Belonging, however, didn't mean acceptance.
As the days passed, the looks became longer, the silence heavier, and the comments less hidden.
"You're very brave to speak so much for someone so young," one man said with a half-smile that wasn't really a smile.
"Books don't teach pressure," another added, shaking his head.
"Let's hear from someone who's actually coached men," someone else muttered, and a few low laughs followed.
Sometimes they said it like jokes.
Sometimes they didn't bother to hide the edge in their voices.
Malik tried to ignore it, but words have weight. And when you hear them often enough, they start to sit on your chest. He began to second-guess himself. He still listened carefully, still took notes, but his hand didn't rise as quickly anymore.
One afternoon, during a practical session on defensive shape, the group was working on stopping vertical passes between the fullback and center-back. Malik watched the movement, saw the gap opening again and again, and finally spoke.
"The line is too flat," he said quietly. "If the fullback steps late, the half-space opens. We should stagger the back four and tighten the channel."
A coach waved him off without even looking.
"Focus on learning first, kid."
The word kid stung. Malik felt his throat tighten. He was about to step back, to let the moment pass like he usually did.
Then a calm, firm voice cut through the air.
"Listen to him."
Everyone turned.
Coach Ade had stepped forward. He was tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of man whose presence alone made people straighten up. There was no anger in his face, but there was authority, the kind that comes from years of standing in dressing rooms and on touchlines.
"He's right," Ade continued. "The space between the fullback and center-back is too open. You're inviting a vertical pass and a third-man run. That's how you get broken."
The room went quiet.
No one laughed.
No one argued.
Ade turned to Malik and looked him in the eyes. "Never stop speaking when you see something. Football rewards courage, not silence."
Something in Malik's chest loosened.
From that day on, Ade stayed close. Not in an obvious way, not like a bodyguard, but like someone who made sure Malik was never left alone in the storm. He explained things when Malik was confused, pushed him when he became too cautious, and spoke up when others tried to shrink him.
When someone dismissed his ideas, Ade would say, "Answer the point, not the age."
When Malik doubted himself, Ade would say, "Your mind is sharp. Trust it."
One evening, after a long session, they sat quietly on the bench watching the sun drop behind the training pitches.
"You remind me of myself," Ade said softly. "Except I had no one to stand up for me back then."
Malik looked at him, surprised.
Ade smiled. "So now I'll be that person for you."
And in that moment, Malik understood that he hadn't just found a mentor.
He had found a protector.
A guide.
A coaching father.