@FabrizioRomano:
🚨 EXCLUSIVE: Arsenal have agreed to send 17-year-old striker Karim Ramirez to Olympique Marseille on a season-long loan with an obligation to buy for €15 million!
The 6'2" Moroccan-Spanish forward — born and raised in Spain, of Moroccan descent — is considered one of the most exciting attacking talents in Arsenal's academy. Talks progressed quickly over the past week, with both clubs aligned on the player's development pathway.
🩺 Medical has already been completed in France and all documents are signed. Karim Ramirez will join Marseille training immediately and is expected to be included in their matchday squad soon.
⚪🔴 Arsenal believe in his long-term potential but see this as a valuable step for regular senior football. OM, meanwhile, see him as a key piece for the future — and the €15M obligation clause reflects that confidence.
Here we go, confirmed. ✅🇲🇦🇪🇸 #AFC #OM #Ramirez #Transfers
…..
The first thing Karim Ramirez noticed when he stepped into his new Marseille apartment wasn't the view of the Mediterranean shimmering in the distance, or the sleek modern fixtures, or even the boxes stacked against the pristine white walls. It was the echo.
Every footstep rang out like a gunshot. The soft thud of his duffel bag hitting the wooden floor might as well have been a cannon blast. Even his breathing seemed amplified in the cavernous space, bouncing off the bare walls and floor-to-ceiling windows before settling into an uncomfortable silence.
The apartment was everything the club had promised – clean, contemporary, expensive-looking. Marble countertops in the kitchen that probably cost more than his mum's car. Floor-to-ceiling windows that bathed the main room in golden Mediterranean light. A balcony that stretched the width of the living area, complete with glass railings and a view that estate agents would kill for.
But Christ, it was empty. Painfully, brutally empty.
No sofa. No dining table. No TV mounted on the wall. Not even a bloody bedframe. Just a mattress still wrapped in plastic leaning against the far wall like some sort of modern art installation, and cardboard boxes marked in both English and Spanish scattered across the floor like abandoned promises.
Karim stood in the middle of it all, arms hanging at his sides, trying to process what his life had become. The silence pressed in around him, broken only by the distant hum of Marseille traffic and the occasional seagull crying outside. He pulled his phone from his pocket and stared at the screen one more time, even though he'd already read the post about fifty times during the flight from London.
🚨 EXCLUSIVE: Arsenal have agreed to send 17-year-old striker Karim Ramirez to Olympique Marseille on a season-long loan — with an obligation to buy set at €15 million!
Here we go — confirmed. 🇲🇦🇪🇸 #AFC #OM #KarimRamirez #Transfers
Fabrizio Romano's words seemed to pulse off the screen, each emoji and hashtag like a nail in the coffin of his Arsenal dreams. The Italian journalist's voice echoed in his mind like some sort of breaking news siren that wouldn't shut off. "Here we go," he'd said in that video, flashing his trademark smile. As if it was all so simple. As if moving a seventeen-year-old kid's entire life across two countries was just another Tuesday transfer update.
Karim turned the screen off with more force than necessary and placed the phone face-down on the marble countertop, where it looked as lost and out of place as he felt. The silence rushed back in immediately, heavier now, pressing against his eardrums.
He should have felt proud. Elated, even.
Marseille was massive – a proper club with history stretching back over a century. Champions League regulars when they weren't busy imploding. A fanbase that didn't just love football, they lived it, breathed it, would probably die for it if asked nicely. The Velodrome was one of the most iconic stadiums in Europe, a cauldron of noise and passion that made the Emirates look like a library.
And yet all he felt was this heavy, dull weight sitting in his chest like a stone he'd swallowed. A weight that had been growing heavier with each passing hour since he'd signed the loan papers three days ago.
The truth was simple, even if he couldn't say it out loud: he didn't want to leave Arsenal. Not really. Not deep down in the part of his soul where his dreams lived.
That club wasn't just in his blood – it was his blood. The red and white had been flowing through his veins since he was eight years old, sitting in their cramped flat in Málaga, watching Thierry Henry glide past defenders like they were traffic cones.
His bedroom walls had been a shrine to the North London club: posters of Henry celebrating at Highbury, Robin van Persie wheeling away after another sublime finish, even a faded image of Dennis Bergkamp that his uncle had bought him for his ninth birthday.
When his family had moved to East London when he was ten – his father chasing better construction work, his mother hoping for a fresh start – it had felt like destiny calling.
The Emirates was only a bus and a train ride away from their new council flat in Stratford. He could see the floodlights from his bedroom window on clear nights, these four towering beacons that seemed to pulse with possibility.
Getting scouted by Arsenal's youth staff at thirteen had been the single best day of his life.
It happened at a local academy tournament in Hackney – one of those grassroots events where scouts from big clubs lurked on the sidelines with their clipboards and practiced poker faces.
Karim had scored four goals and created two more, playing with the kind of instinctive brilliance that you can't teach. The Arsenal scout, a softly-spoken Welshman named Davies, had approached his parents afterward with a business card and a smile.
"We'd like Karim to come in for a trial," he'd said, and Karim's world had shifted on its axis.
He'd cried that night, holding the club-issued training top in his hands like it was sacred fabric blessed by the football gods themselves. The cannon badge felt heavy under his fingertips, weighted with history and dreams and the promise of everything he'd ever wanted.
Now, four years later, he was gone. Shipped off to France like damaged goods that needed repairing somewhere else.
All because Arsenal had decided to sign Kai Havertz.
Karim walked to the sliding glass doors that led to the balcony, his reflection ghosting across the surface like a memory of someone he used to be. He knew how the Havertz signing looked on paper. The German was older, experienced, had won the Champions League with Chelsea. He was versatile too – could play false nine, could drop deep and link play, could even slot in at attacking midfield if needed. Safe hands. Proven quality. The kind of player who wouldn't embarrass you in big games.
Gabriel Jesus was still there too, when his knees weren't betraying him. He might spend half the season in the treatment room, but when he was fit, he played. Had that South American flair that supporters loved, that unpredictability that could unlock tight games.
Then there was Eddie Nketiah, who'd been at the club longer than Karim had been playing organized football. Local lad, academy graduate, knew the system inside and out.
And Leandro Trossard could always slot in centrally if needed, bringing that Belgian guile and Champions League experience from his Brighton days.
The rotation was packed tighter than a rush-hour tube carriage. And Karim? He was just the viral academy wonderkid. Seventeen years old with a YouTube highlight reel and zero Premier League minutes to his name.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, his breath fogging the glass for a moment before disappearing.
No matter what they'd said in those meetings – that he was young, that his time would come, that the club believed in his potential – he hadn't believed them. Not really. He'd sat in Mikel Arteta's office three weeks ago, listening to all the right words delivered in that careful, measured way the Spaniard had perfected, and he'd known. He'd known exactly what the pecking order looked like, and where he fit in it.
Nowhere.
"You have the talent, Karim," Arteta had said, leaning back in his leather chair with his fingers steepled like he was delivering some profound wisdom. "Real talent. The kind that excites me as a coach. But the best strikers – the truly great ones – they need games. They need minutes. They need to feel the ball at their feet when it matters, when the lights are brightest."
He'd paused then, studying Karim's face like he was reading a particularly complex tactical analysis.
"They need ego too. They need to believe, deep in their bones, that they should be playing every single week. That the team is incomplete without them. I see that in you, son. That hunger. That fire. That absolute conviction that you belong on the biggest stages."
It had felt like praise at the time. High praise from a manager who'd played for Barcelona, who'd learned from Pep Guardiola himself.
But thinking about it now, standing in this sterile apartment with the Mediterranean breeze pushing against the windows, Karim understood what those words really were.
Permission to leave. A beautifully crafted speech designed to make him feel good about being discarded.
Jorge Mendes had told him the move was a gift. "You're seventeen, but you play like you're twenty-one," the Portuguese super-agent had said during their meeting at a ridiculously expensive restaurant in Mayfair, cutting into his wagyu beef like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Ligue 1 will give you the space to grow, the platform to express yourself. Marseille believe in you. They want to build something special with you at the center of it."
Jorge always made everything sound so grand, so cinematic. He had this way of speaking that made transfer moves sound like epic quests and contract negotiations sound like acts of destiny.
Karim still wasn't entirely sure how he'd landed such a giant of an agent in the first place. Mendes was football royalty – he represented Cristiano Ronaldo, Bernardo Silva, João Félix, some of the biggest names in world football. He didn't typically waste his time with seventeen-year-old academy players, no matter how promising they might be.
Unless they were about to become something special.
But Karim had gone viral. And in the modern football landscape, viral was everything.
It had started with that goal back in March. England U18s versus Spain U18s at St. George's Park, one of those youth internationals that usually attracted about as much attention as a rainy Tuesday in Grimsby. Karim had been with England for about six months at that point – just long enough to qualify under residency rules and start receiving call-ups to youth squads.
He'd been a wildcard pick for that particular squad. Most of the other players had been with England age groups for years, progressing through the system like products on a conveyor belt.
But Karim was different – a Spanish kid raised in London, the son of Moroccan immigrants who'd found their way to Arsenal through a combination of talent, luck, and sheer bloody-minded determination.
Some people had even questioned his inclusion in the squad. "Why are we picking a Spanish kid to play against Spain?" one journalist had asked during the pre-match press conference, as if representing your adopted country was some sort of betrayal rather than the natural order of things in modern football.
But then, in the seventy-sixth minute, with the game locked at 1-1 and both teams looking tired, something magical had happened.
It started with a long switch from the England right-back, a hopeful ball played more in frustration than genuine tactical intent.
Most strikers would have taken a touch to control it, maybe looked for a simple lay-off to keep possession ticking over. Basic, sensible football.
Karim had done something else entirely.
One touch to kill the ball dead, the leather settling against his foot like it belonged there. Another touch to flick it up into the air, his body already twisting, already calculating angles and trajectories that existed only in his imagination. And then, with the ball hanging in the air like a prayer waiting to be answered, he'd struck it.
The overhead kick was perfect. Absolutely, impossibly perfect. The kind of technique that coaches spend years trying to teach, executed by instinct and muscle memory and something deeper that couldn't be coached.
The ball arrowed toward the top corner, kissing the underside of the crossbar with just enough force to send it spinning into the net, the goalkeeper left grasping at empty air.
For a moment, the entire stadium had fallen silent. Even the Spanish players had stopped to stare, their protests dying on their lips as they processed what they'd just witnessed. Then the noise had erupted – teammates mobbing him, coaches jumping from the bench, the handful of England supporters in the stands losing their collective minds.
But the real explosion had happened online.
Clips of the goal hit Twitter within minutes, uploaded by anyone with a phone and a wifi connection. The video quality was terrible – shaky phone footage from the stands – but the goal was unmistakable. "Who is this kid?" became a trending topic in both the UK and Spain within hours. Football Twitter, that strange ecosystem of tactics nerds and highlight merchants, went absolutely mental.
Then came the TikTok edits. Oh God, the TikTok edits. Drill music soundtracks, flashing text comparing him to Ronaldo Nazário, slow-motion replays set to classical music like he was starring in his own personal movie.
His Instagram followers jumped from three thousand to three hundred thousand overnight. Suddenly, everyone wanted to know about Karim Ramirez.
That's when Mendes had called.
"I saw your goal," the Portuguese had said in that distinctly unimpressed way successful people had of delivering what should have been exciting news. "We should meet."
Since then, everything had been moving at light speed. Interviews with football magazines. Training sessions with Arsenal's first team where Odegaard had joked about teaching him some new skills.
Whispers of interest from clubs across Europe. Arteta watching him more closely during academy matches, sometimes pulling him aside for individual chats about his development.
And now, Marseille.
Karim walked across the apartment and leaned against the sliding glass doors, pressing his forehead against the cool surface. The view was undeniably beautiful – rooftops packed tightly together in that distinctly Mediterranean way, pale beige and ochre buildings that seemed to glow in the late summer sunlight. The Old Port stretched out in the distance, a maze of boats and restaurants and life that hummed with energy even from this high up.
It was beautiful. But it wasn't home.
Home was East London. Home was the smell of his mother's tagine drifting from the kitchen while he did homework at the dining table. Home was the sound of his father watching El Clásico on Sunday afternoons, shouting at the television in a mixture of Arabic, Spanish, and heavily accented English. Home was the 67 bus to Stratford station, then the Central line to Arsenal, the familiar routine of youth team training and dreams that felt close enough to touch.
This was just… elsewhere. A place where he didn't belong, surrounded by a language he barely spoke and customs he didn't understand.
Karim opened the sliding door and stepped out onto the balcony, letting the Mediterranean breeze catch his shirt and ruffle his hair. The air tasted different here – saltier, warmer, tinged with something he couldn't quite identify. Herbs, maybe. Or just the accumulated scent of centuries of stories playing out in narrow streets and sun-baked squares.
For a moment, he let himself imagine what people might be saying about him online right now. The transfer had been confirmed three hours ago, which meant football Twitter was probably in full dissection mode.
"€15M for a 17-year-old? Absolute madness."
"Bro's got one viral goal and thinks he's the next Benzema lol."
"Lowkey a proper baller though, not gonna lie. Good move for him."
"Smart kid. Getting out of Arsenal while he still can. They don't develop youth anymore."
"Another Arsenal talent wasted. Tale as old as time."
The comments would be predictable, he knew. Half of them calling him overrated, the other half insisting he was the next big thing.
All of them delivered with the casual cruelty that the internet had perfected, strangers passing judgment on his life choices from behind usernames and anime avatars.
He told himself he didn't care what they thought. Not really. But it messed with his head sometimes, all that attention, all that pressure. Growing up online meant growing up in public, every mistake and triumph dissected by people who'd never kicked a ball in anger but had very strong opinions about how professional football should work.
The pressure was even worse when it came to the national team situation.
Born in Málaga to Moroccan parents, raised in London, educated in English football. Three countries, three different dreams, three different versions of who he could become.
Spain had given him life. Morocco had given him heritage. England had given him opportunity.
And now, all three wanted him.
The England youth coaches had been first, obviously. He'd been in their system for six months, scored that goal wearing their shirt, celebrated with their badge on his chest. They saw him as the future of their attack, a player who could bring something different to their typically direct style.
But Spain had called too. Luis de la Fuente himself had phoned two weeks after the viral goal, speaking in rapid Andalusian Spanish that reminded Karim of his grandmother's voice. "You have Spanish blood," the national team coach had said. "You understand our football in your bones. Come home, mijo."
And Morocco… Morocco felt like destiny calling. His parents had arrived in Spain in the 1990s with nothing but hope and determination, working impossible hours to build a life for their children. His father still sent money back to family in Tangier. His mother still cooked Moroccan food every Friday, filling their London flat with the scents of her childhood.
Hakimi played for Morocco. Ziyech too. Bono, the goalkeeper who'd become a hero at the World Cup. There was something poetic about the idea of representing the country his parents had sacrificed everything to leave, bringing their dreams full circle.
His uncle Youssef had sent him a message after the England goal, a voice note recorded in Arabic with English subtitles that had made Karim's chest tight with emotion: "It's okay if you play for them now, habibi. But come home eventually. Your grandfather is watching from paradise, and he wants to see you in green."
The memory made him smile despite everything. That warmth, that unconditional love, that sense of belonging that had nothing to do with passports or paperwork and everything to do with family and faith and the stories that shaped you.
But there was no decision to make today. Today wasn't about countries or internet comments or the weight of expectations. Today was about him – a seventeen-year-old kid standing on a balcony in Marseille, trying to convince himself he'd made the right choice.
He stepped back inside and walked over to the mattress, still wrapped in plastic like everything else in his life right now. The apartment felt different with the balcony door open, less sterile somehow. The sounds of the city drifted in – car horns and conversation, the distant rumble of the Metro, life happening in a language he barely understood but somehow found comforting.
Karim sat down on the wrapped mattress and pulled out his phone again, scrolling through his camera roll instead of social media this time. The photos told the story of his Arsenal years better than any highlight reel ever could.
There was one of him and Bukayo after training, both of them muddy and exhausted but grinning like idiots. Saka had his arm around Karim's shoulders, and there was something in the English winger's expression that looked almost protective, like an older brother watching out for family.
Another showed him scoring against Chelsea's U21s, his arms raised in celebration while blue shirts stood around looking defeated. He remembered that goal – a clever turn and finish inside the box that had made him feel, for about ten seconds, like he was ready for first-team football.
Then there was the one of Mikel Arteta giving him a high-five after his goal in the Emirates Cup, the manager's face lit up with genuine excitement. "That's what we want to see," Arteta had said afterwards. "That confidence, that belief. Keep showing me that."
But it was the last photo that stopped him scrolling. A selfie from two months ago, his arm around Kai Havertz's shoulders just after the German had signed. Both of them were smiling at the camera, but Karim's expression looked forced now, painted on like stage makeup.
He stared at it for a long moment, processing emotions he hadn't wanted to acknowledge at the time.
Kai didn't even know he'd been the reason Karim had left. It wasn't personal – in fact, the German had been nothing but kind during their brief interactions. Professional, encouraging, the sort of teammate who remembered your name and asked about your family. But his arrival had shifted everything, tilted the entire academy-to-first-team pathway in a direction that no longer included Karim Ramirez.
The mathematics were simple and brutal. Arsenal had bought Havertz for £65 million. They'd invested in Jesus for £45 million. Nketiah was homegrown, understood the system, had already proven he could score Premier League goals. Where did that leave a seventeen-year-old with potential but no track record?
Exactly where he was now. On a balcony in Marseille, surrounded by boxes and broken dreams.
A sharp knock at the door interrupted his brooding. Karim stood, checked his reflection quickly in the dark phone screen – his hair was a mess, his Arsenal training top was wrinkled from travel, but he looked presentable enough – and walked over to answer it.
It was Claude, one of the Marseille staff members who'd picked him up from the airport. A pleasant man in his fifties with the sort of calm demeanor that probably came from years of managing young footballers and their complicated emotions.
"Karim! Bienvenue encore," Claude said, his English heavily accented but warm. "I hope you are settling in okay? I brought you some essentials to get started."
He handed over a canvas bag that smelled faintly of fresh bread and coffee. Inside, Karim found practical things – a baguette that was still warm, some fruit, bottled water, basic toiletries, and what looked like restaurant menus with English translations paperclipped to the front.
"The wifi code is on this card," Claude continued, producing a small piece of paper.
"And here is your team handbook – training schedules, facility information, all the important details. Coach Roberto says not to worry about tomorrow, training will be light. Just getting to know your teammates, some basic fitness work. The real preparation starts next week."
At the bottom of the bag was an Olympique Marseille hoodie, still with the tags attached. White and sky blue, the club crest embroidered over the heart in thread that caught the light.
Karim held it up, studying the colors that would define his immediate future. Not Arsenal red anymore. Not the cannon badge that had meant everything to him. Just OM, simple and stark and undeniably foreign.
"Merci beaucoup," he managed in his terrible French, making Claude smile.
"Your French will improve quickly," the older man said kindly. "Most of the players speak English anyway. Football is a universal language, non? You will find your place here, I am certain."
After Claude left, Karim sat back down on the mattress and pulled the hoodie on over his Arsenal training top. The fabric was soft, expensive-feeling, but it sat strangely on his shoulders like it belonged to someone else. The club crest felt heavy against his chest, weighted with expectations he wasn't sure he could meet.
He looked out the window again, watching the sun begin its descent toward the
Mediterranean horizon. Marseille was starting to come alive for the evening – lights flickering on in apartment windows, restaurants setting up their outdoor seating, the city preparing for another night of stories and dreams and disappointments.
Tomorrow, the hard work would begin again. New teammates to impress, new coaches to convince, new systems to learn. A new language, a new culture, a new version of himself to discover.
Part of him – a larger part than he wanted to admit – was terrified. What if he wasn't good enough? What if that viral goal had been a fluke, a moment of magic that couldn't be repeated when it mattered? What if he was just another overhyped academy player destined to drift through mediocre clubs until his potential became a punchline?
But another part of him, the part that had scored that overhead kick against Spain, the part that had made Jorge Mendes believe he was worth representing, felt something else stirring.
Excitement, maybe. Or determination. Or just the simple, stubborn refusal to let his story end with failure.
Karim Ramirez wasn't at Arsenal anymore. The dream he'd carried since he was eight years old was officially over, filed away in the "what might have been" section of his personal history.
But he hadn't left his ambition behind. If anything, it burned brighter now, fueled by disappointment and the desperate need to prove everyone wrong.
He stood up, walked to the balcony doors, and looked out at his new city one more time. Marseille stretched out before him like a challenge, all possibility and uncertainty and second chances.
Somewhere out there, in a stadium that held sixty thousand people and had witnessed decades of dreams come true, his future was waiting.
He just had to be brave enough to claim it.
His phone buzzed, breaking the moment. Probably another message from his mum asking if he'd eaten, or maybe Bukayo checking in from London. But when he pulled it out, the screen showed something he'd never seen before.
A weird red text bubble had appeared, pulsing slightly like it was alive. It looked wrong somehow – too bright, too aggressive, like some sort of virus notification that had slipped past his phone's security. The text inside was simple but unsettling:
"If you could have one striker's best attribute, what would you pick?"
"What the hell?" Karim muttered, immediately reaching for the small X in the corner to close it. But his finger seemed to pass right through it, like the button wasn't really there. He tried again, pressing harder, but nothing happened. The red bubble just sat there, pulsing expectantly.
"Ugh, whatever," he sighed, assuming it was some weird football app glitch or targeted advertising gone wrong. He'd probably clicked on something dodgy earlier, and now his phone was paying the price. He tried swiping up to close the app entirely, but the notification stayed put, now displaying new text:
"Type in your answer."
A keyboard had appeared at the bottom of his screen, the letters glowing the same unsettling red as the bubble.
Karim stared at it for a moment, considering whether to just turn his phone off and deal with whatever virus this was later.
But something about the question nagged at him. It was such a football-mad thing to ask, the kind of hypothetical that him and his mates used to debate for hours in the academy changing rooms.
If he could have any striker's best attribute…
His mind immediately went to Thierry Henry. Of course it did. Henry had been his idol since childhood, the player who'd made him fall in love with Arsenal in the first place. That pace – the way he could drift wide, collect the ball in space, and then just… explode. Zero to sixty in heartbeats, leaving defenders scrambling and goalkeepers helpless.
Karim had always been quick, but Henry's pace was something else entirely.
It wasn't just physical speed – though he had that in abundance – it was the acceleration, the change of tempo that caught defenses off guard. The way he could go from casual to devastating in the space of a single touch.
"Henry's pace," he typed quickly, just wanting to get rid of the stupid notification so he could get back to unpacking his life.
The moment he hit send, the red bubble disappeared.
Strange.
Karim woke to the sound of his phone buzzing against the marble nightstand like an angry wasp. The morning light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows was different here – sharper, more golden than the grey London dawn he was used to.
For a confused moment, he couldn't remember where he was. The ceiling was too high, the walls too white, the silence too complete.
Then it all came rushing back. Marseille. The loan. The empty apartment that still smelled faintly of fresh paint and broken dreams.
He reached for his phone, squinting at the screen. Three messages from his Arsenal mates, all sent within the last hour as London was properly waking up.
Bukayo - 7:23 AM
Bro how's France treating you? Bet you're already charming all the locals with your terrible French 😂
Ethan - 7:31 AM
Marseille better treat you right or we're coming over there. Missing your runs in training already man
Myles - 7:45 AM
Still can't believe you actually left. Thought you were bluffing tbh. Don't become too French on us yeah?
Despite everything, Karim found himself smiling. These boys had been his brothers for the last four years, sharing the highs and lows of academy life, the constant pressure to prove themselves worthy of the first team.
They understood what it meant to carry Arsenal dreams from the time you could barely tie your own boots.
He was about to reply when his phone started ringing. Mum. Her contact photo filled the screen – a selfie they'd taken at his England debut, both of them beaming like they'd won the lottery.
"Karim, habibi," her voice was warm but tinged with that particular worry only mothers could master. "How are you, my love? Did you sleep okay? Have you eaten anything?"
He could picture her perfectly – probably still in her dressing gown, standing in their tiny kitchen in Stratford, already worrying about her only son thousands of miles away.
"I'm fine, Mama," he said, switching to Arabic without thinking. It always happened when he was tired or emotional, his brain defaulting to the language of home and comfort. "I slept okay. The apartment is… big."
"Big is good. You need space to think, to grow." There was a pause, and he could hear the familiar sounds of East London morning through the phone – buses rumbling past, neighbors arguing, life happening in all its chaotic glory. "Your father says to tell you he's proud. We both are. But if you're not happy there, if it doesn't feel right…"
"Mama, please." He sat up properly now, his feet touching the cold floor. "Don't worry about me. I'm seventeen, not seven. I can handle this."
"You'll always be seven to me," she said softly, and he could hear the smile in her voice. "Promise me you'll eat properly. None of that processed nonsense. Find a good Moroccan restaurant, get some real food in you."
"I promise."
"And call your uncle Youssef. He has friends in Marseille, people who can help if you need anything. Family looks after family, you understand?"
"I understand."
After they hung up, Karim lay back down for a moment, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling. His mother's voice had made him homesick in a way that caught him off guard. Not just for London, but for the particular brand of chaos that came with being part of a family that had built their life brick by brick in a foreign country.
His parents had sacrificed everything for him and his sister to have opportunities they'd never dreamed of. His father still worked sixteen-hour days in construction, his hands permanently stained with cement and determination. His mother cleaned offices in Canary Wharf, leaving before dawn and returning after dark, all so Karim could chase a dream that had seemed impossible when they'd first arrived from Morocco.
Now here he was, living in an apartment that probably cost more per month than his parents made in six, playing for one of the biggest clubs in France. He should feel grateful. He should feel accomplished.
Instead, he just felt far from home.
He picked up his phone and started typing replies to his mates:
To Bukayo: French is coming along brilliantly mate. Already ordering coffee like a local (aka pointing and hoping for the best)
To Ethan: Miss you too bro. Try not to let Arteta forget about the academy while I'm gone
To Myles: Too late, already got a beret and everything 🇫🇷 But seriously, this is just the beginning
The messages felt lighter than he felt, but that was part of the game. Keep the mood up, project confidence, never let them see you sweat. Even with your best mates, especially with your best mates, you had to maintain the illusion that you had everything under control.
His first training session was in three hours. Time to see if he belonged here, or if yesterday's confidence had been nothing more than Mediterranean sunset optimism.
…
Gennaro Gattuso sat behind his mahogany desk at the Olympique Marseille training complex, fingers drumming against the polished surface with barely contained energy. The Italian's office was exactly what you'd expect from a man who'd made his reputation as one of football's most passionate warriors – framed photos of his playing days with Milan, tactical boards covered in scribbled formations, and a collection of medals that caught the morning light streaming through the windows.
But today, none of that mattered. Today was about the future.
Gattuso was buzzing with an excitement he hadn't felt since his early days in management. This wasn't just another signing rubber-stamped by the sporting director or handed down from the boardroom. This was his signing. Karim Ramirez was a player he'd personally identified, personally pursued, personally convinced the club to spend fifteen million euros on.
And Christ, the boy was special.
Gattuso had watched nearly every piece of available footage on Ramirez – youth games, training sessions, even grainy phone videos from local tournaments. What he'd seen had made his tactical mind race with possibilities.
A striker who was technically gifted at that height was becoming increasingly rare in modern football. Everyone wanted to be a winger nowadays, cutting inside and looking for highlight-reel moments. But a proper number nine, a player who could hold the ball up, bring others into play, and still finish with either foot? That was gold dust.
The overhead kick against Spain had been spectacular, obviously. The kind of goal that went viral and got agents calling. But it was the other stuff that had caught Gattuso's attention – the way Ramirez peeled off the shoulder of the last defender, his first touch under pressure, the intelligence of his movement in the box. The boy had it, that indefinable quality that separated good players from great ones.
A sharp knock on his office door interrupted his thoughts.
"Avanti!" he called out, the Italian slipping out before he could catch himself.
The door opened to reveal Marie, the club's ever-efficient secretary, accompanied by the very kid he'd been waiting weeks to meet. Gattuso felt his pulse quicken as he got his first proper look at his newest signing.
Karim Ramirez stood in the doorway like he belonged there, which was interesting in itself.
He was on the skinnier side, all teenage angles and potential rather than the finished article, wearing simple jeans and a plain white t-shirt that somehow looked expensive. Light-skinned with tightly curled hair, the tips bleached blonde in that way young footballers seemed to favor these days. If you saw him walking down the Canebière, you'd probably assume he was a model or an influencer, not the striker who was supposed to lead Marseille's attack.
But Gattuso had learned long ago not to judge players by their appearance. What mattered was what lay underneath, and as he studied the teenager's face, he saw exactly what he'd been hoping for.
Confidence. Real confidence, not the fake bravado that some young players wore like armor. It was there in the way Karim held himself, in the slight tilt of his chin, in eyes that met Gattuso's directly without flinching.
There was ego there too – the kind of healthy self-belief that every great striker needed. You couldn't score goals if you didn't believe, absolutely and completely, that you belonged on the biggest stages.
"Nice to meet you, Coach," Karim said in heavily accented French, offering a tight-lipped smile that somehow managed to be both respectful and self-assured.
Gattuso grinned, immediately switching to English. The boy's French was clearly a work in progress, and there were more important things to discuss than language lessons.
"The pleasure is all mine, Karim. Please, take a seat." He gestured to the leather chair across from his desk. "Thank you, Marie, for accompanying him. You may leave us."
The French woman nodded and retreated, closing the door behind her with a soft click that seemed to seal the moment. Now it was just the two of them – the veteran Italian manager who'd won everything there was to win, and the seventeen-year-old striker who was supposed to be the future of Olympique Marseille.