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CHAPTER 55 — NOTHING LOUD
The match day felt ordinary.
That was what unsettled Kweku most.
No nerves were twisting in his stomach when he woke up, no sharp sense that something important waited for him. The morning moved slowly, wrapped in the quiet of winter. Frost clung to the railings outside the dormitory. The sky was pale, undecided.
He ate breakfast in silence, listening to the plates scrape and the chairs creak. Louis sat across from him, scrolling through his phone.
"You good?" Louis asked without looking up.
Kweku nodded. "Always."
The bus ride to the stadium passed without conversation. Players leaned against windows, headphones in, breath fogging the glass. Kweku watched the city slide past — grey buildings, bare trees, people wrapped in coats.
At the stadium, warm-ups were routine. Stretching. Passing drills. Light sprints. The cold made his muscles stiff, but he moved carefully, conservatively. He did not try to impress. He never did.
Only when he jogged toward the centre circle did he notice someone standing near the technical area he didn't recognise.
Older. Wearing a dark coat. Hands behind his back.
Kweku registered it and then forced himself to forget.
---
The next match came in the blink of an eye.
Saint-Étienne pressed high early.
Not aggressively — intelligently. They didn't dive in. They closed the space, forcing Marseille to play sideways, backwards. Kweku felt the pressure every time the ball came toward him.
So he adjusted.
He dropped deeper, closer to the centre-backs, offering a simple outlet. He played short passes, rarely more than ten meters. When the ball came back, he checked his shoulder before touching it.
The game wasn't fast. It wasn't open.
It was careful.
Kweku found himself doing work no one would notice — standing in passing lanes, slowing counters before they formed, choosing when not to pass forward.
At one point, Louis gestured for a through ball. The space was there for half a second.
Kweku didn't take it.
He recycled possession instead.
Louis frowned, then repositioned.
The coach didn't shout. No one did.
The first half ended goalless.
At halftime, the locker room was quiet. Coach Devereux spoke calmly, pointing out adjustments. When his eyes met Kweku's, he only said, "Good discipline. Keep scanning."
Nothing more.
The second half was the same.
Marseille scored once from a set piece. Kweku had taken the corner short, dragged a defender out of position without anyone noticing.
When the final whistle blew, there was mild relief, not celebration. Players shook hands and jogged off.
Kweku towelled sweat from his neck.
He did not look toward the technical area again.
---
The next morning, nothing had changed.
Training resumed as usual. Passing drills. Tactical work. Small-sided games.
But something was different.
It was subtle but definitely perceptible
During a positional drill, an assistant coach stopped the group and adjusted where Kweku stood.
"Stay there," he said. "That's the space."
Later, during video review, a clip replayed twice — a moment where Kweku cut off a passing lane.
"Pause there," Coach Devereux said. "That movement matters."
No one looked at Kweku.
But he felt it.
That evening, he called his mother.
"The match was normal," he said.
"That's good," she replied. "Normal means you're learning."
Kweku lay awake that night longer than usual, staring at the ceiling.
Nothing loud had happened.
But something had begun.
---
The head coach didn't speak to him again that week.
In fact, he wasn't around much at all.
That made it worse, it made him nervous and expectant. He'd been overthinking for days and it wasn't a good feeling.
Kweku noticed changes in training instead — how drills were structured, how responsibilities shifted. During build-up exercises, he was consistently placed in the central zone. When teams were mixed, he was paired with better players.
Not just better ones.
Smarter ones.
Louis noticed too.
"They're literally leaning on you," he said one afternoon as they laced their boots. "You don't even talk that much in fact you don't do much of anything, you're a football robot."
Kweku shrugged. "I guess I listen...a lot though I don't agree with the robot allegations."
"Doesn't matter bro", Louis said with a laugh, " you don't have to agree for it to be true."
Training grew harder. Faster. Less forgiving.
In one drill, Kweku mistimed a pass. The ball bounced away.
"Again," the coach said. No shouting. No anger.
Just expectation.
During an internal scrimmage, Kweku found himself directing traffic — pointing, repositioning teammates without raising his voice. They listened.
Not because he was loud.
Because he was usually right.
---
The confirmation did end up coming.
It came at the end of the week.
After training, as players headed toward the locker rooms, Coach Devereux called out.
"Mensah. Wait."
Kweku stopped.
The head coach stood nearby, hands in his coat pockets.
"I've been watching you," he said simply.
Kweku felt his chest tighten. "Yes, sir."
"You don't force the game," the man continued. "That's rare at your age."
He paused.
"You'll train with the higher group soon ."
That was all.
No smile. No handshake.
The coach walked away.
Kweku stood there for a moment, boots still on, breath visible in the cold air.
Louis sprinted back from the locker room. "What did he say?"
Kweku looked down at his hands.
"I'll move up soon ."
Louis laughed and pulled him into a quick hug. "Of course you do."
That night, Kweku called his mother again.
"The head coach noticed me," he said quietly.
She smiled through the phone, too shocked to say anything. "You'll be playing for the main team?"
"No maa", he laughed, "but I might be....very soon."
"Oh Kweku", she sobbed, "you're doing so well."
They spoke for a long time before finally ending the call and for the first time in a while Kweku felt too excited to sleep