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CHAPTER 72— WHEN THE DOOR OPENS
The decision wasn't made in a rush.
That was the strange part.
Olympique de Marseille had rushed plenty of things that season—tactical resets, emotional speeches, even managerial changes—but this wasn't one of them. This one arrived slowly, like fatigue. Like inevitability.
Jean-Louis Gasset stood at the edge of the Commanderie pitch with his hands in his coat pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. He watched without comment as the first-team midfield went through passing patterns that lacked sharpness.
Jordan Veretout's legs were heavy.
Geoffrey Kondogbia looked solid, but alone.
Azzedine Ounahi drifted in and out of rhythm.
And Valentin Rongier—usually the engine—was still months away, a name on a physio report instead of the grass.
Gasset exhaled.
"You see it," he said quietly.
Beside him, Pablo Longoria nodded. "Everyone does."
They didn't talk about desperation.
They talked about balance.
About minutes. About recovery. About not burning players already stretched to the edge. However, the conversation kept circling back to the same point.
"The reserves again this weekend?" Gasset asked.
"Yes," Longoria replied. "Mensah was excellent. Dictated tempo. Clean."
Gasset tilted his head. "Still in school."
"So was Rongier once," Longoria said mildly.
That earned a small smile.
Gasset watched the pitch again. "Bring him tomorrow. Full session."
No drama.
No announcement.
Just instruction.
---
Kweku was finishing training with the reserves when Coach Devereux approached him.
"Tomorrow," he said. "First team. Be early."
Kweku blinked once. "Yes, coach."
That was all.
No congratulations. No warnings.
Just a door cracking open.
---
The next morning felt different the moment Kweku stepped onto Pitch One.
The silence wasn't empty—it was professional. Purposeful.
Pau López barked instructions from his goal. Leonardo Balerdi organised the back line with sharp gestures. Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang jogged lightly, smiling, loose even in seriousness.
Kweku stayed at the edge at first.
Gasset watched him from a distance, unreadable.
Then, with a small motion of his hand: "Avec eux."
Join them.
Kweku jogged onto the pitch and the tempo hit immediately.
Two-touch maximum. Press triggers are called in French and Spanish. Kondogbia stepped into challenges with authority. Veretout demanded the ball even when marked.
No one went easy.
Kweku positioned simply. Offered angles. Recycled possession. When pressed, he released early. When space opened, he stepped into it without hesitation.
Once, Ounahi zipped a pass into him under pressure.
Kweku cushioned it, turned away from contact, and slipped it back first-time.
Ounahi glanced at him.
Not surprised.
Interested.
Later, Kondogbia clipped him late—nothing malicious, just a test. Kweku stayed upright, said nothing, and demanded the ball again.
Gasset nodded once.
---
After training, no one patted Kweku on the back.
Aubameyang joked with Clauss. Veretout stretched silently. The injured players—Rongier among them—watched from the sideline, reading everything.
As Kweku packed his bag, Rongier approached.
"You're Mensah, yeah?"
"Yes."
Rongier nodded. "Play simple. They'll respect that and play your game, they called you up for that so don't change it."
Then he walked away.
That was it.
---
The next day, Kweku sat in class as if nothing had changed.
Camille noticed immediately that something had.
"You trained up?," she said quietly.
"Yes."
"With the first team?"
"Yes."
She studied him for a moment. "You're calm."
"I don't think I can afford not to be."
She smiled. "That's probably the right answer though I still think you should be more excited."
Kweku smiled, "Don't you remember that I'm a football robot?"
Camille shook her head, "You're hopeless."
---
The squad list went up on Friday evening.
Kweku stood back, pretending not to look.
His name was there.
Substitutes.
Alongside men whose posters hung in shops downtown.
In the dressing room, the atmosphere was heavy but focused. Marseille were fighting themselves as much as the league table now.
Gasset spoke plainly.
"We manage the game. We don't rush. We survive intelligently."
He looked at Kweku once.
Just once but that made his heart skip a beat.
---
The Velodrome roared, then groaned, then roared again.
Marseille struggled to control the midfield early. Veretout worked tirelessly. Kondogbia covered ground that belonged to two men. Ounahi faded late in the first half.
At sixty minutes, a substitution was discussed.
Gasset glanced down the bench.
Kweku leaned forward instinctively.
Then looked back at the pitch.
Not yet.
The game tightened. Aubameyang scored. The crowd exhaled.
The midfield held—barely.
Kweku never stood.
---
Marseille won.
But the bodies told the truth.
In the dressing room, ice packs came out immediately. Gasset spoke briefly, thanked them, and dismissed them.
As Kweku zipped his jacket, Gasset stopped beside him.
"You did well," he said.
"I didn't play."
Gasset looked at him. "You didn't disappear."
That was the compliment.
---
Later that night, Longoria reviewed reports.
"The group is accepting him," he said.
Gasset nodded. "They didn't see a kid and besides, they have no other choice."
"That's rare."
"That's useful."
---
At home, Kweku called his mother.
"I was on the bench again," he said.
"And?"
"They're tired," he admitted. "All of them."
She was quiet. "And you?"
"I'm ready."
She smiled through the phone. "Then wait."
---
Kweku lay in bed afterwards, ceiling dark above him.
He hadn't debuted.
But Jean-Louis Gasset now knew his name.
And at a club bleeding quietly from injuries and expectations, that meant the door wasn't just open anymore.
It was being watched.