CHAPTER 58 — CALLED UP
Kweku found out after school.
He was halfway through packing his bag when Louis nudged him with an elbow and tilted his head toward the academy notice board. A small crowd had gathered — nothing dramatic, just players pretending not to care while reading too carefully.
Kweku didn't move at first.
He told himself not to expect anything.
Then he walked over.
The squad list was pinned slightly crooked, the paper curling at the corners. Names ran down the page in clean black ink. He scanned once, too fast. Missed it. Forced himself to go again, slower.
Mensah, K.
It wasn't near the top.
It wasn't near the bottom either.
His stomach tightened.
"You're in," Louis said quietly, reading over his shoulder.
Kweku nodded, still staring. Called up. Not promoted. Not praised, just… included. An inclusion that meant a lot more than anyone else would know.
That evening, the atmosphere at the academy felt different. The older group moved with matchday calm — fewer jokes, more routine. Music played low in the locker room. Boots were cleaned carefully. The tape was wrapped with purpose.
Kweku sat at the end of the bench, listening.
No one spoke to him directly, but no one avoided him either. That was its own kind of welcome.
Coach Devereux entered, clapped once.
"Same principles," he said. "No one does anything extra because it's a match. You do what you've done all week."
He glanced briefly toward Kweku. Just a glance.
"Mensah," he added, "you're with us if needed. Stay ready."
Kweku nodded, feeling slightly disappointed that he'd only been chosen to fill up numbers but excited nonetheless that he was even considered.
---
The stadium was smaller than the main ground, but louder than Kweku expected. The stands filled unevenly — parents, scouts, a few die-hard supporters pressed close to the barriers. Breath fogged the cold air. Flags snapped in the wind.
Kweku jogged through warm-up drills, trying to ignore the tension buzzing under his skin. His touches were clean. Safe. He didn't try anything clever.
From the sideline, Devereux watched without expression.
The starting eleven was announced. Kweku wasn't in it.
He sat on the bench, wrapped in a jacket, knees bouncing despite himself.
The whistle blew and the first half was underway.
From the bench, football looked different.
The speed felt faster than training, but also more structured. The opposition — a physical, organised side — pressed hard in midfield. Tackles landed heavily. Voices carried sharply.
Kweku watched the central midfielders closely. How did they inspect the shoulders before receiving them? How do they release the ball before pressure arrives? How rarely they dribbled.
This wasn't about flair.
It was about survival.
Marseille controlled possession in spells but struggled to break lines. A few half-chances came and went. On the bench, players leaned forward in unison every time the ball entered the final third.
At the thirty-minute mark, Marseille conceded a free kick near the box. The wall jumped. The shot flew straight into the top left corner but the starters didn't seem bothered, they quickly regrouped and got ready for the restart.
Kweku exhaled slowly.
He hadn't even realised he was holding his breath.
---
Five minutes before halftime, one of the attacking midfielders went down. Not dramatically — just a sharp turn, a hand raised, a shake of the head.
The physio jogged on.
The assistant coach turned toward the bench.
"Mensah," he called. "Strip."
Kweku's heart slammed.
He pulled off his jacket with shaking hands and slipped on his top. The world narrowed — noise dulled, vision sharpened. He jogged toward the touchline, barely hearing the instructions shouted at him.
"Simple," Devereux said as Kweku passed. "Move it. Don't hide."
The fourth official raised the board.
Kweku stepped onto the pitch.
The grass felt harder than in training. The cold bit through his boots.
The ball came to him within thirty seconds.
He played it back immediately.
The half ended soon after.
As he jogged off, he only wished he had been on for longer but he smiled knowing that at least he hadn't done wrong.
For now, that was enough.