The day dawned crisp and clear, with a low winter sun struggling to warm the narrow streets of Utrecht. Frost glazed the pavements like sugar on a pastry, and every breath Amani took formed little white clouds that danced briefly before vanishing into the freezing air.
By 8:55 AM, Amani and Malik were already waiting in the hotel parking lot, bundled up in layers that made them look twice their normal size.
Despite the heavy jackets, gloves, and scarves, the cold still found ways to bite at their skin. Excitement danced in their eyes, but beneath it lay a thin layer of nerves that neither would openly admit.
Today marked their first official step into life as academy players in the Netherlands, a world away from the sun-baked pitches of home.
Right on time, Mr. Stein's Toyota Camry glided into the lot, its tires crunching softly on the frost-covered gravel. The old scout gave them a quick once-over as they climbed into the backseat, his experienced eyes missing nothing.
"How was your first night in Europe?" Stein asked as he pulled onto the main road, his hands steady on the wheel.
"Fantastic!" Malik declared with his trademark grin. "I slept like a baby."
"Same here," Amani added, though his eyes betrayed the restless night he'd actually had. "That bed was... something else."
He could still feel the plushness of the silk duvet and cotton sheets against his skin. His body had sunk into that mattress like it was made of clouds which was a stark contrast to the thin, lumpy mattress he'd grown up with in Malindi.
After cooking himself a hot dinner and listening to the comforting hum of the room's heater, he'd tried to sleep, but his mind had been too busy racing through all the possibilities that lay ahead.
"Glad to hear that," Stein said, his eyes never leaving the road. "Because today, you've got work to do. First stop, UMC Utrecht for your full medical assessments."
"Medicals?" Malik groaned, slumping dramatically in his seat. "Again? We already did check-ups back in Mombasa!"
Stein's mouth twitched with amusement, but his tone remained serious. "That was basic screening, just to make sure you didn't collapse on the flight. This is different. The academy coaches need a full breakdown of your strengths, weaknesses, and any hidden risks. They'll design your training plans around what the doctors find."
Amani listened quietly, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm against his knee.
The reality was setting in with each passing minute, this wasn't just a trip or an adventure. This was a job interview for their dreams, conducted not with words but with their bodies, their lungs, their muscles, their very bones.
"And what happens if we fail?" Malik asked, the humor briefly draining from his voice, leaving behind a vulnerability he rarely showed.
"You won't fail," Stein assured them, his confidence unwavering. "Worst case, you get six months to prove yourself. But I've seen what you can do. You'll be fine."
The boys exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between them. Neither was as sure as Stein sounded.
The car wove through Utrecht's neat streets, passing rows of cyclists riding to work and school despite the freezing temperature.
Amani marveled at how smoothly the traffic flowed with no honking matatus, no dust clouds kicked up by overloaded trucks, no chaotic intersections where right-of-way was determined by courage rather than rules.
Everything here moved with purpose and precision, like a well-rehearsed dance.
And then, just before they reached the hospital, Amani caught a glimpse of Stadion Galgenwaard in the distance, its massive structure rising above the surrounding buildings like a monument to his dreams.
For a moment, he forgot the cold, forgot the nerves, forgot everything except that stadium and what it represented. His heart skipped a beat, then raced ahead as if making up for lost time.
Stein followed his gaze, a knowing smile crossing his weathered face. "Work hard enough," he said softly, "and that pitch will be yours."
***
The hospital's sports department was vast, sleek, and intimidating in its clinical efficiency. Glass walls framed state-of-the-art facilities that gleamed under bright lights, and everywhere Amani looked, doctors moved with practiced precision, their white coats fluttering as they consulted charts and monitors.
The boys were immediately separated into two exam rooms, each assigned to a different doctor.
Amani's doctor was a stern-faced middle-aged man who introduced himself with brisk efficiency: "Dr. Saris. Let's begin."
Without further explanation, Amani was placed on an exercise bike and ordered to start pedaling. The resistance increased every few minutes until his quads burned like fire and sweat poured down his back despite the cool room.
What the hell kind of warm-up is this? Amani thought, gritting his teeth as the machine's display showed his heart rate climbing steadily.
But he didn't complain. He kept pedaling until Dr. Saris, still expressionless, finally said, "Enough."
What followed was a battery of tests, each one more unfamiliar and demanding than the last.
First came the Biodex assessment, where Amani found himself strapped into a futuristic-looking machine that resembled a cross between a gaming chair and a medieval torture device. Thick straps locked his legs into place as Dr. Saris adjusted the settings with the precision of a pilot preparing for takeoff.
"Extend your leg, hard," the doctor instructed, his tone as clinical as the room itself.
Amani kicked forward, his muscles flexing against what felt like a steel cable pulling back. Then came the reverse; he had to pull his leg back in with equal force. The machine logged each movement, every tremor of muscle strain recorded in real-time on a nearby monitor.
"Again."
The resistance increased, the machine humming louder.
"Again."
By the fourth set, Amani's quads burned like they were on fire, his hamstrings trembling with every pull. Beads of sweat ran down his temples, but he gritted his teeth and pushed through, reminding himself that every test was a step closer to that pitch he'd glimpsed from the car.
Next came the treadmill run, a seemingly simple task that quickly turned into a battlefield of endurance. Amani was fitted with a mask covering his mouth and nose, connected to a long tube that snaked toward a nearby machine. Every breath was monitored, analyzed, and reduced to cold numbers on a screen.
"Start jogging," Dr. Saris instructed, pressing buttons on the treadmill's control panel.
The belt hummed to life beneath his feet. Easy enough, at first. But every two minutes, the speed climbed, turning a comfortable jog into a brisk run and, eventually, into a punishing sprint. The mask made breathing harder, like sucking air through a narrow straw while trying to outrun a cheetah.
This isn't running. This is survival, Amani thought, arms pumping, legs churning, heart pounding against his ribcage like it wanted to escape.
His mind flicked back to Mbakari the sandy pitches, the blazing sun, the bare feet hammering against uneven ground. If he could handle that, this should be easy.
It wasn't.
Dr. Saris stood nearby, watching the numbers climb but offering no praise, no feedback. Just silent observation, as if Amani was an experiment in a lab rather than a boy chasing a dream.
After the treadmill, Amani was marched to a flexibility station where a mat and a measuring bar awaited.
"Touch your toes."
Easy. His fingertips brushed past his shoes.
"Now sit. Legs straight. Reach forward."
Amani reached, fingertips skimming past the edge of the bar, surprising even himself. All those late-night stretches before system drills had quietly worked wonders on his flexibility.
But there was no time to feel proud. Next came reflex testing, where he had to tap flashing buttons scattered across a large wall. The lights blinked randomly, some high, some low, demanding split-second reactions and lightning-fast footwork.
His fingers darted across the wall like a pianist in the middle of a frenzied concerto. Left, right, up, down, his system-enhanced reflexes kicking in as if the wall was a field and the lights were defenders to dribble past.
"Good speed," Dr. Saris murmured. It was the first compliment the man had offered, and Amani treasured it like a rare gem.
Then came the balance test: standing barefoot on a wobbling platform while keeping a laser dot centered on a screen.
Every minor shift in his body weight sent the dot sliding off course. Amani's core muscles clenched, stabilizing him almost instinctively.
His brain and body remembered the endless one-legged shooting drills from the system's training menu, and the dot stayed remarkably centered despite the platform's attempts to throw him off.
Next, the bone scan. A strange, humming machine that moved over his legs, reading bone density and structural health. Amani lay still, his mind drifting to the rumors back home, the whispers about his left ankle injury. He knew it had been exaggerated, but was there some hidden weakness the scan would reveal?
Dr. Saris gave nothing away, his face a mask of professional detachment.
Blood and urine tests followed, needles, vials, and awkward silences, then a return to the mat for more joint mobility checks.
"Rotate your hip."
"Flex your knee."
"Rotate your ankle."
The doctor's hands moved with professional precision, testing range of motion, applying pressure, gauging resistance. His touch was impersonal but thorough, leaving no joint unchecked.
Amani couldn't help but wonder if this was normal or if they were digging so deep because they couldn't believe a boy from the outskirts of Malindi could turn up this fit, this prepared. Were they looking for flaws, for reasons to send him home?
"Ever been injured?" Dr. Saris asked suddenly, his eyes sharp as he manipulated Amani's left ankle.
Amani hesitated, memories flickering in his mind like an old film reel. That fall from the bicycle that had left his left ankle swollen and painful.
The limp he'd tried to hide from his mother before the system had fixed him, layer by layer, every training session patching up old weaknesses until they were nothing but distant memories.
"Nothing serious," he said carefully, meeting the doctor's gaze with steady eyes.
"Hmm." The doctor didn't seem convinced, but he moved on without pressing further.
Finally, after what felt like hours, the tests ended. Amani's muscles ached in places he didn't even know could ache, his throat dry, his mind buzzing with everything they'd put him through.
He dressed quietly, wiping sweat off his brow with his sleeve. Outside the exam room, Malik was waiting, bundled back in his jacket, his face twisted in exaggerated exhaustion.
"Bruh," Malik groaned, leaning against the wall for dramatic effect. "I feel like I just ran the Nairobi Marathon backwards while carrying a goat."
"Same," Amani laughed weakly, grateful for his friend's ability to lighten any situation. "Any idea if we passed?"
"No clue. My doctor was all serious and scary. Yours?"
"Same. Straight face the whole time. I think he smiled once, but it might have been a muscle spasm."
They stood there in silence for a moment, both realizing that for all the drills, all the hours on the pitch, this the science of football was something neither of them had prepared for.
"Think they'll send us back?" Malik asked quietly, the question hanging in the air between them like frost.
Amani shook his head, more confident than he felt. "Nah. This was just to design our training plans. They don't need us to be match-ready yet. As long as nothing's wrong with our bodies, we're fine."
"Hope you're right," Malik muttered, his eyes betraying a fear that his smile tried to hide.
***
In a quiet office down the hall, Dr. Saris presented the results to Mr. Stein and Coach Boyd Pronk, the academy's interim head coach. The atmosphere was tense, the stakes higher than the boys could possibly know.
"Carlos," Saris began, his poker face finally cracking into a smile that transformed his stern features. "You found yourself a perfect specimen."
Stein raised an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. "Go on."
"The boy Amani is exceptionally fit for his age, so much so that it's almost suspicious. His skeletal range of movement is outstanding, and his lower-body muscle groups work in perfect coordination. It's as though he's been training professionally for years."
Pronk frowned, his thick eyebrows drawing together. "Are you sure this kid wasn't already with a pro team back home?"
Stein shook his head firmly. "He's turning fourteen soon. There's no way. Kenya has few of those kinds of facilities, but not in Malindi. The boy's talent is natural, not manufactured."
Saris continued, flipping through pages of test results. "I checked his joints, his pelvic stability, his left leg. everything's in top shape. Whatever rumors you heard about old injuries? Nonsense. The boy's clean. Stronger than average, even in his left leg."
Stein's relief was palpable, his shoulders relaxing visibly. "That's exactly what I needed to hear."
But Pronk remained skeptical, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. "Physical talent is one thing. Football intelligence is another. I want to see him in action before I believe the hype."
Stein sighed, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. "That's what the trial match in Mombasa was for."
Pronk snorted dismissively. "A game against some village boys? Please. I'll see for myself next week. I'm throwing him into the Under-17 friendly against AZ Alkmaar."
Stein's jaw dropped in disbelief. "He's barely even fifteen! For God's sake, the boy is only thirteen years!"
"Doesn't matter," Pronk said, standing up with an air of finality. "Pressure makes diamonds or breaks them. If he's as good as you claim, he'll cope."
"But he hasn't even trained with the team yet!" Stein protested, his voice rising.
"Tough. He gets from Friday up to Monday to train. After that, he plays on Tuesday. My decision's final."
Stein turned to Dr. Saris for backup, but the doctor was already typing up his report, distancing himself from the argument with practiced neutrality.
Pronk paused at the door, turning back with a final question. "And the other boy, Malik?"
Dr. Saris flipped through a second file, his expression more reserved. "Decent fitness. Good lower-limb strength. Stamina's passable. But he's carrying a little extra weight, could be diet-related."
Pronk frowned, his verdict swift and harsh. "Six months. That's how long I'll give him to get in proper shape. After that, if he's still lagging, he goes back."
"Why are you so hard on them?" Stein asked, exasperation evident in his voice.
"I'm hard on everyone," Pronk replied without hesitation. "No exceptions."
With that, the manager left the room, the door closing behind him with a soft but definitive click.
"Boyd's a tough nut," Saris said, shaking his head. "But you've handled worse."
Stein ran a hand through his thinning hair, his expression troubled. "It's not the pressure. It's the politics. Someone upstairs is gunning for my neck, and Pronk's their puppet."
"So what now?" Saris asked, closing the files with a snap.
"I tell the boys the truth," Stein said, exhaling heavily. "They deserve that much."
As he walked toward the waiting area where Amani and Malik sat, Stein's mind was already racing, planning how to prepare these boys for the trial by fire that awaited them. The stakes had just been raised, and the game had barely begun.