CHAPTER 45— "The Week After"
Monday morning greeted Kweku with a cold that felt personal—snow clung to the fence posts outside the academy dormitory, and the sky hung low and colourless. He tugged his scarf higher as he walked with Louis toward the tram stop, boots crunching on thin ice.
"Long week ahead," Louis muttered through his breath.
"When is it not?" Kweku replied, trying to smile.
Their draw against Montpellier had spread quickly across the academy. Some boys from the U-17s had congratulated him, a few from the U-19s had nodded respectfully, but there were also glances—measuring ones—from players who saw him as competition.
At school, the attention was more innocent.
As soon as he stepped into class, a boy from the back yelled, "Mensah! Saw your match! That turn you did—mad, bro!"
Another added, "You almost won it at the end! Off the post!"
Kweku laughed shyly, adjusting his backpack. "Merci."
Camille entered moments later, brushing snow from her sleeves, scarf wrapped around her neck. She spotted him immediately.
"There you are," she said warmly. "I watched the match on my uncle's stream. You looked… different. More confident."
"Thanks," he murmured, surprised at how good the praise felt.
Class began, but the whispers continued. When their literature teacher asked students to open their books, a boy leaned forward from behind and whispered, "Hey, Mensah, you think Marseille will move you to the U-19s soon?"
Kweku froze. He hadn't even thought about it.
"—I-I don't know," he said quietly.
After class, Camille caught up with him as they walked through the courtyard, where snowflakes drifted lazily in the air.
"You okay?" she asked.
He shrugged. "I don't like when people look at me like I'm… some star. I'm not even close."
"You don't have to be," she said gently. "You just have to be yourself."
He looked at her, and for the first time in days, the tension in his chest eased.
---
Training Resumes
Back at the academy that afternoon, the tone shifted immediately.
Coach Bernard paced along the sideline, gloved hands behind his back. "Last match was good," he said. "But good is not enough. We need consistency. Intelligence. Control."
He clapped once.
"Midfielders with me!"
Kweku, Louis, and the others gathered around.
The first drill was possession under pressure—tight space, with a maximum of two touches. Shouts echoed as players lunged, shoved, and poked for the ball.
"Kweku—quicker! Think before you receive!"
"Louis, give him an angle!"
"Move, move, MOVE!"
Louis sighed. "Bernard's in one of those moods."
"He wants us sharp," Kweku replied, sweat already dripping despite the cold.
Next came pattern play. Kweku played the central role, switching passes from flank to flank. His legs stung from the cold, but his mind stayed clear.
At one point, Bernard stopped the drill.
"MENSAAAH!"
Kweku stiffened.
Bernard strode toward him, pointing at the cones.
"When you turn, you turn into pressure. You have space on the right! Use your peripheral vision!"
"Yes, coach," Kweku said quickly, cheeks burning.
Louis whispered, "He's pushing you harder 'cause you're the key now."
"Kinda wish I wasn't."
"Too late for that," Louis grinned.
---
Voices From Home
That evening, after dinner, Kweku called his mom while sitting near the window of the dorm hallway, watching snowflakes swirl over the academy field lights.
"Mama?"
"Yes, my son. How are you?" Her voice was warm, steadying.
"I played well this weekend. Coach said I changed the game."
"I am proud of you," she said. "But remember: always stay humble. Football is long. Today you are praised, tomorrow you are corrected. Both are good for you."
He nodded even though she couldn't see him.
"I miss you," he whispered.
"I miss you too. But you are exactly where you prayed to be. Keep working."
After the call, he rested his forehead on the glass, watching his breath fog the window. The loneliness never fully left, but his mother's voice softened its edges.
---
School Pressure Builds
By Wednesday, more people at school knew who he was. Word travelled fast in winter—the students had little else to talk about.
During the break, two boys approached him.
"You're the guy from the match, right? The Ghanaian kid?"
"Yeah."
"You think Marseille will sell you for millions?" one teased, half-serious.
Kweku laughed nervously. "I'm not even on the pro team."
Camille stepped beside him, crossing her arms.
"You two do realise he's literally trying to eat his sandwich in peace?"
The boys backed off.
Kweku chuckled. "Thanks."
"No problem," she said. "People here can be… overwhelming."
He appreciated her calm presence more than he ever said out loud.
---
A Hard Training Session
Thursday's session was brutal—freezing winds, long tactical drills, defensive positioning work that made his thighs shake.
During an 11v11 scrimmage, Bernard shouted, "Kweku! Drop deeper—force them inside!"
Kweku obeyed, sliding in to intercept a pass.
The ball popped loose.
"Again!" Bernard barked.
The drill reset.
Louis exhaled loudly. "This guy is trying to kill us."
"He wants the team ready," Kweku said, though his lungs felt like fire.
The ball rolled to him again. This time he carried it forward, slipped past one defender, then another, and fired a precise through-ball to Jean-Luc who finished cleanly.
Bernard pointed at him.
"YES! THAT is what I want!"
The players cheered.
Louis punched his shoulder. "There he is. Monsieur Danger."
Kweku laughed despite his exhaustion.
---
A Cold Friday, A Warm Moment
On Friday morning, Marseille was blanketed in fresh snow. The walk to school was slippery, and Kweku nearly fell twice before Louis yanked him upright.
In class, Camille quietly slid a packet of hand warmers across his desk.
"You look like someone who's struggling with the cold," she whispered.
He smiled gratefully. "You have no idea."
Later, at lunch, they talked about school, France, Ghana, and music. Camille listened with interest when he described the markets in Accra, the heat, the noise, and the food.
"You must miss it," she said softly.
"Every day," he admitted.
But then he added, "France is growing on me."
She smiled. "Good."
---
The Week's End
Training that afternoon was lighter—short sprints, passing drills, finishing practice. Coach Bernard reviewed tactical sheets for the upcoming match.
"Kweku," he said as the session ended, "good work this week. Your consistency is improving. Keep this level."
"Yes, coach."
Back in the dorm later, Louis flopped onto his bed dramatically.
"One week down. Twenty thousand more to go."
Kweku laughed. "At least we didn't freeze to death."
Louis pointed at him. "But seriously, bro—you're becoming the centre of this team. Don't start thinking you're alone in it. We're all here with you."
Kweku nodded, touched.
"Thanks."
As the lights dimmed, he lay on his bed listening to the soft buzz of the radiator.
The cold outside was harsh, unfamiliar.
But inside—between school, training, and the small but growing circle of people around him—he felt something warm beginning to grow.
Something like belonging.
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