CHAPTER 92 — THE DECISION ABOVE
Pressure rarely fell straight down, it usually seeped until it couldn't be ignored anymore.
It crept through corridors, filtered into meetings, settled into conversations that started about one thing and ended about another. By late February, Olympique de Marseille were no longer dealing with injuries—they were dealing with consequences.
The table didn't lie.
Neither did tired legs.
---
The first-team injury report was posted again on the board.
It hadn't shortened.
If anything, it had grown messier—names crossed out, timelines revised, question marks scribbled in the margins. A midfielder was back in partial training but couldn't last ninety minutes. Another was available but clearly managing pain. Rotation had become theory rather than practice.
The head coach stood with arms folded, jaw tight.
"We can't keep recycling the same solutions," he said. "They're exhausted before halftime."
The sporting director leaned forward. "And the calendar isn't forgiving us."
Silence followed.
Then one assistant spoke carefully. "We've already looked below."
No one asked who.
They all knew.
---
In the academy offices, files were stacked neatly, reports clipped and highlighted. Youth development wasn't about hope—it was about readiness.
Coach Devereux had written the same line twice in the last month:
> Game intelligence compensates for the physical gap.
Another coach had added beneath it:
> Doesn't hide when tempo rises.
The head coach tapped the folder once.
"He's still in school," someone said.
"So were others," the sporting director replied. "The question is timing."
Another pause.
"Do we protect him," an assistant asked, "or do we respond to the reality upstairs?"
That was the real decision.
Not talent but necessity.
---
Kweku trained with the reserves that afternoon.
The session was sharp but controlled. Small-sided games, quick transitions, and positional work focused on receiving under pressure. Kweku played cleanly, letting the game come to him, guiding rather than forcing.
Louis jogged alongside him during a water break.
"You've been quiet," Louis said.
Kweku shrugged. "Nothing to say."
Louis smirked. "That's never true, you're quite not mute."
They went back into the drill before Kweku could respond.
He didn't feel watched today.
Which, strangely, made him feel watched even more.
---
At school, the noise barely registered anymore.
Kweku moved through the day with practised balance—focused, present, but not consumed. Camille noticed the change immediately.
"You look lighter," she said after class.
"I stopped carrying things that weren't mine," he replied.
She smiled. "That usually helps."
They didn't talk about football.
They didn't need to. Unbeknownst to them, something big was happening at the same time.
---
The message came that evening.
Not to Kweku.
To the academy director.
"Tomorrow," the head coach said over the phone. "Bring him. Just to observe."
The director hesitated. "And if the situation worsens?"
There was a pause on the line.
"Then we stop pretending it won't," the coach replied.
---
The next morning, Kweku was told to report early.
No explanation.
Pitch Two again—but this time, it wasn't transitional. It was full first-team preparation. Tactical shape. Set-piece rehearsal. Match scenarios.
Kweku stood on the edge initially, observing.
Then the coach gestured.
"Join."
He slotted in without ceremony.
The tempo was unforgiving now. The ball moved faster than thought. Instructions came clipped and immediate. One mistake meant the drill reset.
Kweku adjusted.
He simplified.
He listened.
At one point, he received the ball under pressure, shielded it, then released it into space without turning. The move unlocked the press.
A senior player glanced at him.
Not dismissively.
Curiously.
From the sideline, the head coach didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
What mattered was what didn't happen.
Kweku didn't panic.
Didn't hide.
Didn't slow the game unnecessarily.
He played like someone who understood the cost of mistakes—and accepted it.
After training, as players stretched and staff gathered equipment, the coach finally spoke.
"Leave him," he said quietly to an assistant who was about to dismiss Kweku back downstairs.
The assistant nodded.
---
Later that afternoon, in a small office away from the dressing room noise, the head coach sat across from the sporting director.
"He's not ready," the coach said.
The director waited.
"But neither is half the squad," the coach continued. "At least he's fresh. At least he listens."
"So?" the director asked.
The coach exhaled slowly.
"So we stop protecting him from reality. And start protecting the team from collapse."
As he looked around he saw his reflection 9ipin the glass he sighed, he'd been completely disillusioned
---
That evening, Kweku returned home as usual.
Homework. Dinner. A short call with his mother. Nothing unusual.
But somewhere above him, a list was being revised.
A name hovered near the edge.
Not because of hype.
Not because of sentiment.
Because pressure had removed every other option.
And pressure, when it reached its limit, always forced a decision.
---
A/N : Happy Valentine's Day to all of you. If you're like me and you're alone you can make my book your Valentine this year and give it gifts and attention