Gattuso leaned back in his chair, studying Karim with the intensity of a man who'd built his career on reading players. The silence stretched for a moment, not uncomfortable but charged with expectation.
"So," Gattuso began, his English heavily accented but clear, "you know why you're here?"
Karim shifted slightly in his seat. "Because Arsenal didn't want me anymore?"
The honesty caught Gattuso off guard, but he liked it. No bullshit, no diplomatic answers about development opportunities or tactical fit. Just raw truth from a kid who understood exactly what his situation was.
"No," Gattuso said firmly, leaning forward. "You're here because I wanted you. Specifically you. I watched every game, every training session I could get my hands on. The sporting director, he wanted Amine Gouiri from Nice. The president preferred someone older, more experienced. But I told them – this boy, this Ramirez, he's different."
Karim's eyebrows raised slightly. "Different how?"
"You know what I see when I watch strikers today? Wingers pretending to be central. Players who want to drift wide, pick up the ball in pretty positions, look good for the cameras. Everyone wants to be Messi or Neymar." Gattuso's voice grew more animated, his hands gesturing as passion took over. "But you? You want to be in the box when it matters. You want the ball when the pressure is highest. That overhead kick against Spain – most players, they try to control it, play it safe. You? You see the goal and you think 'why not?'"
"It was just instinct," Karim said quietly.
"Exactly! Instinct! You can't teach that. You either have the killer instinct or you don't. And you, ragazzo, you have it." Gattuso stood up, walking to the tactical board mounted on his wall. "Tell me, what do you think of Arsenal's decision to let you go?"
The question hung in the air. Karim felt his jaw tighten involuntarily.
"I think they made a mistake," he said finally, the words carrying more weight than he'd intended.
"Good. Hold onto that anger. Let it fuel you." Gattuso turned back to face him. "Because I'm going to tell you something – this loan, it's not really a loan. That obligation to buy clause? It activates after just ten league appearances. The board thinks it's insurance, but I know better. You're going to play more than ten games, Karim. Much more."
Karim felt something stir in his chest – hope, maybe, or just the familiar burn of ambition.
"What do you want from me, Coach?"
"Everything." Gattuso's response was immediate, absolute. "I want you to be the striker this club hasn't had since Payet was feeding balls to Mitrović. I want you to make Arsenal regret every minute they didn't give you. I want you to show England, Spain, Morocco – whoever you choose – that they're getting a player who can lead the line for the next decade."
He moved to the tactical board, picking up a black marker and beginning to sketch formations with quick, practiced strokes.
"But first, let me show you what I see for you tactically." He drew a 4-4-2 formation. "Right now, we play with two strikers – Aubameyang, someone you're familiar with, and Ismaila Sarr up front. They know this system, the team knows this system. It works… but it's predictable."
Gattuso wiped the board clean and started drawing again, this time sketching a 4-2-3-1. "I want to change it. For you. This is what I see – a 4-2-3-1 with you as the sole striker, the focal point of everything we do going forward."
Karim leaned forward, studying the formation. "As a poacher?"
"No." Gattuso's response was sharp,
definitive. "Anyone can be a poacher. Stand in the box, wait for service, tap in goals. That's not what I saw in your game intelligence, that's not why I fought the board to sign you." He tapped the striker position with his marker.
"I want you as an advanced forward who can both finish and play with his teammates. Drop deep when we need to build play, stretch defenses with your runs, link up with the attacking midfielders behind you."
He drew arrows showing movement patterns around the striker position. "You have the technical ability to receive the ball under pressure, the vision to find teammates in better positions, and the finishing to convert chances. Most strikers can do one or two of these things well. You can do all three."
Karim studied the board, his mind already visualizing how it would work. "What about Aubameyang? And the others?"
"Aubameyang will adapt – he's a professional, and he knows his legs aren't what they were five years ago. But listen carefully, Karim." Gattuso set down the marker and looked directly at him. "I want you to be a starter. I know you can be a starter. But I can't just put you straight into the XI. You need to prove yourself to me, and especially to your teammates, that you deserve to take their place."
The honesty was refreshing, even if it stung a little.
"They've been here longer, they've earned their spots through months and years of work. You? You've earned a chance. Nothing more, nothing less." Gattuso's voice softened slightly. "But I believe in you, ragazzo. I believe you'll take that chance and make it count."
He paused, studying Karim's face for any sign of doubt or fear. He found neither.
"But first, I need to know – are you ready to work? Not just train, but really work? Because Ligue 1, it's not like the academy. Defenders here, they'll kick you, grab you, try to get in your head. The media will compare you to every striker who ever wore this shirt. The fans, they'll love you one week and whistle you the next."
"I'm ready," Karim said, and meant it.
"We'll see." Gattuso returned to his seat, but the energy in the room had shifted. This wasn't just a meet-and-greet anymore; it was a mutual evaluation. "Training starts in one hour. I want to see what you can do when you're not performing for cameras or trying to impress scouts. Just pure football."
Karim stood, understanding the meeting was over. As he reached for the door handle, Gattuso's voice stopped him.
"Karim? That goal against Spain – it was beautiful. But forget about it. That was yesterday's magic. Today, we start building tomorrow's."
The teenager nodded and walked out, leaving Gattuso alone with his thoughts and tactical boards. Through the window, he could see the training pitches where his new striker would either fulfill his potential or join the long list of wonderkids who never quite wondered enough.
But something in the boy's eyes told him this story would be different.
Karim walked down the corridor toward the changing rooms, his footsteps echoing off the polished floors of the training complex.
Players were arriving for the morning session – some he recognized from watching Marseille games, others completely unfamiliar. A few nodded in acknowledgment, sizing up the new arrival with the casual interest of professionals who'd seen dozens of transfers come and go.
His phone buzzed with another message from Bukayo: How's the gaffer? Heard Gattuso's proper intense
Karim smiled, typing back: About to find out. Training in an hour. Wish me luck
The response came immediately: Don't need luck when you've got that left foot. Show them what Arsenal are missing
What Arsenal are missing. The phrase stuck with him as he pushed open the changing room door, ready to discover exactly what Olympique Marseille were gaining.
….
The training pitch stretched out before Karim like a perfectly manicured canvas, the grass so green it almost hurt to look at under the Mediterranean sun. The facility was world-class – multiple pitches bordered by palm trees, with the distant outline of Marseille's hills providing a backdrop that made London's grey training grounds feel like a different planet entirely.
The morning sun was already climbing higher, casting sharp shadows across the field and promising another scorching day. Karim had arrived twenty minutes early, partly from nerves, partly from habit. At Arsenal, he'd always been first out, using the quiet moments before chaos descended to center himself and prepare mentally.
He started with simple keepie-uppies, feeling the ball against his foot in that familiar rhythm that had been soothing him since he was seven years old. Left foot, right foot, thigh, chest, back to the feet. The repetitive motion helped quiet his mind, but couldn't stop the thoughts from creeping in.
That weird notification from yesterday kept nagging at him. If you could have one striker's best attribute, what would you pick? What was that even about? Some sort of weird football app glitch, probably. Though he couldn't remember downloading anything that would send notifications like that. The whole thing had felt… off. Too specific, too targeted.
Henry's pace, he'd answered without really thinking about it. His childhood idol's most devastating weapon – that ability to go from zero to unstoppable in the space of a heartbeat. But why had he even bothered responding to what was obviously some sort of spam or virus?
He flicked the ball up higher, catching it on his chest before letting it drop back to his feet.
The sun felt good on his shoulders, warming muscles that still carried tension from yesterday's travel and uncertainty.
A sharp whistle from behind made him turn around, the ball dropping forgotten to the grass.
"Is that Karim all grown up?"
The voice was unmistakable – warm, accented with that particular mix of French and something indefinably cool that could only belong to one person.
Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang jogged toward him with a massive grin splitting his face, looking exactly like the player Karim remembered from their brief overlap at Arsenal, just wearing different colors now.
Karim's face broke into the first genuine smile he'd had since arriving in France. He jogged forward to meet Aubameyang halfway, and they dapped each other up with the elaborate handshake the older striker had taught him years ago.
"Hey Auba," Karim said, feeling some of the tension leave his shoulders. Here was a familiar face, a connection to the world he'd left behind.
Aubameyang had been his mentor during those early days at Hale End Academy, the established star who'd somehow found time to take a skinny thirteen-year-old under his wing. Quick tips about movement in the box, advice about dealing with defenders, stories about what it was like to play in front of eighty thousand people. Those conversations had meant everything to a kid who was still figuring out if he belonged in Arsenal's academy at all.
"Look how tall you are now," Aubameyang said, stepping back to get a proper look at him. "It's been like what, three years since you were that tiny kid asking me to show you how to finish one-on-ones?"
The rest of the Marseille squad had started filtering onto the pitch, their conversations dying as they noticed the interaction between their established striker and the new signing.
Karim could feel their eyes on him – some curious, some appraising, all wondering if this teenager was worth the fifteen million euros and the hype.
Aubameyang seemed to sense the attention too. He turned to address the gathering players with theatrical flair, his voice carrying across the pitch.
"This kid used to be my student at Arsenal," he announced, gesturing at Karim like a proud teacher. "Now he's going to try and bench me!"
The squad erupted in laughter – genuine, warm sound that helped ease some of Karim's nerves. These were professionals who'd seen countless new signings come and go; they appreciated honesty and humor over false modesty.
Karim felt his cheeks warm slightly but managed to find his voice. "You know what they say," he called back, his own grin spreading. "The student's become the master."
Another round of laughter, louder this time. A few players clapped appreciatively, and Karim caught sight of some approving nods. Not a bad start, he thought. At least they didn't seem to hate him immediately.
"Alright everyone, settle down."
Gennaro Gattuso's voice cut through the laughter like a blade through silk. The Italian manager had appeared at the edge of the pitch seemingly from nowhere, his presence immediately commanding absolute attention.
The transformation was instant – twenty professional footballers went from joking around to standing at attention like soldiers awaiting orders.
The silence that followed was so complete Karim could hear the distant hum of traffic from Marseille proper and the rustle of palm fronds in the breeze.
"Before we begin," Gattuso continued, his voice carrying easily across the pitch, "I want to introduce our new signing. Most of you probably know about him already – Karim Ramirez, seventeen years old, on loan from Arsenal."
He gestured for Karim to step forward, which he did with as much confidence as he could muster.
"Karim is here because I believe he can contribute immediately to what we're trying to build. Not because he's young, not because he's cheap, but because he has the qualities we need to take the next step as a team." Gattuso's eyes swept across the assembled players. "I expect you all to welcome him properly and help him settle in. Questions?"
No one spoke.
"Good. Right, let's get to work. Basic passing to start – I want to see clean touches, quick thinking, and no sloppy passes just because it's the first day back. Karim, you're with group one."
The next ninety minutes passed in a blur of controlled chaos. Basic passing drills that weren't basic at all when performed at the intensity Gattuso demanded. Short passes, long passes, one-touch combinations, receiving under pressure from coaches who seemed determined to make every touch as difficult as possible.
Karim found his rhythm quickly, his first touch clean, his passing sharp and accurate. The ball felt good under his feet, familiar and reassuring after all the uncertainty of the past few days. His new teammates were testing him subtly – harder passes than necessary, quicker combinations, the kind of gentle hazing that separated those who belonged from those who didn't.
He passed every test, his technical ability evident even in these mundane exercises. By the time Gattuso called for water break, several players were nodding approvingly in his direction.
"Not bad, student," Aubameyang said as they jogged toward the sideline. "Your touch looks sharper than I remember."
"Been working on it," Karim replied, trying to keep the pride out of his voice.
"Good. You'll need it here. French defenders like to get close, make it personal."
Aubameyang's tone shifted slightly, becoming more serious. "But I can see why the boss likes you. You've got something different now. More… confident."
Gattuso's whistle pierced the air, sharp and demanding. All twenty-two players immediately turned their attention back to the Italian, phones and distractions forgotten.
"Okay everyone," Gattuso called out, his hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed his squad. "Today we are going to be trying something different. We are going to separate the twenty-two of you into two separate elevens and label each of you with a number from one to ten."
He gestured toward the smaller seven-a-side pitch adjacent to the main training ground, its pristine surface gleaming under the Mediterranean sun.
"On the seven-a-side pitch, I will call out a different combination of numbers each time, and they will come onto the pitch and play against each other. For example, if I say four and seven, players from each team labeled four and seven will enter the pitch and play against each other. First to reach two goals wins. Understood?"
A murmur of acknowledgment rippled through the group. Karim felt his pulse quicken slightly – this wasn't the typical structured training he was used to. This was raw, competitive, the kind of exercise where reputations could be made or broken in minutes.
"This will test your ability to adapt quickly, to play with different combinations of teammates, and to perform under pressure," Gattuso continued. "No time to think, no time to settle. Just pure football instinct."
The Italian's eyes scanned the group, settling briefly on Karim before moving on.
"Questions? No? Good. Let's divide into teams."