CHAPTER 66 — WHEN DISTANCES SHRINK
By February, the league table had stopped being polite.
Marseille were still there—still visible, still relevant—but the cushion was gone. Every match preview now uses the same phrases: pressure, response, character. They were words that pretended to be strong while avoiding specifics. Inside the club, specifics were unavoidable.
Minutes. Bodies. Recovery windows.
And time.
The first team's training sessions grew shorter and sharper, less focused on interns and more on value. Coaches rotated drills to manage load. Players trained in groups, then smaller groups, then sometimes alone. Names appeared on the injury list, disappeared, then reappeared with new annotations.
Below them, the reserves kept playing.
---
The reserve match that weekend was scheduled early, frost still clinging to the grass when the teams lined up. Breath steamed in the cold. Boots thudded louder than usual on the hardened pitch.
From the opening whistle, it was clear this would be a tight game.
The opposition pressed aggressively, refusing to allow easy buildup. Marseille's reserves struggled to find rhythm, forced sideways, then backwards. The midfield became congested, passing lanes closing quickly.
Kweku adapted.
He drifted laterally, offering angles rather than demanding the ball. When he received it, he didn't linger. One touch, sometimes two, then release. He wasn't the centre of everything—but he was present in almost everything.
Midway through the first half, Marseille won a free kick just inside the opposition half. The defenders set their line. The goalkeeper shouted instructions. Everyone expected a long delivery.
Kweku stepped up quietly.
He didn't shoot.
He rolled the ball five meters sideways, catching the defence mid-adjustment, and slipped a pass between two midfielders into space. The run came late. The finish was clean.
Goal.
No roar. Just a collective exhale.
From the sideline, several staff members leaned forward at once.
---
The match finished 1–0.
It wasn't beautiful. It was controlled. The kind of win that meant more to coaches than supporters. When the whistle blew, Kweku jogged toward the bench, legs heavy, lungs burning in the cold air.
He noticed them then.
Two first-team assistants stood near the technical area, hands in pockets, speaking quietly. One nodded as Kweku passed. Nothing obvious. Nothing dramatic.
But it lingered.
In the dressing room afterwards, the mood was calm and satisfied. Teammates joked lightly, boots clattering against the floor. Someone mentioned the cold, someone else complained about the pitch.
Louis nudged Kweku. "You're moving like you own the place now."
Kweku shrugged. "Just playing."
Louis smirked. "Yeah. That's the problem bro, Madrid might take you away before we realise."
---
That night, the first team drew again.
A late equaliser rescued a point, but the performance was uneven. Fatigue showed in missed passes, in delayed reactions. Post-match interviews circled familiar ground.
In the coaches' room, the mood was heavier.
"We can't keep stretching the same group," the head coach said, rubbing his temples. "They're empty by sixty minutes."
"We've stabilised defensively," an assistant replied. "But creativity—"
"We know," the coach cut in.
There was a pause.
Then the sporting director spoke. "The reserves are doing well."
No one disagreed.
---
The message came the next morning.
Kweku Mensah — report to Pitch Two at 14:30. Training attire. No media.
It wasn't signed.
Kweku read it twice.
He didn't celebrate. He didn't tell anyone immediately. He folded the note carefully and slipped it into his pocket, heart steady but alert.
At school, Camille noticed something was different.
"You're quieter," she said as they packed up after class.
"Just tired," Kweku replied.
She studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Good tired or bad tired?"
He smiled faintly. "I don't know yet."
"Oh my God, the football robot smiled", Camille said in exaggerated surprise.
"What do you mean by that, I'm very expressive", Kweku said with a deadpan look which only solicited more laughter from his friend.
---
Pitch Two sat between worlds, close enough to hear the first team's drills. Far enough to remain separate. When Kweku arrived, only a handful of players were there—mostly older academy prospects, a few faces he recognised from the bench during first team matches.
The assistant coach greeted them briefly.
"Light session. Observe, adapt, don't overthink."
Kweku listened.
The pace was different immediately. Quicker decisions. Firmer passes. Less tolerance for hesitation. When he received the ball, pressure arrived instantly, forcing him to play cleaner, smarter.
He did.
Not perfectly. He misplaced one pass early, earning a sharp look. He adjusted. Simplified again. Found angles. Kept moving.
By the end of the session, sweat soaked through his layers despite the cold.
No praise came.
No criticism either.
The first team environment was different, you were expected to always be at the top of your game.
---
The next reserve match came quickly.
This one was away, on a narrow pitch surrounded by fencing and sparse stands. Wind whipped across the field, making long passes unpredictable. The opposition played directly, challenging every second ball.
Kweku struggled early.
Not badly—but noticeably. Touches were heavier. Decisions are slightly slower. He wasn't out of form; he was adjusting, balancing two tempos in his head.
At halftime, the coach pulled him aside.
"Stop thinking about upstairs," he said quietly. "This is still your job."
Kweku nodded.
The second half was better.
He regained control, dictating play again, slowing the match when it needed calm, speeding it up when space appeared. He didn't score. He didn't assist.
But Marseille won.
Again.
---
After the match, two coaches spoke near the tunnel.
"He doesn't disappear," one said.
"No," the other agreed. "Even when it's messy."
"He needs strength."
"He'll get it."
A pause.
"Do we bring him again?"
"Not yet," came the reply. "But keep him close."
---
That evening, Kweku called his mother.
"How are things?" she asked.
"Busy," he said.
She laughed softly. "Did you expect to have free time when you said you wanted to be a player?"
He chuckled. " I guess not, anyway maa they asked me to train… higher."
There was silence on the line.
Then: "Are you scared?"
Kweku thought about it. "A little."
"Good," she said. "That means you care, it also means you have a lot to prove, so show them what it is like over here."
He smiled, eyes closing briefly.
---
By the end of the week, the line between reserve and first team felt thinner.
Not crossed.
But closer.
Kweku walked the same corridors now. Ate in similar spaces. Heard the same frustrations whispered under breath. The crisis above him didn't feel abstract anymore—it felt near.
Opportunity didn't knock.
It hovered.
And Kweku kept doing the only thing he knew how to do.
Be ready.
---