CHAPTER 70 — UNDER THE SURFACE
The attention that came didn't announce itself again.
It simply popped up.
Like pressure in the ears after altitude change—subtle, persistent, impossible to ignore once noticed.
Kweku felt it the moment he stepped onto the school grounds that Tuesday morning. Not in looks this time, but in expectation. People no longer whispered just to identify him. They whispered as if they already knew him. As if the version of him sitting on a first-team bench had replaced the one who struggled through verb conjugations and winter mornings.
He adjusted his backpack strap and kept walking.
---
The first thing that changed was how careful he became.
Not cautious in football. Cautious in himself.
He spoke less in class. Laughed quietly. Measured his reactions, his posture, even the way he stood in hallways. It wasn't fear—it was awareness. The sense that anything he did could be read as arrogance, or weakness, or proof of something he didn't mean to prove.
Camille noticed almost immediately.
"You're shrinking," she said during a break.
"I'm not," Kweku replied.
She tilted her head. "You are. Just a little."
He didn't argue, "I'm already not a social person, and when I finally got used to people everything changed."
Camille smiled and gave him a side hug, "You're not alone in this."
Kweku smiled and just melted into the hug. The rest of the day passed in a blur where he kept wishing he could go back to kicking a ball.
---
Training should have been an escape.
Instead, it became another mirror.
At the academy, teammates passed him the ball more often now, but also watched him more closely. When he made a mistake, there was a half-second of silence that hadn't existed before. When he played well, the nods came slower, more deliberate.
Expectation was heavier than anonymity.
During a drill, Kweku overthought a simple pass and hesitated just long enough for pressure to arrive. He lost the ball. A sharp whistle cut through the air.
"Play," the coach snapped.
Kweku nodded, cheeks warm despite the cold.
He corrected it immediately, but the moment stuck.
---
At school, a teacher asked him to stay back after class.
"Everything okay?" she asked, genuinely.
"Yes, madame."
She studied him for a moment. "You seem distracted."
Kweku searched for the right words. "I'm just… balancing."
She smiled faintly. "Balance takes practice but don't worry, many have done it before you so you'll be fine."
That night, he thought about that.
Balance.
Between ambition and humility. Between visibility and self-preservation. Between the boy from home and the player Marseille was beginning to notice.
He wasn't sure which version people wanted.
---
In life, the more you avoid something the more it seems to appear. If you couldn't tell already, our main man is not a big social butterfly, so anxiety and awkwardness are not something he really likes to deal with, but somehow such instances keep finding him.
It happened on the tram.
Two men are talking loudly, football on their phones. One glanced at Kweku, then back at the screen.
"Looks like him," he said. "Youth kid."
The other shrugged. "They all disappear eventually."
Kweku stared out the window, jaw tightening.
He said nothing.
Later, he wondered if that was strength or avoidance.
Camille's presence was a light in such days.
They sat together at lunch that day, the cafeteria loud around them.
"You don't owe anyone a performance," Camille said suddenly.
Kweku looked up. "What?"
"You're acting as if you do."
He frowned. "I don't want to mess this up."
She softened. "By being yourself?"
He didn't answer.
She leaned back. "You know what people notice most? When someone stops being natural. That's when they decide things."
That stayed with him.
---
At the end of the week, the reserves trained without the ball.
Conditioning. Strength. Core work in the cold. No distractions, no flair.
Kweku welcomed it.
Pain was simple. Honest.
Later, during a short possession game, he let go.
He played instinctively again. Passed without hesitation. Took space when it opened. Lost the ball once, demanded it again immediately.
The coach watched and said nothing.
But afterwards, he nodded. A small action which spoke volumes to Kweku.
---
That night, Kweku called his mother.
"I feel like everyone's watching," he admitted.
She was quiet for a moment. "They are."
"That scares me."
"It should," she said gently. "But don't let it change your heart."
He closed his eyes. "I'm trying."
"I know," she replied. "Just remember—you didn't get here by pretending and most importantly, God is always there for you".
Kweku smiled, his mom definitely hadn't changed.
---
The next Monday, something eased.
Not the attention.
But his response to it.
He walked into school with his head a little higher. Spoke when he had something to say. Stayed quiet when he didn't. At training, he stopped checking the sidelines for reactions.
He played.
Not for approval.
For clarity.
The attention was still there.
But it no longer sat on his shoulders.
It moved behind him.
Pushing, not weighing.
---