Then toward the stands — students jumping, chanting his name.
The ball returned to Lille's winger, who fired a desperate cross. It bounced dangerously in the box — and Louis, of all people, headed it clear.
The whistle blew.
"Full time in Marseille! 2–1 — and what a victory for the home side! A heroic second-half performance led by the young Ghanaian playmaker, Kweku Mensah, whose creativity and composure turned the game on its head!"
The pitch became a blur of blue jerseys and flying arms. Louis jumped on Kweku's back, laughing. "First start, first win — told you we'd finish it!"
Kweku could only grin, breathless, eyes shining. The crowd kept chanting, "LES MINOTS! LES MINOTS !" and he felt something inside him ignite — pride, disbelief, belonging.
When the team walked off, Coach Duret met him at the tunnel, a rare smile creasing his face. "Good work, son. You kept your head when it mattered. That's what great midfielders do."
Kweku nodded, still catching his breath. "Thank you, coach."
"Rest well," Duret added. "You've earned your place."
That night, as the team bus rumbled through Marseille's quiet streets, Louis slept against the window, headphones still on. Kweku stared outside, watching snow drift under the streetlights.
His phone buzzed. A message from his mother:
I heard. I'm proud of you, my son. Keep shining. God is with you.
He smiled, heart warm against the cold glass. The road ahead was long, but for the first time, he truly believed he belonged on it.
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