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CHAPTER 57 — BETWEEN DESKS AND LINES
School felt louder than the training ground.
Kweku noticed it the moment he stepped through the gates that morning. Voices bounced off concrete walls. Chairs scraped. Someone laughed too loudly at nothing. The bell rang with a sharpness that made him flinch.
At the academy, sound had direction. Purpose. A shouted instruction meant something. Silence meant something else.
Here, noise was just noise.
He adjusted his backpack and followed the stream of students inside, boots replaced by worn sneakers, kit bag left behind in his room. His body still carried the memory of the previous session — tight calves, a dull ache behind his knees — but no one here could see it.
---
Math was the first subject of the day.
Kweku sat near the window, as usual. Outside, frost clung to the edges of the glass. The football pitches beyond the school grounds were white and untouched, like drawings that hadn't been filled in yet.
Numbers blurred together on the board.
Not because he didn't understand them — but because his mind kept replaying moments from training.
The speed. The pressure. The way no one stopped when he went down.
"Mensah."
He looked up.
The teacher was watching him now.
"Can you solve the next part?"
A few heads turned.
Kweku stood slowly, heart beating faster than it ever did on the pitch. He walked to the board, chalk cold between his fingers. He solved it carefully, step by step, aware of the silence behind him.
When he finished, the teacher nodded. "Correct."
That was it.
He returned to his seat, pulse settling. It struck him how different this pressure felt. On the pitch, mistakes were immediate. Here, they lingered, hanging in the air, remembered.
---
The corridor smelled like damp coats and cleaning fluid.
Louis caught up to him near the lockers. "You trained with them again, didn't you?"
Kweku hesitated, then nodded.
Louis grinned, then softened it quickly. "How was it?"
"Fast," Kweku said.
Louis laughed. "That bad?"
"Worse," Kweku replied.
They walked together, shoulders nearly touching. Louis talked about a history assignment he hadn't started, about the weather, about nothing important at all.
Kweku let him.
It was a relief — this normalcy. No expectations. No evaluation.
At the academy, every touch was measured.
Here, he could just be quiet.
---
The Incident
It happened in the cafeteria.
Kweku was standing in line when someone behind him muttered something under their breath. He didn't catch it at first. Then it came again, louder.
"Go back to where you came from."
His shoulders stiffened.
He didn't turn around.
He stared at the tray in front of him, hands gripping the edges. His heart beat fast, but not like during a sprint — this was heavier, slower, like something pressing down on his chest.
A chair scraped loudly.
"That's not funny," Camille said.
Her voice cut through the noise cleanly.
Kweku turned then. The boy who'd spoken looked uncomfortable now, eyes darting around. "I was joking."
"No, you weren't," Camille replied. "And even if you were, it's not okay."
A few students stared. Others looked away.
An adult called for quiet.
The line moved.
Camille stepped closer to Kweku. "You okay?"
He nodded once. It felt like a lie, but it was easier than explaining.
She didn't push.
---
After
They sat at the same table, though they rarely did.
Camille talked about a literature project, about a book she didn't like. Kweku listened, grateful for the distraction. Around them, conversations continued as if nothing had happened.
That was the strange part.
On the pitch, everything stopped when something went wrong.
Here, life just… absorbed it.
"You don't have to pretend it doesn't bother you," Camille said quietly, not looking at him.
Kweku paused. "I know."
A moment passed.
"At football," he added, "everyone's just trying to win."
Camille nodded. "School isn't as honest is it?"
---
By the last lesson, fatigue had settled in properly. Not physical this time — mental.
He struggled to focus, words on the page blurring again. He caught himself tapping his foot, as if waiting for a whistle.
There wasn't one.
When the final bell rang, relief washed over him — but it wasn't very easy. Training was delayed. Expectations waited.
The school let him blend in.
Football demanded that he didn't.
---
That night, after dinner, he called his mother.
The connection crackled.
"How was school?" she asked.
He hesitated. "Fine."
She didn't believe him, but she didn't challenge it. "And football?"
He smiled despite himself. "Hard."
A pause.
"That's good," she said. "Hard means you're working."
He lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Outside, snow fell quietly, softening the city.
After the call ended, Kweku stayed there for a long time, thinking.
At school, he was different in ways he couldn't control.
On the pitch, he was different in ways he could.
And slowly, without anyone announcing it, he understood where he belonged — not because it was comfortable, but because it demanded everything he was willing to give.