Chapter 73 – THE NIGHT THE VÉLODROME ROARED
The week leading into the match felt heavier than the debut itself.
Injuries had hollowed out the squad. Training sessions at the Robert Louis-Dreyfus Center were quieter now, thinner. Ice packs lined the treatment tables like trophies no one wanted.
In the dressing room before the match against Stade Rennais F.C., the mood was brittle.
On the tactics board, Jean-Louis Gasset tapped his pen against magnets representing unavailable players.
"Look at this," he muttered, half to himself, half to the assistant coaches. "Half a team."
Across the room, Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang laced his boots in silence. His expression was hard, focused. Jonathan Clauss stretched his hamstrings with restless energy. Leonardo Balerdi paced.
On the far end of the bench, Kweku sat with the substitutes.
Matchday inclusion again.
Not debut. Not yet.
He had been here before — named in the squad, warmed up, watched. Felt the crowd. Felt nothing else.
Across the corridor, Camille had managed to secure last-minute tickets through her uncle. She sat with her parents and Louis in the upper tier of the Stade Vélodrome, bundled against the cold Mediterranean wind.
Louis nudged her. "He's on the bench again."
"I know," she said quietly.
Down on the pitch, Rennes warmed up with confidence. Benjamin Bourigeaud struck long-range efforts in rhythm. Martin Terrier looked sharp, darting between cones. At the back, Arthur Theate barked instructions.
They weren't intimidated by Marseille's injury list.
If anything, they smelled blood.
---
Kickoff
From the first whistle, Rennes pressed high.
Marseille struggled to build. The absence of key midfielders showed. Passes were rushed, touches heavy. In the 11th minute, Bourigeaud found space between the lines and slipped Terrier through.
Terrier shot low.
Saved.
A gasp from the Vélodrome.
Gasset stood rigid on the touchline, arms folded.
"Wake up!" he shouted.
Aubameyang dropped deeper, trying to connect play. Clauss pushed forward, overlapping aggressively. The first real chance came in the 23rd minute — Clauss whipped in a vicious cross, and Aubameyang met it with a glancing header.
Off the post.
The stadium groaned.
Kweku rose from the bench instinctively, heart pounding. Every chance felt personal.
Rennes made sure they punished the miss.
Minute 31.
Terrier again, drifting left. He cut inside leaving Balerdi behind and slipped the ball to Bourigeaud, who struck first time from the edge of the box.
Goal.
0–1.
The away section erupted.
Up in the stands, Louis buried his face in his scarf. Camille clenched her jaw.
On the bench, Kweku stared at the net.
This was the kind of match where chaos could create opportunity.
---
Halftime came with Marseille trailing.
Inside the dressing room, Gasset didn't shout. That made it worse.
"We are not unlucky," he said slowly. "We are timid."
His gaze flicked to the bench players.
"You must be ready. I will not wait."
Kweku swallowed.
He stripped his warm-up top off and retied his laces tighter.
Outside, the crowd whistled as Rennes players returned to the pitch. The temperature had dropped further; breath hung in the air like smoke.
---
Marseille came out aggressive.
Clauss drove forward relentlessly. Geoffrey Kondogbia battled in midfield, crunching into tackles. The intensity shifted.
In the 58th minute, Clauss beat his man and squared low toward Aubameyang.
Blocked by Theate.
Rebound fell loose.
Scramble.
Cleared.
Gasset turned to his bench.
"Kweku. Warm up."
Everything slowed.
Kweku jogged to the sideline. The roar of the Vélodrome swelled, some recognizing the young reserve who had been scoring quietly in the second team.
Camille stood.
"That's him," she whispered.
Louis grinned. "Go on."
Minute 84.
Still 0–1.
Marseille pushed desperately. Long balls. Crosses. Rennes defending deep now, compact.
Gasset made his decision.
Number held up.
Kweku.
For Kondogbia.
An attacking roll of the dice.
---
The noise when he stepped onto the pitch wasn't thunderous — not yet — but it was curious. Anticipatory.
He sprinted into position on the right wing.
First touch — simple pass inside.
Second touch — controlled under pressure.
He felt light.
In the 89th minute, Marseille earned a throw deep on the right. Clauss took it quickly to Kweku, who had peeled into space.
Arthur Theate closed him fast.
Kweku dropped his shoulder.
One touch inside.
Theate lunged.
Kweku nudged the ball past him and accelerated, suddenly clear down the channel.
The Vélodrome rose as one.
He looked up once.
Aubameyang was arriving between two defenders.
Low cross. Hard.
Across the six-yard box.
Aubameyang met it first time.
Goal.
1–1.
The stadium exploded.
Aubameyang wheeled away, pointing immediately toward the right corner — toward Kweku.
The cameras caught it.
The teammates swarmed him. Clauss grabbed his head, shouting. Balerdi shoved him playfully.
"Where did that come from?" someone yelled.
On the Rennes side, Bourigeaud stood hands on hips. Terrier kicked the turf in frustration.
Up in the stands, Camille screamed until her throat hurt. Louis was jumping, nearly spilling his drink.
"That's his assist!" Louis shouted.
Kweku barely heard anything. His chest heaved. His ears rang.
He had touched the ball three times.
One run changed everything.
---
Final Whistle
The match ended 1–1.
Not a win.
But it felt like something larger had shifted.
As the players walked toward the tunnel, Aubameyang draped an arm around Kweku's shoulders briefly.
"Good ball," he said simply.
Inside the dressing room, Gasset nodded once.
"That," he said, "is what courage looks like."
Kweku sat quietly, adrenaline still burning.
His phone exploded with notifications before he even left the stadium.
Messages from teammates in the reserves.
From school.
From Camille:
You did it.
---
Back at school Monday morning, everything was different.
Whispers followed him down the corridor.
"Nice assist guy."
"Did you see that cross?"
Teachers smiled more than usual.
Even boys who had barely spoken to him before slapped his back.
But beneath the excitement, something else settled into his chest.
Expectation.
He saw it in the way people looked at him now — not as a student who happened to play football, but as someone halfway to something bigger.
At lunch, Camille found him alone.
"You okay?" she asked.
He nodded, but it was slow.
"It was only five minutes, I barely did anything."
"Five minutes that mattered, five minutes and an assist."
He looked out the window toward the winter-gray sky.
"I don't want it to change things."
She smiled softly.
"It already has."
---
Meanwhile…
At the training center, Gasset met with the sporting director.
"We can't keep bleeding points," the director said. "The board is asking questions."
Gasset leaned back.
"The boy is fearless," he replied. "But we cannot throw him into a fire we are still trying to control."
"Or maybe," the director countered, "he is exactly the spark we need."
Outside, snow flurried lightly over Marseille — rare, fleeting.
Inside the reserve locker room later that afternoon, Kweku's teammates surrounded him.
"Assist king!"
"Sign my shirt!"
He laughed, but his focus was already shifting.
One cross had opened a door.
But staying in the room?
That would take more than five minutes.
It would take resilience.
And the season was far from over.