Two days later, Ferdinand came.
His car pulled up in front of Malik's house just after noon. Malik was already outside, backpack at his feet, trying to act calm even though his heart was racing. This wasn't like going to school or training. This felt like stepping into a different life.
"Ready?" Ferdinand asked with a small smile.
Malik nodded. "I think so."
The journey to the camp was quiet. The city slowly faded behind them, replaced by long roads, open fields, and finally a large complex with multiple pitches, hostels, and a big hall in the middle. Everything looked… serious. Professional. Like the kind of place you only saw on TV.
As soon as Malik stepped out of the car, he felt it.
Eyes on him.
Men stood in groups, talking football, laughing, stretching, carrying clipboards and cones. They weren't boys his age. They were grown men, most of them in their thirties, some even older. Coaches. Trainers. Former players. People who had lived inside football for years.
The talking slowed a little as he walked past.
Some stared openly.
Some whispered.
Some frowned.
"That's the kid?"
"He's the one Ferdinand brought?"
"He's too young."
"What can he possibly know?"
A few looks carried something sharp in them jealousy, maybe. Like they didn't like the idea that someone so young was even given a chance to be here.
One man scoffed quietly. "He won't fit in."
Another shook his head. "This place will eat him alive."
Malik heard it all, and each word made his chest tighten.
But then, not everyone was like that.
A tall coach with tired eyes gave him a nod. "Welcome, young man."
Another smiled and said, "Don't let them scare you. Football doesn't ask your age before it teaches you."
Some were simply neutral, watching him the way you watch a new player in training, waiting to see if he was real or just noise.
And then he saw them.
Retired footballers.
Men whose names he had heard growing up. Some had once been stars, some had been solid, hardworking players. Faces he recognized from old match clips, posters in sports shops, stories older coaches used to tell.
Now they were here, in tracksuits, joking, stretching, discussing tactics.
They were no longer on TV.
They were standing ten meters away from him.
For a moment, Malik felt like a small boy again.
I don't belong here, a voice whispered in his head.
Everyone here has lived football longer than I've been alive.
What if I really don't fit in?
He was the youngest by far. No one his age. No one close. Just him among grown men and heavy experience.
Ferdinand noticed his silence. "Feeling overwhelmed?" he asked.
Malik nodded slightly.
"That's normal," Ferdinand said. "But remember why you're here. You didn't come because of your age. You came because of your mind."
Malik took a deep breath and looked around again.
Yes, some were jealous.
Yes, some doubted him.
Yes, some were waiting for him to fail.
But some were willing to guide him.
Some respected what he had done.
Some were curious about what he could become.
And standing there, with the noise of the camp around him and the weight of expectation on his shoulders, Malik made a quiet decision.
I won't shrink here.
I won't hide.
I will learn from everyone I can, and I will prove that I deserve to be here.
He might be the youngest.
He might be the smallest voice in the room.
But he would not leave this place the same boy who entered it.
He would make it out of here.