The sun was already dipping low by the time Mr. Stein's Toyota Camry eased into the small parking lot outside the boys' new apartment block.
The compact red-brick building stood modestly along a quiet residential street, its snow-dusted roof catching the last golden rays of the winter sunset.
This unassuming structure, sponsored by the academy to house its international recruits, would be their home for the foreseeable future.
Amani pressed his face against the car window, studying the building with quiet intensity. Just that morning, he and Malik had officially checked out of their hotel, where they'd spent their first couple of nights adjusting to life in the Netherlands.
The hotel had been comfortable enough with a decent twin room with stronger WiFi, better computers, and a breakfast buffet that Malik had treated like an all-you-can-eat challenge. But it never felt like home.
This apartment, though? This was theirs.
As they stepped out of the car, the cold air bit at Amani's cheeks, but the excitement warming his chest made the chill bearable.
He grabbed his duffel bag from the trunk, the weight of his few possessions a stark reminder of how little he'd brought from Kenya. Everything that mattered to him now fit in one bag, except for his dreams. Those wouldn't fit in any luggage.
"Welcome to your new home," Mr. Stein announced, his breath forming small clouds in the frigid air as he led them toward the entrance. "The academy provides housing for all international recruits. You'll be here for at least the next six months."
The building's entrance was clean and modern, with a small security desk manned by an elderly gentleman who nodded at Mr. Stein with familiar recognition.
The elevator hummed softly as it carried them to the third floor, where Mr. Stein produced a set of keys that jingled like wind chimes in his hand.
"Apartment 3C," he said, handing a key to each boy. "Guard these with your lives. Replacements cost money, and that comes out of your allowance."
The lock clicked open, and Amani stepped into what would be his new world.
Their new home was a two-bedroom unit that struck the perfect balance between simplicity and comfort.
Clean wooden floors stretched beneath their feet, while white walls provided a blank canvas that made the space feel larger than it was.
Large windows overlooked the snow-covered street below, letting in streams of fading daylight that painted golden rectangles across the floor.
The small living area came with a soft grey sofa, a wall-mounted TV, and a circular dining table squeezed into the corner near the open-plan kitchen.
It wasn't luxurious by European standards, but to boys who had grown up in the humble homes of Mbakari, it might as well have been a palace.
"Yo, check this out!" Malik exclaimed, already exploring the kitchen with childlike enthusiasm. "We've got a microwave! And a real fridge!"
The kitchen itself was nothing fancy a compact electric stove, the aforementioned microwave, and a refrigerator just big enough for two hungry teenagers.
Amani had already taken mental notes on how to stock it with essentials: ugali flour if he could find it, rice, eggs, and maybe some samosas if they got lucky.
"Each of you has your own bedroom," Mr. Stein continued, gesturing down a short hallway. "The bathroom is shared. Laundry room is in the basement of the building, get tokens from the front desk, one Euro each."
Amani peeked into his assigned room, and his breath caught in his throat. A single bed neatly made with crisp white sheets.
A small desk for studying. A tall wardrobe waiting to be filled with his sparse collection of clothes. The radiator beneath his window hummed softly, keeping the chill at bay.
His own room. A luxury neither he nor Malik had ever known back in Mbakari.
"This is..." Amani began, but words failed him. How could he explain what this meant? To have space that was just his, a door he could close, a bed that wasn't shared with siblings or cousins?
Malik had no such trouble finding words. "This is sick!" he shouted from his own room, his voice bouncing off the walls. "I've got a view of the street! And look at this mattress it's like sleeping on a cloud!"
Mr. Stein allowed himself a small smile before his expression returned to its usual businesslike demeanor. "Now, the rules," he said, his tone making it clear this part was non-negotiable.
The boys gathered in the living room as Stein laid out the expectations:
"Keep the place tidy. Weekly inspections from the academy."
"No guests after 10 PM."
"Quiet hours after 11 PM."
"Your neighbors are fellow academy players, so treat them with respect."
Malik nodded along, though Amani could tell from the gleam in his friend's eye that he was already calculating which rules had wiggle room.
"Any questions?" Mr. Stein asked, glancing at his watch.
"Just one," Amani said. "When do we start training?"
The question hung in the air, heavy with all the anticipation and anxiety that had been building since they'd left Kenya. This was why they were here, after all. Not for the apartment, not for the adventure, but for football for the chance to transform their raw talent into something that could change their lives forever.
"Soon enough," Stein replied, checking his watch again. "But first, we need to get you settled. The boys had barely dumped their bags and kicked off their shoes when Stein was already ushering them back toward the door. "We're heading straight to UMC Utrecht for your medicals. The results came in, and we need to discuss them with Coach Pronk."
The mention of the coach's name sent a jolt through Amani's system. Coach Pronk the man who would decide their fate, who could make or break their dreams with a single word.
"Is everything okay with our results?" Amani asked, unable to keep the concern from his voice.
"You'll find out soon enough," Stein replied cryptically. "Let's go."
***
The return journey to the hospital was tense and silent. Malik, usually a fountain of chatter, stared out the window, his fingers drumming nervously against his knee. Amani sat perfectly still, his mind racing through every test, every measurement, wondering what the doctors might have found.
Was it his left ankle? Had they detected some weakness he thought he'd overcome? Or was it something else entirely, something he didn't even know was wrong with him?
The hospital corridors seemed longer and colder on this second visit. Mr. Stein led them through a maze of hallways until they reached a small conference room where Dr. Saris waited alongside a tall, broad-shouldered man with a face that looked like it had been carved from granite. His silver-streaked hair was cropped military-short, and his piercing blue eyes seemed to evaluate everything they landed on.
"Boys," Mr. Stein said, "this is Coach Boyd Pronk. He oversees the academy's development program."
Pronk didn't smile. He didn't offer his hand. He simply nodded, those sharp eyes sweeping over them like searchlights.
"Sit," he commanded, his Dutch accent thick but his English clear.
The boys obeyed instantly, sliding into chairs across from the coach and doctor. The table between them felt like a barrier, a dividing line between those who belonged in this world and those who were still trying to prove they did.
"Congratulations," Coach Pronk began, the word sounding more like a statement of fact than praise. "You both passed your medicals."
Relief washed over Amani like a cool wave, loosening the knot that had been tightening in his chest since they'd left the apartment. Beside him, Malik exhaled loudly, his shoulders visibly dropping.
"Yes!" Malik couldn't contain his excitement, fist-pumping the air so enthusiastically that the salt shaker on the table nearly took flight. "I knew I was built different!"
But Pronk's raised hand silenced the celebration before it could truly begin. "But," he said, his voice shifting into an even more serious tone, "passing the medical is only step one. There's one final test before your academy scholarships are locked in."
The relief evaporated as quickly as it had come. Malik's smile vanished like mist in the sun, and Amani felt his stomach drop as if he'd missed a step on a staircase.
"Hold up," Malik spluttered, his usual confidence cracking. "Another test? We already survived all those scans, machines, and that evil bike! What now?"
Pronk's eyes narrowed slightly, unimpressed by the outburst. "I'm not convinced by paperwork alone," he stated flatly. "I want to see real football, with pressure, against real competition." His gaze shifted to Amani, pinning him to his seat. "Amani, you will play against the U17 team on Tuesday."
The words hit Amani like a physical blow. The Under-17 team? These weren't just any players, these were elite European academy prospects, boys who had been training in professional setups since they could walk. Boys who were bigger, stronger, and had years more experience in the Dutch system.
And he was expected to step onto the pitch with them? At thirteen?
"But why throw me into an Under-17 match?" Amani asked, his fingers drumming the table anxiously. "I'm only thirteen."
Pronk leaned back, arms crossed, studying Amani with the sharp eyes of a man who had seen potential rise and crumble a thousand times before. There was no malice in his gaze, but no mercy either, just cold, clinical assessment.
"Are you scared?" Pronk asked, the question hanging in the air like a challenge.
Amani could have lied. He could have played it cool, puffed out his chest, and pretended that nothing fazed him. But what was the point? This man would see through any facade in seconds.
"Yes," Amani admitted, his voice low but steady, his eyes meeting Pronk's without flinching. "I am."
To everyone's surprise, Pronk's stern expression softened slightly, his eyes glinting with what might have been approval. "Good," he said, his voice losing some of its edge. "That means you understand just how big of an opportunity this is."
Amani swallowed hard. He knew exactly what was waiting on that pitch: bigger, stronger players who had been training in elite setups since they could walk. These weren't street players from Malindi or Mombasa. They were Europe's future stars, boys who had been groomed for professional careers from the moment they could kick a ball.
Pronk's tone softened further, almost becoming conversational. "Amani, do you watch the Premier League?"
The sudden shift caught Amani off guard. "Of course," he replied, blinking in surprise.
A nostalgic smile tugged at the corner of Pronk's mouth. "Then you should know about Cesc Fàbregas, right? Made his Arsenal debut at sixteen, against men, not boys. And you know what? He didn't just survive; he controlled the game."
The weight of the name hit Amani square in the chest. Fàbregas. A boy who didn't wait for permission to become great. A boy who stepped into the fire young and emerged not just unburned, but glowing.
Amani's mind raced, connecting dots, drawing parallels. Messi. Ronaldo. The future Mbappé. They had all stepped into the fire young. They hadn't asked if they were ready. They proved it.
If I aim for the top now, Amani thought, even if I fall short, I'll still land somewhere great.
His fingers curled into fists beneath the table, that flicker of fear starting to harden into something sharper, a hunger to prove. To show everyone the coaches, the players, even himself that he belonged.
"I get it," Amani said, his voice no longer shaking. "I'll show you I belong."
"That's the spirit." Pronk slapped the table with surprising force, the sound like a starting gun in Amani's mind. "But remember, talent is just the engine. You're the one who will do the steering."
Amani nodded, though guilt nagged at the edges of his mind. This 'talent' wasn't entirely natural. The system had given him tools that no other player had. But the work, the sweat, the drills, the hunger that was all him. That was real.
Then, with the flair of a man who loved dramatic reveals, Stein leaned forward conspiratorially. His voice dropped low like they were spies trading secrets in a crowded room.
"There's something else," he said, eyes darting briefly to Pronk as if seeking permission. "You didn't hear this from me... but a special guest is watching that match."
"Who?" Malik's eyes nearly popped out of his head, his curiosity instantly piqued.
"The first team coach of FC Utrecht." Stein's grin turned wicked, like he was sharing the combination to a safe full of gold. "He's on the hunt for new talent to fast-track into the pro squad."
Amani's heart stumbled in his chest. Malik's mouth hung open in shock.
"Wait, wait," Malik spluttered, leaning so far forward he was practically lying across the table. "If Amani shows out next week, he could go straight into the first team? Skipping the whole academy grind?"
"He is still too young," Stein cautioned, tempering expectations. "But it's happened before. Rare, but not impossible."
Malik slumped back dramatically, his hand clutching his heart as if it might burst from his chest. "Why does this guy get all the golden chances?" he groaned, though there was no real jealousy in his voice just theatrical dismay.
Pronk's smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared, his attention shifting to Malik with laser focus. "Malik, if you want chances like this, you need to take your fitness seriously. Your medical flagged excess body fat."
The words landed like a bucket of ice water. Malik's smile faded, his posture stiffening as if he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
"It's just... you know, a little extra nyama choma..." he offered weakly, patting his stomach with a nervous laugh.
"No." Pronk's voice sharpened to a razor's edge. "It's laziness. If you want European football, you need to change your mindset and work ethic. If you don't fix this, I'll personally call Coach Juma back home and your father."
The threat hit its mark. Malik sat up straighter than he had in weeks, all traces of humor vanishing from his face. "Okay! Okay! Starting tomorrow, I'm a changed man."
"Good." Pronk stood, smoothing his coat with practiced precision. "But no training tomorrow morning. We have a busy day."
"What's the plan?" Malik asked, eager to change the subject.
"8:30 sharp," Pronk said, checking his watch as if already counting down the hours. "We're going to sort your residence permits and open your Dutch bank accounts for your allowances. After that, Amani goes straight to his pre-match training session with the Under-17s."
"And me?" Malik asked, a hint of worry creeping into his voice.
"You're coming with me to check out the gym you'll be training in for the next six months." Pronk's tone made it clear this wasn't optional.
"Do we have to pay for the gym?" Amani cut in, his practical mind already calculating costs. He'd already spotted a small basement gym in the building; it looked good enough for his extra work.
"No fee," Stein reassured. "It's free if you train between 6 and 8 AM, academy players' hours."
"Perfect," Amani said, already planning his weekend routine: gym at dawn, shooting practice in the afternoon, and a deep dive into studying Dutch tactics in the evening.
"Use your time wisely," Pronk added, his voice serious again. "The boys you'll face next week, they're polished products of the system. You'll need more than talent to match them."
"I'll be ready," Amani promised, and he meant it with every fiber of his being.
Malik leaned closer, studying Amani's face with exaggerated intensity. "Yo, where's all this fire coming from?"
Amani grinned, a spark of challenge lighting his eyes. "You'll see if you wake up early enough to train with me."
Malik offered his fist. Amani bumped it without hesitation, their silent pact renewed in that simple gesture.
As Mr. Stein left, closing the door softly behind him, Amani walked to the window. Snow still floated lazily from the sky, each flake catching the light of the streetlamp like tiny stars.
The snow wasn't cold anymore.
It felt like a curtain rising, a silent signal that his story, the real one, was about to begin.