The coaching course began the very next morning, and it felt like Malik had walked into a different world entirely.
The lecture hall was wide and bright, with a large screen at the front and long desks arranged in rows. On the walls hung tactical boards filled with magnets, arrows, and faded diagrams from previous sessions. The air smelled of coffee, marker ink, and freshly cut grass from the nearby pitches. It was the kind of place where serious football conversations lived.
Malik took a seat near the back, his notebook resting on his lap. Around him were men who had coached for years, some who had played professionally, others who had managed local clubs and academies. Their voices were deep, confident, and full of experience. They spoke about football like surgeons spoke about the human body.
The instructor introduced the course structure. Everything was aligned with UEFA standards. Game models, phases of play, pressing systems, transition moments, rest defense, positional play. No shortcuts. No special treatment because Malik was young.
At first, he just listened.
When clips were played, he watched carefully. When questions were asked, he thought deeply. He often knew the answers, but doubt held his hand down. He didn't want to sound foolish. He didn't want to remind them he was the youngest in the room.
Then a video froze on the screen. A team was trapped in a compact mid-block.
"How do you break this without forcing hopeful crosses?" the instructor asked.
Silence.
Malik felt his chest tighten. He raised his hand.
"Through third-man runs and half-space occupation," he said. "You draw out the holding midfielder, then play behind him. The key is timing, not speed."
The instructor studied him for a moment, then smiled. "Excellent. That's exactly it."
A quiet ripple went through the room. Some looked surprised. Some looked thoughtful. A few looked annoyed.
Malik wrote in his notebook, but inside, something had shifted. For the first time, he felt he truly belonged in the room.