Saturday morning arrived with clear skies and a gentle breeze carrying the scent of the Mediterranean. Ethan woke at 6 AM, too excited to sleep any longer. Today he would train with Kylian Mbappé—one-on-one.
His mother was already awake, preparing breakfast. "You're nervous," she observed, setting down a plate of eggs and toast.
"A little," Ethan admitted. "He's... he's Mbappé. Everyone says he's going to be one of the best in the world."
Aminata sat across from him, her expression gentle but firm. "And you're Ethan Loki. Don't forget that. He might be older, more experienced, but you have your own gifts. Your own vision. Be yourself."
Ethan nodded, though his heart still raced with anticipation.
Philippe had arranged for them to meet at 7:30 AM on one of the smaller training pitches—private, away from the main academy sessions. When Ethan arrived with his father, Mbappé was already there, juggling a ball effortlessly while waiting.
"Morning!" Mbappé called out, catching the ball. He wore a simple black training kit, no logos, no sponsors. Just a player and his craft.
"Good morning," Ethan replied, suddenly feeling very small next to the twelve-year-old.
Mbappé walked over and dapped up Moussa. "You must be Ethan's father. Philippe told me you played in Ivory Coast?"
"Amateur level," Moussa said modestly. "Nothing compared to what you're doing."
"Football is football. Respect to anyone who plays." Mbappé turned to Ethan. "Your dad staying?"
"If that's okay," Ethan said.
"Of course. He can watch us work." Mbappé dropped the ball at his feet. "So, Philippe told me you see plays before they happen. Like, you can predict what's going to develop. I want to understand how that works. Maybe we can learn from each other."
They started with simple passing drills, but even those revealed the gulf in experience. Mbappé's first touch was immaculate. His passing was weighted perfectly. His movement off the ball was instinctive, always creating angles.
But Ethan held his own. His technique was cleaner than expected for an eleven-year-old. His vision allowed him to find spaces Mbappé created before they fully opened.
"Good," Mbappé said after ten minutes. "Really good. Your touch is elite for your age. Now let's try something harder."
He set up a cone course—tight spaces, quick turns, technical dribbling required. "Race me through. Winner gets to choose the next drill."
Ethan went first, navigating the cones with a combination of quick feet and tactical efficiency. His time: 8.2 seconds.
Not bad.
Mbappé went next, and the difference was immediately apparent. Where Ethan had been precise, Mbappé was explosive. Where Ethan had been calculated, Mbappé was electric. His pace was frightening, his touches somehow both fast and controlled.
His time: 6.8 seconds.
"Speed," Mbappé said, not gloating, just stating fact. "That's my main weapon. I see the space, and I get there before defenders can react. But you..." He pointed at Ethan. "You see the space before it exists. That's different. That's special."
"How do I get faster?" Ethan asked.
"You will. Your body is still developing. But in the meantime, use what you have—your brain. Show me."
They moved to a small-sided game—one versus one, with Moussa playing goalkeeper. Mbappé would attack, Ethan would defend, then they'd switch.
When Mbappé attacked, it was a masterclass. He used feints, shoulder drops, sudden accelerations. Ethan managed to stop him three times out of ten attempts, which Mbappé admitted was "actually really impressive for your size."
Then it was Ethan's turn to attack.
He received the ball at the halfway line. Mbappé closed him down quickly, not giving him time or space. This was different from training with the U-11s. This was a player who understood defensive positioning, who could read body language, who anticipated moves.
Ethan took a touch forward, then stopped completely. The sudden halt caught Mbappé off-balance, his momentum carrying him slightly past. Ethan dragged the ball left with the sole of his boot—a Lavinho move—and accelerated into the gap.
Mbappé recovered quickly, but Ethan had already calculated the next three moves. He saw Mbappé's recovery run. Saw his father starting to advance from goal. Saw the angle to the far post.
He struck with his right foot—his weaker foot—placing it precisely inside the far post. The ball kissed the side netting.
Goal.
Mbappé stood there for a moment, hands on hips, then laughed. "Okay, that was cold. You actually saw all of that?"
"I saw you recovering, saw Papa moving, saw the space," Ethan explained.
"That's insane. Most players our age—even my age—don't think that fast." Mbappé retrieved the ball. "Again. I want to see if you can do it consistently."
They played for another hour. Ethan scored five more times out of ten attempts. Not a great success rate, but Mbappé was genuinely impressed.
"You're going to be scary good in a few years," he said, breathing hard. "When your body catches up to your mind? Putain, defenders won't know what hit them."
They took a water break, sitting on the grass while Moussa fetched drinks from the cooler.
"Can I ask you something?" Ethan said.
"Go ahead."
"How do you handle the pressure? Everyone says you're going to be one of the best in the world. Doesn't that... scare you?"
Mbappé took a long drink before answering. "Sometimes. But I learned something important—you know Cristiano Ronaldo, right?"
Ethan nodded.
"He said something that stuck with me: 'Talent without work is nothing.' I'm fast, yeah. I have good technique, sure. But there are lots of fast, technical players who never make it. The difference is obsession. Dedication. When everyone else is resting, I'm training. When everyone else is satisfied, I'm hungry for more." Mbappé looked at Ethan seriously. "You have a gift. A real one. But gifts fade if you don't sharpen them every single day."
"I will," Ethan promised.
"I know. I can see it in your eyes. You've got that hunger." Mbappé smiled. "We're going to do something special here, you and me. I can feel it."
"What do you mean?"
"Monaco gives opportunities. They let young players shine. In a few years, we could be playing together in the first team. Two young French strikers, terrorizing Ligue 1." Mbappé's eyes lit up with the vision. "They'll call us... I don't know... something cool."
"The Princes," Ethan said suddenly. "We'd be the Princes of Monaco."
Mbappé's face broke into a huge grin. "The Princes. I like that. Yeah. That's perfect." He extended his fist. "Deal. We work together, push each other, and become the Princes of Monaco."
Ethan bumped his fist, feeling the weight of the moment. This wasn't just a training session anymore. This was a pact. A partnership. The beginning of something legendary.
They trained for another hour—shooting drills, finishing practice, even some tactical discussions where Mbappé shared insights from training with older age groups.
"The older players think differently," Mbappé explained. "They're always calculating—'If I make this run, will it pull the defender away and create space for my teammate?' Everything is connected. Every movement has a purpose."
Ethan absorbed it all like a sponge. This was exactly what he needed—not just technical training, but football intelligence from someone who was living it at a higher level.
When they finally finished, both were exhausted but exhilarated.
"Same time next week?" Mbappé asked.
"Definitely," Ethan replied.
"Good. Bring your A-game. I'm going to study your moves and figure out how to defend them." Mbappé grinned. "Competition makes us both better."
As Mbappé jogged off toward the main facility, Moussa approached Ethan and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"That boy is special," he said quietly. "But you know what? So are you. Different types of special, but both extraordinary. Learn from him, but don't try to be him. Be Ethan Loki."
"I will, Papa."
Walking back to Beausoleil, Ethan replayed the morning in his mind. The drills. The goals. The conversation. But most importantly, the connection. He and Mbappé weren't just two talented players at the same academy. They were kindred spirits—both driven, both hungry, both willing to sacrifice everything for greatness.
The Princes of Monaco.
It sounded right. It felt right.
Three moves ahead, Ethan could already see it: him and Mbappé, standing on a pitch together, wearing Monaco's red and white, destroying defenses, winning championships.
The first move: become good enough to train with the first team.
The second move: earn a professional contract.
The third move: dominate French football together.
It would happen. He'd make sure of it.
That afternoon, Ethan sat at the small desk in his room, looking out at the Mediterranean. He pulled out a notebook—a gift from his sister—and wrote on the first page:
Goals:1. Train with first team by age 152. Professional debut by age 173. Win Ligue 1 with Kylian4. Play for France5. Win Ballon d'Or
He stared at the list. Five goals. Five milestones on the path to greatness.
Ambitious? Yes.
Impossible? Not for someone who thought three moves ahead.
He closed the notebook and smiled. The future was bright. The path was clear.
And somewhere else in Monaco, Kylian Mbappé was probably writing a similar list.
The Princes of Monaco were just getting started.
End of Chapter 8