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CHAPTER 56 — A DIFFERENT SPEED
The older group trained earlier.
That alone changed everything.
Kweku arrived at the pitch before sunrise, breath sharp in his chest, boots slung over his shoulder. The floodlights were already on, casting long shadows across the frozen grass. A few players were warming up — taller, broader, moving with an ease that came from time and repetition.
No one looked at him twice.
That was worse than being stared at.
He changed quickly, tying his laces tighter than usual. The kit felt the same, but it sat differently on his body, as if it belonged to someone else.
Coach Devereux stood at the centre of the pitch with two assistants. He nodded once when he saw Kweku.
Nothing more.
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The warm-up was shorter.
Sharper.
Fewer stretches, more movement. Short sprints. Direction changes. One-touch passing in tight circles.
Kweku felt it immediately — the ball arrived faster, left faster. There was no pause between actions. When he took two touches, someone was already closing him down.
"Play," a voice snapped.
He adjusted.
One touch.
Two at most.
His calves burned early and the cold did nothing to help.
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The positional drill came next and it wasn't particularly any better for Kweku.
They split into units.
Kweku was placed centrally this time.
The drill simulated a build-up under pressure. Two defenders stepped high, forcing the midfielders to find angles. The assistant coach explained once. Then they started.
The first sequence broke down when Kweku hesitated.
"Reset," the coach said.
No lecture.
Second attempt: He played it safe, backing up to the centre back.
"That's fine," the assistant muttered.
Third attempt: he scanned early, took the ball on the half-turn, slipped it wide before pressure arrived.
The tempo didn't slow.
A defender clipped his heel as he passed.
No whistle.
No apology.
Kweku stayed upright and jogged back into position.
A tall midfielder beside him leaned over. "You'll get nothing for that here," he said quietly. Not unkind, just factual.
Kweku nodded.
The moment he got locked in, the coach's whistle went off to start the next drill.
Six versus six.
Limited touches.
The pitch felt smaller than it was.
Kweku's lungs burned now. Sweat soaked through his base layer despite the cold. He misjudged one interception and the ball rolled past him.
Goal.
No reaction from anyone.
They restarted immediately.
On the next possession, Kweku adjusted his positioning — half a step deeper, body angled. He cut out a pass cleanly and released the ball in one touch.
The play continued.
That was the reward, he just went on.
Kweku received the ball with his back to the goal, under intense pressure. Instinct told him to play it back.
Instead, he rolled his foot over the ball, shifted his body, and slipped a short pass between two players into a runner's path.
No celebration.
Just movement.
The assistant coach glanced toward Devereux.
Devereux said nothing.
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After, training ended without a huddle.
Players collected cones, walked off, and joked quietly. No one clapped. No one congratulated anyone else.
As Kweku unlaced his boots, the tall midfielder from earlier sat beside him.
"You didn't hide, that's good," he said.
Kweku looked up. "I tried not to."
The man nodded. "That's enough for now."
Outside, the sky was turning pale grey. Kweku walked back toward the dormitory alone, legs heavy, head buzzing.
He had been slower.
He had been pushed.
He had survived.
That night, lying in bed, he realised something that unsettled him more than the pressure.
For the first time since arriving in Marseille, he hadn't felt like he was learning how to belong.
He felt like he was being tested to see if he already did.